WILD WEST HERO
It was as if Dan had always part-existed in another universe populated by caricatures from the black and white westerns he had watched whenever he could as a boy. He was the first to admit that he lived in a fantasy world of rattlesnakes, six-shooters, gold rush miners, outpost madams, blond haired kids called Dusty who said 'aw shucks' and, of course, sheriffs.
Wish I was, yeah, a wild west hero.
PC Dan Brocklehurst closed his eyes as the first line of his all time favourite ELO track, Wild West Hero, played through the iPhone ear plugs. A cool breeze brushed his cheek. He found himself transported, as was his habit, from the run down housing estate in the small Lancashire town that was his beat to somewhere he saw in broad brush relief as being the 'big country'.
Sometimes I look up high and then I think there might
just be a better life.
Away from all we know, that's where I wanna go,
out on the wild side
and I wish I was, o-oo-o-oh, a wild west hero.
Dan knew his days in the 'job' were now numbered. They had sent him out on patrol this morning because of staff shortages but, deep down, he realised there was no way back. He looked at the text message again. His sergeant wanted him back at the station by 3.00pm to '...meet with the brass.' Suspension pending a disciplinary investigation was the least he could expect. Criminal charges seemed likely.
Ride the range all the day till the first fading light,
be with my western girl round the fire, oh, so bright.
I'd be the Indians' friend, let them live to be free,
ridin' into the sunset, I wish I could be.
It had happened the same day as the meeting with the Neighbourhood Watch management committee. PC Brocklehurst had been required to attend in his role as community liaison officer.
He listened to the complaints that nothing was being done about a gang of teenage drug dealers who were making life hell for everyone on the estate. The committee knew that most of the inhabitants were too frightened to give evidence. They just wanted the police to get tough by any means. Dan knew what the legal limits on action were and tried to share the constraints placed on the police with his audience. The bitter cynicism embodied in the responses was plain to all.
I'd ride the desert sands and through the prairie lands,
try'n to do what's right.
The folks would come to me, they'd say, we need you here.
I'd stay there for the night.
Oh, I wish I was, o-oo-o-oh, a wild west hero.
After the meeting Dan took a walk through the municipal park adjacent to the community centre. It would do no harm to be seen taking an interest by not returning to the station in the comfort of a patrol car.
As it turned out there wasn't a soul in sight until PC Brocklehurst arrived at the children's play area. Dan immediately recognised one of his targets. Shaylon McCalla - 17, mixed race, tall and painfully thin - was surrounded by a small group of younger kids. It was obvious what was going on. McCalla was a known dealer and skunk cannabis would be the drug of choice among this age group.
One of the young kids looked towards Dan and said something. All apart from McCalla ran off. Shaylon stood his ground, a grin spreading from ear to ear.
"Wassup policeman officer Danny-boy?" rapped McCalla as Dan stepped up close and personal to him.
"Wassup, Shaylon? Wassup! Wassup is you dealing drugs to those kids."
"No I ain't and anyways you can't prove nothing. I ain't got nothing on me and those bruvvers ain't goin' to grass. Shit, you're a dick head Brocklehurst. You ain't fuckin' with me on my manor."
What happened next was very quick. A single forearm smash delivered by the police officer to the youth's face and the latter was on his back with his arm bent at a hideous angle having crashed into the seesaw on the way down.
Ride the range all the day till the first fading light,
be with my western girl round the fire, oh, so bright.
I'd be the Indians friend, let them live to be free,
ridin' into the sunset, I wish I could be.
That was it. In an ill-judged flash of temper a career was over. Dan knew the drill. He had infringed Shaylon McCalla's human rights. Dan had assaulted him and caused, as the court would phrase it, grievous bodily harm. The constabulary would not tolerate a loose cannon who could not be trusted to control himself.
Oh, I wish I was, o-oo-o-oh, a wild west hero.
Oh, I wish I was, o-oo-o-oh, a wild west hero.
Oh, I wish I was, o-oo-o-oh, a wild west hero.
Oh, I wish I was, o-oo-o-oh, a wild west hero.
Wish I was, o-o-oo-o-o-o-oo, a wild west hero.
As the music faded the taunts penetrated. Dan looked round to see TJ Simpson, one of Shaylon McCalla's crew, shouting at him from across the street. He was making gun signs with both hands.
"Oi copper, you is goin' down. That's right, goin' down blue. If you don't do time me and my boys is going to plug you anyway."
Dan said nothing. A set of brakes squealed as he sprinted across the road.
---
PC Dan Brocklehurst looked down at the body on the floor. He took in the widening pool of blood that poured from Simpson's gaping head wound. Dan slowly lifted the tip of his ASP tactical baton towards his lips and blew as if smoke was wafting from the end. As he holstered the baton Dan touched the brim of his cap.
"Adios, amigo."
If y'all enjoyed the yarn, why not drop in for a hoedown with the boys from ELO?
Another one down... After all, what does he really have to lose? It has been said some cops have what is called 'the Wyatt Earp complex'. This is a perfect example. Terrific use of the prompts, and I enjoyed the way you joined the Wild West concept with present day.
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