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Pawn Takes King part 36

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Donny sleeps in late, but still wakes up before Eugene. The clock on the wall at one time was a florescent martini glass, but had long since broken, and no longer lit up. 11:45am.
    Not having a day job, or anything else either, DOnny poured himself a bowl of peanut butter Captain Crunch from Eugene's cupboard. Spreading out leisurely on the couch, Donny flips on the TV. Bugs Bunny is up to his old antics, as Donny gluttons himself on the delicious, sugary cereal.
    Eugene eventually wakes and clamors down the stairs. He still wears the suspenders and hat, but now his bathrobe has been added to the ensemble.
    "YOu didn't eat all the cereal, did you?" Eugene asks, rubbing his hands together eagerly.
    "No, there's plenty left," Donny says, between spoonfuls.
    "Awright, my nigga!!" Eugene says, heading into the kitchen. They eat, then smoke. A brief interlude of Television breaks up their next smoke. After hours of lounging around, Eugene gets a text on his phone.
    "Looks like I've gotta cut it short, Donny,"
    "What's up?"
    "My main buyer called me and needs me to go to his house, to drop it off." Eugene comments, his head lowered while texting a reply.
    "That's pretty risky, Eugene."
    "If I do this, then I'll make a weeks worth of dough," Eugene says, countering Donnie's point, "great risk for great reward. He lost his license, so I'm gonna be delivery boy."
    "I just know you got busted once," Donny says, "I'd hate to see it happen again."
    "You know who it was that snitched on me, right?" Eugene asks slyly. It is not often he has info Donny is not privy to.
    "Who?" Donny asks, with genuine interest.
    "It was that cock-sucker Jessie Baxter, man," Eugene says, scowling as he searches through a bowl of quarters for his keys.
    "It wouldn't surprise me."
    "I know it was him," Eugene says angrily, "how do you think he got out of jail? After he mugged some kid, and stole his stuff, Jessie was looking at maybe 2 years in the clink. He narced on me, and that's why the cops got wise. I sold him a dime bag, and not 2 hours later, the sheriff and drug task force comes knocking."
    "That sucks," Donny says, "but at least you didn't get nabbed. I heard Jessie bought some smoke from Chase too. You should warn him."
    "I'll be sure to," Eugene says thoughtfully, "thanks for mentioning it."
    "Is your toilet still broken, though?" Donny asks somewhat painfully, "I gotta take a huge dump."
    "Knock yourself out," Eugene says, kicking open the bathroom door with one of his clod-hopping boots, "When my Asian friend moved in, I used his deposit to fix the plumbing. Nice, huh?"
    "What's his name, anyway?" Donny asks curiously, "In case I see him."
    "Sorry," Eugene over his shoulder as he walks away, "I promised him I wouldn't talk about him to people. He's weird like that."
    After Donny's anal evacuation, they both hop into Eugene's hatchback.
    "Have you ever ridden in this beast before?" Eugene asks as he cranks the engine.
    "No," Donny remarks, "this is the first."
    "Prepare to be floored," Eugene says theatrically. He jams on the accelerator, rushing them backwards down the slope of driveway. The car bottoms out bad, scraping metal and jolting the springs. Eugene whips the wheel with his hand rapidly, shifts into first, and peels out. Donny laughs, clinging to the overhead handle. They used to call them "oh, shit" handles. As in, 'oh, shit!! Watch out where you're driving!!'
    Donny is glad to get out of the car by the time they reach the park. In a last feat of showmanship, Eugene pulls the ebrake on the car, causing it to slide sideways towards the curb.
    "Eugene!!" Donny cries out in alarm. The car whumps into the snowbank, jarring them slightly, but not too much. Donny shakes his head.
    "You're gonna lose your license, bro!!" he says.   
    "I don't even have a license!!" Eugene announces, laughing wildly. Donny is concerned. If the cops pull him over, not only will they find the weed, they will nail him for operating without a driver's permit, or anything. Oh well. Donny supposes if his friend did get pulled over, it's game over anyway.
    Donny watches his friend roar down the road, with the santa hat still tucked tightly on his dreadlocked head.
    "Happy holidays, Eugene," Donny mutters under his breath, as he returns to the gazebo.

    A person can always slide further down. Like a game of human Plinko, an individual can bobble downwards, from peg-to-peg of disaster. Donny learned this the hard way on a cold January night. It was new years day, to be exact. To be even more exact, it was the night of new years day, january 1st.
    It began with a sweep of the Occupy Iowa camp. Many of those hippy students and protestors had long since abandoned their tents and makeshift shelters. They had left them up, however, knowing that some of the homeless population may take up residence there. The idea proved accurate, and some of Donny's fellow bums took to sleeping in the intact encampment.
    Cedar Rapids wouldn't allow any dissent, including non-violent resistance. The mayor ordered the camp to be taken down, by force if necessary. Donny felt the conflict building up the past few days. The icy storms came in, leaving the homeless population with little options, but to take refuge in the tents. Uprooting the stakes holding their tie-down straps, many of the tents were clustered together, in a desperate bid for warmth. It was like that movie, with the Penguins all huddled together. March of the Bums. Apparently it drew too much attention towards both the Occupy movement, and the poverty issue in the city. Both had to go.
    Donny didn't like all the hubbub being made at the park. He simply wanted to be overlooked, to live his life in solitude. Besides, it was a little late in the winter season for protests, wasn't it?
    The night the police came, Donny was resting underneath the gazebo. The maglights awoke him with a start. The cops were going tent-to-tent, finding out if there were denizens inside, and then taking down the canvas homes roughly.
    Donny peeked out from the lattice, his eyeball sweeping around to see. The cops made short work of the bums. Some were drunk, and stirred too slowly for the cops liking. These inebriated souls were bludgeoned with night sticks, as they stumbled to free themselves of the cumbersome tents. Donny heard the clubs striking flesh with flat impacts of wood against bone. He also heard the howls of pain.
    The cops broke the poles of the tents, not caring in the slightest that a lot of them were close to brand new. Had the police been feeling magnanimous, they could donate the camping gear to Good-Will, or someplace similar. But these officers did not seem to be the giving type.    Donny would never have left the safety of the gazebo, but for one thing: Gus was one of the unfortunate few in the tents. A cop was dragging the Carpet King through the snow, kicking and screaming. Gus' pants were pulled down slightly with the pulling, and snow was packed into his butt crack. The cop yanked even harder, tearing the old red Carpet King Warehouse Jacket that Gus wore. Donny couldn't allow this. With practiced skill, Donny burst from under the gazebo.
    "Get up!!" The cop shouts irately.
    "Stop jerking me around and I will!!" Gus shouts back, struggling to rise to his feet.
    Donny skids to a stop, his shoes filled with ice. The person holding Gus is Wynzinger, the same cop who sprayed Donny with mace. Donny feels disturbed by this. Wynzinger was heavy-handed to begin with. Some people enjoyed chaos, and the chance to hurt people. Wynzinger was one of these individuals. With the danger of bodily harm very real, Donny steps forward.
    "Leave him alone!!" Donny shouts. The hastily-executed plan was to draw attention away from Gus, allowing the Carpet King to escape to his Blazer without getting arrested.
    Wynzinger turns, his arm reared back with the club. Perhaps it was Donny who would now be the recipient of that nightstick.
    "I know you," Wynzinger mutters, "from the library. You resisted arrest."
    Donny flips him off with both fingers, snarling his lips back from his teeth as he does so. Fuck this power-hungry asshole. Death might just find Donny, form of: overzealous cop. He was executing oppressive orders from disconnected city counsel.
    Wynzinger turns slowly. Despite the commotion around the cop, Wynzinger takes measured steps towards Donny. It looks as though Wynziner is strolling, rather than confronting a defenseless victim. Donny stands his ground, snow up to his ankles.
    "You have the right to remain silent," Wynzinger says with an odd little smile.
    "Don't Donny," Gus says, as he composes himself. He scrapes a wad of slush from his butt, which is rubbed raw with exposure.
Donny glances around cautiously. It looked like the bums were being lined up by the outside sidewalk, by the cruisers. Donny didn't want to be arrested. Before, the jail had held promise of a warm room to sleep in. Now that Donny had his home base laid out, with the space heater, being taken into custody held no charms at all.
    "What's your name, guy?" Wynzinger asks bruskly.
    "Donny,"
    "Donny, Anything you say can and will be used against--"
    "Are you arresting me?"
    "Yes"
    "For what?"
    "Interferring with official acts"
    "your 'official acts,' look like bum-rolling to me."
    "Resisting arrest, from before that, Donny."
    "I talked to officer Buresh. He said I didn't do anything wrong."
    This causes Wynzinger to pause in their repartee. Buresh was a fellow friend, well, at least an acquaintance to Wynzinger. The two didn't seem to be very friendly towards each other.
    "What does Buresh know about arrests?" Wynzinger spits back, "the guy barely makes his quotas for traffic tickets, or anything else he's supposed to do for the department."
    "I know how a lot of you guys operate," Donny says vehemently, "you pick up bums on misdemeanors, just to fill those goddamn quotas, and to make it look like you're contributing something."
    Whyniznger says nothing. Judging by the growing fury on the cop's face, Donny thinks there is truth to what he is saying.
    "He's a good cop," Donny continues angrily, "and he doesn't like your superior attitude you carry yourself with. Buresh doesn't need to prove anything to anyone. HE doesn't intimidate, and harass like you do. Buresh wouldn't be a part of this, either. Which reminds me,"
    Donny tilts his head in either direction.
    "Is Buresh here?" Donny asks.
    Wynzinger is silent.
    "something tells me he's not here."
    "That's right," Wynzinger says with a scowl,  "you're little friend Buresh isn't here to be lenient on you. He's soft."
    "I don't think he is, because Buresh is not a twisted human being, like you." Donny snarls, "he doesn't get off on beating up old men and homeless--"
    The club strikes out like an extension of Wynzinger's limb. Donny's nose explodes in pain. He's pretty sure there was a crack sound from behind his nasal passage. Donny snorts, as if sneezing, but blood comes out instead of mucus blow. Gripping his throbbing nose, Donny sinks to his knees.
    "AWWGGRRR" Donny growls, from behind his fingers. Blood pools in his cupped hands. Wynzinger shoves Donny's shoulder roughly, toppling Donny like a bowling pin. Wynzinger raises the club again.
    For once, Donny wished he would not die. He wished he could live.
    A sound like an apple striking something solid is heard as Buresh's head snaps back. Wynzinger eye is shut, and ice crystals are caked to the left side of his face.
    "Mother fucker!!" Wynzinger cries out, in stinging pain, "my eye. Dammit. Oh, that hurts."
    whyzinger drops to one knee, and scrapes his vision clear. He tries to open the eye, but it seems frozen in it's socket. Donny sees little flakes caught in Whyzinger's eyelashes. What little of the cornea Donny sees is red and scratched.
    Gus is trotting away, but displays a peace sign to Donny as he escapes. Gus was a pretty good pitcher, from the look of things. The snowball left Wynzinger incapacitated long enough for Donny to head back to the gazebo. It was a bad mistake. Donny left an obvious trail, with his blood dripping a path like a demented Hansel and Gretel story.
    But Donny was in shock. his nose was hurt really bad. He was desperate to just get away. Much like the weasel he had come to appear similar to, Donny went back to his den for cover, and was discovered.
    "Come out with your hands up, Donny," Wynzinger commands, rapping the lattice with his flashlight. The fence-like cover falls, revealing the flap of blanket Donny had put up as a barrier from the cold. Wynzinger tears down the blanket, the edges ripping free from the nails used to secure it. The light sweeps back and forth, locating Donny curled up in the corner.
    Wynzinger laughs deeply, sounding raucous in the small area.
    "What have we got here?" he brays with laughter, "it's a fucking roach motel."
    Donny exudes a childish nature, as he wishes the bad man would just go away. If only he was able to hide under the covers, perhaps it would be a repellant against monsters.
    Donny hears the hammer draw back on Wynzinger's gun.
    "I said come out of there, Donny," Wynzinger says coldly, "don't make me come into that shit-hole to get you."
    Donny crawls back toward the opening, dripping thick blood everywhere. He breathes through his mouth, unable to intake wind from his broken nose. Once within arms-reach, Wyninger grabs Donny and hauls him out by the scruff of the hood on his sweatshirt.
    Wynzinger makes a spectacle out of Donny. The other cops, their bums wrangled up, watch this admonishment. The front of Donny's shirt is nearly soaked through with blood. The flow has begun to clot, ceasing the loss of blood, but it clogs up his nose.
    "One stolen bike," Wynzinger says, grunting as he hauls the mongoose out from under the gazebo. The rear peg grates on the textured concrete, making Donny shudder.
    "I didn't steal it, I found it." Donny protests.
    "A likely story," Wynzinger says sarcastically "We'll check the serial number, see if anyone reported it missing." Wynzinger says, without addressing Donny's version of events.
    He took out everything. All the few possessions Donny owned was now in the snowbank. The sleeping bag Greg had given him was of particular loss. That bag, combined with the heater had ensured DOnny's continued survival. Speaking of the heater, Whyzinger crawls underneath and yanks it across the cement. Donny cringes as the metal rattles and bangs. Whyzinger meant to break it. Donny was sure.
    And, of course, the electric plug of the space heater got caught against one of the support beams of the gazebo, and became wedged. Whyzinger tugged on it forcefully, cursing as it didn't come free.
    Donny opens his blood-streaked mouth to direct him to remove the cord, when it snaps off entirely. Whyzinger is thrown backward from the slack, and hits his back hard on an icy patch. Donny thrills with satisfaction from the fall, but is heartbroken to see the heater now worthless.
    Wynzinger's cop buddies all crack up with laughter. Wynzinger gets to his feet, and drop-kicks the heater like a punter booting a football. If anything still worked on the heater, that kick ruined it. The space-heater cartwheels across the ground, the control knobs on front breaking off entirely.
    "You fucking asshole," Donny says, and struggles against tears. He would not give Wynzinger the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Donny's composure was all that he had left, literally. Everything else was cast out now. Dignity was all he had.
    "Watch how you talk to me, bub," wynzinger says with a ruthful look. After an intense stare-down, Wynzinger crawls back into Donny's former home.
    The makeshift tinfoil pot pipe was uncovered, along with some scraps of weed. Donny had purchased a small one-hitter pipe from The Den headship. It helped conserve his weed. It was also confiscated. Total cost: 300 popcans.
    The syringe was nestled away inside an old match box, one of the old-school kinds for wooden striking matches.
    "Holy shit, what have we here?" Wynzinger asks, rattling the box. He opens it like it is still Christmas, instead of a new year.
    "We've got a needle." Whyzinger says, "looks used, too."
    Donny sits on the ground, his blood frozen to his face like a DNA slushy. How could he say it was not his? It is too obvious. Donny pictures himself on Cops, the TV show. Whenever someone gets busted, they plead it is not theirs. But it never seems to work. Donny didn't even shoot drugs in the needle. He had just practiced it with water, but found it too difficult to find a vein.
    His nose hurt so bad. But he would still look down it at Wynzinger. Donny's head would be held high. He was what he was. Donny was Donny.

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