Lost in my own thoughts I hardly registered the red and blues flashing behind me.  I glance at the cracked rear view mirror, the multi-faceted reflection of colored lights guiding my mind back to reality.  I shake my head, sighing as I pull over my rusted heap of a pick-up to the side of the road.  I stare straight ahead with both hands visible on my steering wheel.  

This would be just your typical pull-over-and-harass-the-populace maneuver the local enforcement likes to pull when they get bored.  I am not overly concerned.  Everything on me is legit.  Everything except the twenty, dust covered bags of fertilizer in the back of the truck, payment for the custom watering system I built for the Golden Bouquet.  My heart begins to race as adrenaline pumps through my veins and thoughts of severe beatings and harsh prison sentences engage my fight or flight response.

A sharp knock on my window and my muscles go instantaneously rigid.  I take a deep breath and crack the window.  

"Can I have you step out of the car sir?" he leans over, the red and blue lights reflect off the shiny letters of his badge.  M.P.  Military Police.  District 16.  One hand on his G16 auto pistol, the other holding his Whop stick.  Out of the corner of my eye I see his partner scanning the truck bed as he approaches the passenger side, M16 in hand.  I hate Imps.

I turn off my engine and open the door, slowly removing myself from the cab, keeping sure that at least one of them can always see my hands.  This isn't my first rodeo.

The sudden thump to my solar plexus and a kick to the knee dropped me to the ground, gasping for air.  I lay in the dirt, coughing and wheezing for air as the bastard who whopped me laughs at my helplessness.  I can hear the other one rifle through my busted glove box for my papers and anything incriminating.  

"What do we have here?" cries his partner as he emerges from my cab.  He throws a small sandwich bag to the ground next to me.  A small sandwich bag with an ounce of weed contained within.  Damn.  Forgot about that.  "And there isn't any permit here for fertilizer.  Where did you get it?"

I'll be damned if I will throw an old lady under a bus like that.  What are my odds that these two are educated?  Roll the dice.  "I have 'cough' a small garden at home."  That's it, keep it vague.

"Twenty bags for a small garden?"  A sharp kick to the gut has me piled over on the ground.  "What kind of idiots do you take us for?"  Damn.  Snake eyes.  I really hate imps.

"Hey Sarg.  I say we confiscate everything here.  Show this shady bitch who's in charge."  He picks up the bag of weed and walks to his partner, the sergeant.  I hear them mumble some inaudible conversation over the welfare of my belonging.  

"Look, sirs.  I mean no harm.  Take what you will, but leave me and my truck please.  I am not looking for any trouble, and it is a long walk back home.  Please."

"He does have some valuable things in there.  Are those gas cylinders full?"  The sergeant asks pointing at my spare welding tanks.

"Yes sir.  Take them.  They are yours.  And in my wallet are sixteen crows.  Take it as well."  My lungs begin to function normally again and my head clears.  "I'll help you load everything even.  Those tanks can be dangerous if mishandled."

I am jerked forcefully to my feet and prodded with the sergeants Whop stick.  "Load it up.  Make it quick though, I have to be at the hall at nine."  I can almost hear their greedy gears grinding.  I load up the fertilizer, empty my wallet into the sergeants hand, and buckle the canisters in the back seat.  

"I wouldn't want them tipping over breaking the valves, causing leakage."  They nod in approval.  I make some final adjustments to the valves before closing the door.  "Thank you sir.  I really appreciate this."  I climb into my rusted truck, start the engine and grind the gears into forward momentum.  I need a drink.

                                                                           -------------------------------------------

Sitting at the bar of the Jamaican Mule, I clank glasses with Joe over my near miss with the local imps.  "You lost a lot of Crows and some expensive merchandise in that heist, yo"  Joe takes another drink.  

Oh right, that reminds me.  With a quick hand I swipe Joe's scotch from his lips before socking him in the mouth.  "What is the big deal with setting me up with wannabe modern day Robin Hood's man?"  I scream at him, the incident from a few days ago still fresh in my mind.  "You on the hook?"

He rubs his jaw, looking at me, then at his glass of scotch in my hand.  "I didn't know, yo.  He seemed legit and his money was good."  He reaches for his drink.  I 'carelessly' drop it to the ground and watch the glass shatter on the rotted, worm eaten boards.  "Hey, that was the good stuff, yo.  I swear I didn't know!"  

"Fine, but if this happens again..."  I leave the threat hanging as the latest breaking news sounds through the old TV.  

"This just in.  A fire has ripped through a local MP hall, injuring dozens of officers and killing two, including Sergeant Jack Gallpan.  Investigators say the fire was started with an explosion caused by a mixture of Ammonia Nitrate, Acetylene, and Oxygen.  How these chemicals got inside the hall has investigators baffled."  I tune the rest of the story out and finish my scotch with a smile.

"How the hell did that happen?" Joe's face contorted in that you-had-something-to-do-with-it-didn't-you look.

"Maybe they forgot to check to see if their valves were closed before they started smoking."  I signal the barkeep for another round with a smile and a Crown.  

God I really hate imps.