Now Officer Jesus, being off-duty and slightly inebriated, came walking by, singing a slow hymn to himself in baritone, and he looked into the ditch and was dismayed to see me and Officer Barbara lying there decapitated. So he picked up our heads, which were on the ground nearby, and he replaced them onto our necks while saying:
“Behold, what man has rent asunder, I, Officer Jesus of Mexico, shall make whole.”
Yet he ended up putting the wrong head on each body. (No: I’m just joking about this last mistake — he fused us correctly.)
“Officer Jesus!” I said, once my eyes came open, after having returned from death, “What are you doing here?”
“I was strolling by, and I found you and your partner lying beheaded in this ditch,” he said. “So I brought you back to life.”
“Ah, I see,” I blinked and looked around. “Jeez, thanks!”
“Yeah, thanks,” said Officer Barbara. “And it’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” said Officer Jesus, while shaking hands with each of us. “Well, I’ll let you two get back to whatever crime you were fighting,” And we waved goodbye to him, as he moseyed into the distance singing slow hymns.
“Wow, that was lucky,” I said. “If my old partner Officer Jesus hadn’t happened to pass by and find us in this ditch, we almost certainly would still be deceased.”
“That is true,” said Officer Barbara. Then we climbed out of the ditch and got back into our squad car and started it up. (The cops who killed us had left long ago.)
“So, Bry, what was your experience like, in the underworld?” Officer Barbara asked me, as she signaled with the vehicle’s blinker and merged back into traffic.
I answered, “Well, if your question means: What did I do while I was dead? then I’ll have to concentrate for a moment, to try to recall; because, for me, death was kinda like a dream: the instant I woke up, its contents faded, as if my mind was predisposed to repress the memory.”
“Take your time and try to remember; we don’t have any distress calls to answer at present, and I’m interested in hearing what happened to you,” said Officer Barbara. Then, after a moment of silence, she added: “Hey, why don’t I tell you about my own death experience, while you try to recall yours?”
“OK,” I said. “So what happened to YOU after death?”
“Well, as soon as my head fell off,” explained Officer Barbara, “I found myself driving a patrol vehicle with Officer Death. We were answering a distress call from an angel who was being bullied by other angels. We pulled up and climbed out of our patrol car’s windows, and Officer Death and I unsheathed our truncheons and approached the bullies, one at a time, and we gave them a chance to answer for their bad behavior; then we bludgeoned them good, and took them down to the station and booked them. Then Officer Death and I made sure that the angel who was the victim of the aforesaid aggressions got back to a safe house, and we were driving to a diner with the intention of celebrating a job well done, when I got resurrected. The next thing I knew, I was breathing earth-air again in the ditch, with Officer Jesus standing before me. — Egads! now that I’ve left the land of the dead, I hope that my police car in the underworld is not presently swerving out of control and causing mayhem, with Officer Death on the passenger side and nobody occupying the driver seat.”
“That’s quite an adventure you had,” I said to my police partner, Officer Barbara. “Congrats on arresting those awful angels. Now my own journey into ‘the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns’ has, at last, come back to me — I finally remember what happened when I was no longer alive: it took a strong effort of the will, and I had to use a fair amount of imagination, but my story is clear as a bell now; and I’m ready to tell it.”
“Alright, I’m all ears,” replied Officer Barbara.
“OK,” I said, “in my own case, when I died, I found myself riding in the passenger seat of a police cruiser with Officer Death at the steering wheel. We were answering a distress call from Almighty God. — When we pulled up on the scene, there were a number of white-smocked saints surrounding the LORD, and they were not singing praises. Officer Death and I climbed out of our vehicle’s windows and approached this gang. ‘What seems to be the problem here, boys,’ I said, while tapping my nightstick threateningly against the palm of my hand. Then Officer Death added ‘Yeah, what’s wrong? Has the cat got your tongue?’ And then the Almighty LORD God piped up and explained that he himself was the one who called for us: ‘These saints are obliged to sing flattering songs to me, but they have formed a union and refuse to perform unless I give them extra bliss. But, as you know, the price of innocent blood in Heaven has risen above seven U.S. dollars, since we began our conflict with Hell. So I would like you to bludgeon these malingerers into submission, if you will.’ — Upon hearing God’s complaint, I exchanged a look with Officer Death, and we both smiled, and then we went to work on those stubborn saints. We beat them good. And, let me tell you, by the time we drove away from the scene of the crime, they were crying ‘Holy, holy’. God saluted us and nodded. And then I woke up. Or came back to life, rather.”
“That was an inspiring death experience,” Officer Barbara nudged me playfully. “You got to meet your Maker and help his choir optimize their performance. Sheesh, all I did was save one wimpy angel; whereas YOU got to serve and protect the Commissioner himself!”
“Who knows if it was real, tho,” I said, modestly waiving off this compliment. “The only thing that counts is the past, present, and future of actual spacetime. Everything else is just religion, for the kids — like Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.”
“Yeah, or the Easter Bunny,” said Officer Barbara, nodding somberly. Then she added: “Well… at least it’s not illegal to fantasize.”
“Not YET,” I said. And we both shared a laugh.
Just then, a call came in on our citizens band radio:
“Hello, police? Someone’s abducting me. Please come quick!”
So Officer Barbara floored the gas, as I switched on our siren and flashing lights; and we made it to the scene of the crime faster than a thunderbolt.
Climbing out of our respective windows, Officer Barbara and I shouted “Freeze!” And we aimed our firearms at the kidnapper.
The kidnapper put up his hands, thus dropping the businessperson that he was attempting to cradle away.
“Thank you so much,” said the would-be abductee (the big businessman, who had dropped from the arms of the kidnapper). And he introduced himself to us and explained that he is the Chief Executive Officer of several monopolies; therefore we have done a great favor to the universe by granting him salvation.
“No need to thank us,” I explained. “Our services are paid for by your tax dollars.”
The tycoon looked confused for an instant; then he let forth a snicker and said: “I don’t pay taxes.”
“Well, we’re still duty-bound to serve you and protect you,” answered Officer Barbara; “and we’ll do so, proudly, until the day that we retire from the Police Force.”
“Oh, yes, about that,” said the mogul: “I’m afraid that you’ll never be able to retire, as I’ve already gambled away all the funds from your pension accounts. But thanks again for saving me. Ha, ha, ha.”
I tipped my cop-cap to the man and answered sincerely: “That’s fine with us — we love our job; we believe in law and order; so we don’t want to retire anyway. We will continue to serve and protect the citizens of this country until the day that we expire.”
“And perhaps even after that,” Officer Barbara said; then she gave me a wink.
When we got back into our police cruiser and buckled our safety belts, I said: “That’s strange; I have the feeling that we’re forgetting something.”
My partner Barbara’s eyes lit up, and she replied: “We forgot to arrest the criminals!”
So we went back to the scene of the crime and placed a net over the kidnapper, and then we returned again and lassoed the big businessman. We dragged them both over to our cop car, carefully seated them in the back, fastened their safety belts, and brought them to jail. We then prepared and delivered them regular meals of rye bread with black beans until their day in court arrived.
At that point, the judge sentenced the abductor to sixteen weekends of community service. That means that the criminal had to pick up trash from the side of our popular six-lane highway, instead of going out to nightclubs, during both Saturday and Sunday of every sennight, for the span of four months.
Then the jury stepped forward and climbed out of the bleachers where they had hitherto been cloistered, and they asked if they could suggest a sentence for the businessman. The judge bowed solemnly in agreement; and, when he reached the lowest point of his forward bend, he had to adjust his white wig so that it would not fall off his head and onto the ground.
So the jury suggested that the tycoon be charged a fine proportionate to the amount of money that he would’ve been taxed if he had been a lifelong member of the Working Class instead of an honorable Ruler of Humans. And the judge banged the gavel and said:
“Let’s eat!”
So we all took a break for lunch and never returned to the courtroom, because the food was delicious. Therefore the rich man ended up legally being able to avoid having to pay his fair share of taxes.
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