A CICPC story

—CICPC! Open the door!

No fucking way am I opening the door, he whispered to his friend. What’s the backyard like? Can I get out that way?

Yeah, you can—take it easy, man. I’ll wait for you to get out, then I’ll open up and stall them. Just get the hell out of here.

The yard was enclosed by high concrete and brick walls; he found a couple of chairs to use as a step-up and, in an instant, was at the top. He jumped over and landed on the street on the other side. Some of the neighborhood kids watched him. He started running uphill; there was another buddy he thought could help him, and he had his pistol with him.

He called his friend on his cell phone while running, thinking, Pick up, man; pick up, asshole. He arrived, and his buddy was tending to his business—a modest corner store.

He could barely speak after the run; he took a minute to catch his breath.

Man, Pedro, what happened?

The CICPC is looking for me. Lend me the bike.

Damn, but what happened? Why are they looking for you?

I fucked up big time, man. I hooked up with the wife of a big shot at the CICPC. So, this isn't something you can fix with money or anything else; they’re looking for me to kill me.

Shit... you’re in deep trouble. Damn, what are you going to do?

I’m heading downtown.

Take the bike. Just let me know where you leave it so I can pick it up later.

He grabbed the bike, got on, and sped off, racing down from the top of the hillside neighborhood. He dodged obstacles, figured out how best to navigate or avoid speed bumps, and stuck to streets he suspected were free of patrols; then, upon turning left onto one street, he saw a pickup truck facing him. He quickly braked and swerved, and the chase began. The truck was at a disadvantage due to its size and lack of maneuverability. Those officers didn't actually care about the man's life; their boss had offered five thousand dollars for his capture, so a competitive hunting spirit took hold of them—for them, it was a fun and lucrative game.

Pedro, who had masterful control of his motorcycle, assessed the situation; he took a moment to turn, drew his pistol, and fired at the pickup truck's tires—but missed. The officers reacted with, "Oh yeah? You son of a bitch!" and the driver accelerated even harder. Still moving at high speed, Pedro made an unexpected turn onto another street, then quickly another; he picked up speed and continued his descent down the hill, having successfully lost them.

Deep down, Pedro held them all—every single one of them—in utter contempt. He felt not a shred of regret for what he had done; in fact, it made him feel good about himself. Countless stories were circulating about how police forces were sick with power—and beyond that, the officers themselves were sick, or nearly all of them were; you have to be sick to tolerate and normalize the daily demoralization and dehumanization of hundreds of citizens for the sake of money.

Pedro knew it was a losing battle he couldn't win, and he didn't want anyone getting hurt because of him. When he reached the city center, he met up with a childhood friend who had left the neighborhood and was now working for a major real estate firm.

He asked for her help to leave the state and start over somewhere else; he ended up staying with his grandmother, who forced him to get rid of the gun and find honest work.