Losers Bluff (formerly "Insurance")

PHIL

As I'm driving away from the Red Light, my thoughts are foggy, shrouded in Tasha's perfume, guilt and frustration over Jenny, and the vague and unsettling feeling that I am being watched. While taking mostly backstreets and local roads, I find it strange that one car has maintained a steady pace behind my Toyota without passing, even though I am driving a good 10 miles under the speed limit.

When I am about to turn into my driveway, I notice the trailing car's headlights suddenly switch off as it rolls to a stop near the curb. Squinting hard in the rear-view, I can tell it's a late-model Lincoln in the faint glow of streetlights, one of G's favorite makes… I'm positive the fucker buys them wholesale. I instantly stomp on the gas and peel around the corner, speeding down the side street doing 75. After taking every conceivable turn, I make a loop and come out on the freeway again. I stop at a Motel 6 roughly 15 miles from home, unfollowed, as an absurd thrill of temporary victory surges through me.

I bought some Sominex earlier in the day, and it's still in the car, unopened. I sit in the lot, eyes darting around for any sign of life, and then swallow two tabs with the remains of a warm can of Diet Coke. I leave a message on the machine at home for Oliver, although I am not sure if he would make it home tonight. Twenty-year-old boys keep odd hours, I'm learning

I request a room that is out-of-the-way, in a mostly vacant building near the back of the complex near a small, dark grove of firs. To be extra safe, I park my car in a restaurant lot next door to the motel.

I strip out of my sweat-stained clothing and crawl, trembling, into the institutional white sheets, feeling very scared, and very alone.

I wasn't asleep for long when I began to have the nightmare, which has stayed with me since the events actually happened, almost 2 years ago. Irritatingly, there is never any element of fantasy or whimsy in it. It is like watching a movie over and over. It never changes. I was sure I would have it tonight, in light of recent events and especially my meeting with Tash. I had been hoping the pills would block it out, but it didn't

In the nightmare, I am tied to a chair in a baroquely furnished bedroom in Mr. G's Park Avenue penthouse; the room easily twice as large as my entire house. Natasha is tied in an X to a massively ornate walnut bed, gagged with an extremely ugly (though realistic-looking) rubber dildo, which is strapped around her head. Tony and Vito stand passively on either side of my chair, wearing Black double-breasted Italian suits. Vito smoothes his fingernails with his small, silver nail file.

Mr. G waddles into the room magisterially in a full-length Red silk dressing gown, the kind you'd see Cary Grant sport as he sauntered around sipping a martini at cocktail hour in a '40s period film, a White silk scarf tied snugly around his pudgy neck. In his hands he carries Tasha's .22. He stands over me, grinning smugly.

"You know, Mr. Palmer, if one wishes to play with firearms, it is advisable that one actually knows how to load them." He opens the chamber and displays a haphazard mix of filled and empty chambers, something I had not bothered to check before taking the thing from Tasha's apartment earlier in the day. I have always hated guns.

This was a last ditch attempt --- our last ditch attempt --- to free her from the ranks of G's "top" girls. Being among the elite was a mixed blessing for girls like Tasha. On one hand, it earned her almost three times per night of any other call girl in Denver. But it also earned her pride of place as one of the bastard's personal "playthings." As Tasha's relationship with her boss grew, he no longer was satisfied with unlimited access. He had begun to make his physical attacks on her longer and more vicious. Every time I saw her, the bruises and scars on her lovely body became more pronounced. She told me many times that one day she feared she would not return from these weekend "trysts" in New York, where the crime lord kept an extensive collection of torture toys at his exclusive lair in the city.

Tasha had finally convinced me to come here to attempt this half-baked emancipation. "He won't expect it" she had said "not on his home turf." Back then, I had no clear idea of how well protected, or how powerful, Tasha's "pimp" really was. Incredibly naïve, I thought I could rush in like Charles Bronson and show the thug that I was no one to fool with. Instead, his goons had apprehended us both, earlier that day, only hours after we arrived in Manhattan. Tony and Vito had confiscated my weapon with the ease of a parent removing a rattle from an infant's hands.

I now watched as the gangster teased the length of her body with a lit cigarette, which was secured fastidiously in his now trademark holder.

"So this is your Sir Galahad, eh?" he chuckled, "I'm not impressed." He yanks the dildo from her mouth as Tasha gasps for breath.

"He may not have your power and money, but he's twice the man you'll ever be" she rasps. " He knows how to treat a woman." I find myself wincing, wishing frantically for her to shut up.

"Is that so?" he says, amused, eyeing me with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. "Why don't you demonstrate your prowess, Mr. Palmer? Perhaps you could show me a thing or two?" He seats himself in a gold-gilded chair that looks like a mini-throne, and sweeps his holder casually in my direction. "Tony, Vito… get him ready."

I am untied, at gunpoint, forced to strip, and fitted with a tight leather jockstrap, minus the codpiece. I am alarmed to find that the tension in the thing is coaxing an erection from me, even though I am far from aroused, in my heightened state of stress. The hoods lead me over to the bed and order me to mount Natasha. As I do, she seems to come to delirious life, moaning with a degree of pleasure I had not previously witnessed. I'll be damned, but she seems to like this shit. It was the start of my flirtation with mild bondage, though I never had the luxury of being able to explore it further with her again after that night.

After I had given her two or three hesitant strokes, I suddenly felt two steely arms grip me from behind and then a rubber finger shoved a greasy wad of something up my ass. An extremely large stick entered my body, and a jolt of electricity crackled through me, lighting me up like a Christmas tree. Before I could scream, I was gagged with a dildo identical to the one Natasha had sported. I collapsed on top of her, completely spent from the searing pain that had ripped up my rectum, igniting my prostate into spasms.

The little fat man hooted wildly with laughter, holding his silken belly and clenching the holder in his pearly teeth. "Now, now, Mr. Palmer. You'll have to do better than that ! Why, you can barely keep yourself stiff for 5 seconds!"

I raised myself up and looked at him pathetically. "Please" I begged, trying to speak clearly through the mouthful of rubber, "Don't…."

I heard the click of the .22 I had carried, as it was pressed to my temple.

"Again, Palmer. And be assured this time that Tony and Vito have properly loaded your quaint little water pistol."

As I fucked Natasha, the electric prod was applied at sporadic intervals. I didn't exactly get used to it, but I managed to finally come after what were probably a few hours. Natasha couldn't manage to look at me, choosing instead to fix her gaze on a crystal lamp, which sat on a nearby bedside table.

The sadist finally completed my humiliation by tying me up and forcing me to watch while he slowly singed Tasha's breasts with his cigarette, taking petite puffs while allowing the red-hot cherry tip to linger cruelly on her blackening nipples.

For months following the attack, I had trouble maintaining a steady stream when I attempted to take a piss, unable to relax, imagining the invading phantom phallus. Urologists, blissfully unaware of my prior trauma, told me there was nothing wrong with me, and that the symptoms would pass in time. They did. Unlike poor Natasha, my ego had been the only thing permanently scarred.

I wake up screaming, as I usually do. I can't tell if it's my imagination or not that a large shape appears to loom near the edge of the cheaply curtained plate glass window in the motel room.

When I get up to peer tentatively out the window, still nude, I find nothing. When I finally get back to sleep, I thankfully black out into a welcome nothingness.

JENNY

"So, you plan to… kill me," I stammered.

Any hope I had once had of escaping from this terrible place vanishes as I stare at the gleaming circular blade, set into what looks to be an inlaid sheet of pinewood at the opposite end of the polished chromium table.

A fit of belly laughs pours from the Commandant's ugly mouth. "Ah, no, no, no, dear Fraulien. That is not the intention at all. This is no mere $600 table saw from Sears! What you are beholding with your big, beautiful eyes is a highly sophisticated torture instrument." He blew a perfect smoke ring and regarded it for a few moments as it drifted toward the ceiling, before elaborating. "A landmark of German engineering; precise in every means of form and function. Major, lower the apparatus."

Major Enrique walked over to a series of dials and switches that were set into the wall, and turned one of the knobs. An electric hoist in the ceiling lowered a device that appeared to be an inverted "V", like a very large compass that is used for drawing. When it had been lowered into the space just below my crotch, the guard locked it into place with an extendible cable that also hung from the ceiling. He then attached one prong of the "V" to the mount of the blade wheel and fastened the other prong to a dildo mounted inside of an extending bracket made of heavy plastic. The tip of the dildo was only a few inches from my exposed pussy.

The Commandant watched the escalating fear seep slowly into my eyes, with morbid fascination. He then continued his obsequious lecture.

"That dildo has a self-contained power source in the side of the bracket. When I give the order, it will be switched on and it will begin to enter you. Now here's where the fun really begins." He was obviously having a hard time containing his glee. "I doubt you have much juice left in your pussy, due to all the heat you've been exposed to, coupled with your dehydration. This is going to create quite a bit of friction and resistance for the dildo… at least at first" he chuckled. "The saw is attached via the apparatus to the dildo, as you can plainly see, and the decreased movement of the dildo, due to the friction, will pull the blade at an exceptionally slow pace towards you, munching away on that flimsy piece of wood in the process. As you become, how shall we say, more lubricated , the tension will be eased, prompting the apparatus to allow the saw to advance at a faster rate."

My mind is now reeling at all of this information, and I can feel panic begin to overtake me. I force a deep breath, and my hatred for this petty dictator begins to erupt, against all of my better judgment. "You think that piece of rubber is going to suddenly create a geyser inside of me? It will take more than that, you pompous fool! I'll be thinking about very old disgusting men, like yourself."

He gives me a tight, small smile, and reaches into the pocket of his flared breeches, and produces a small case, about the size of a compact. He opens it and drops two small black devices into his gloved hand.

"See these?" he gloated, "They're what I like to call 'helping hands'. The Chinese first came up with the idea of using Ben Wa balls --- metal balls to enhance and stimulate orgasms in their female consorts. These updated models, however, are even more impossible to resist as they vibrate ever so minutely… right on your G-spot." He began to laugh maniacally.

"As I said, you mean to kill me. You… monster!" I blurt, trying extremely hard to remain calm and stone-faced.

"Oh no, that's not correct" he rebukes, wagging the burning cigarette dangerously close to my face. "I told you that this is a sophisticated and unique table saw. Unique in that it travels forward at only a fraction of a millimeter. And sophisticated so that, even at top speed, it would take 5 minutes to travel the equivalent of an inch."

I glance nervously at the blade and guess it is about 2 feet from my vagina, counting the length of the dildo. I shudder and turn away, which gives the fiend a tremendous charge of pleasure.

"Yes, you guessed it" he purrs, in his over-bearing self-satisfied manner. "Having your privates sawed apart is not exactly a quick way to die. It could provide hours of pleasure for my men, not to mention for our associates and me. I have used this device only four other times… and not once has a victim expired, so I wouldn't get your hopes up, Fraulein. However, in most cases, when the mutilation begins, you can bid any future use of your organ goodbye." He covers his mouth daintily with his glove, trying to contain his bubbling mirth, though unsuccessfully. "Oh yes, and need I tell you how much we can fetch on the snuff market for a recording of this little adventure?"

He then reaches out and jerks my head to face him. "Of course, your uncomfortable ordeal can be ended at any time by telling us exactly where your daughter is taking her impromptu vacation."

"Rot in hell, you Nazi scumbag" I say, but the words do not give me any pleasure, and him any offense.

The Commandant cavalierly tosses the two black devices to Enrique, who fondles them obscenely with a wicked grin on his face. The fat man then rises, and, clicking his heels officiously, gestures to me with his riding crop. "Enjoy your ordeal, my lovely. And while you are doing so, think of me enjoying myself, as I will surely be thinking of you." He points to a camera mounted on the wall facing me and, laughing insanely, struts off.

TONY

It's 3:30 AM when I'm finally wrappin' things up, and going home is completely out of the question. I figure it's gonna take me a half hour to drive back to the fuckin' suburbs, then wake up Julie (who'll bitch me out), then sleep for barely two hours, only to get up to haul his Grace's luggage down to the limo around 7. Fuck that. I go to the Brown and take the service elevator up to the top floor. The boss has two regular rooms reserved at all times that are on either side of his suite.

I phone Steve, who's always on call, to tell him about the extra info I learned tonight about Fuck-Face's sleeping arrangements. He answers on the fourth ring, sounding as tired as me, and informs me that the boss has decided to stay a few more nights in Denver. I'm so pissed I just hang up on him, throwing the cell phone at the wall. I… don't… need… this… shit! I'm a professional enforcer, not a goddamn servant, for chrissake!

I find myself thinking, as I fall into bed, that Steve has the better job. The guy's a formally trained butler, a gentleman's gentleman. Even if he is on call 24/7, he's almost never working odd hours, always inside, always comfortable. He's sure as fuck not drivin' all over hell and back constantly for fucking Ice Capades tickets. Sure, I might clear a little more than him, plus any extra "comps" I can swipe at the G Spot, but this shit sucks --- and I'm through with it.

I'm minutes into unconsciousness when my cell rings. I curse, desperately trying to find the motherfucker.

"Yeah?"

"It has broken" the voice says softly, with a faint German accent.

"What in the fuck…?" I sputter, and then quickly remember the code words. "Uh, OK. Where is the package?"

"At the Twin Pines Lodge in Vail, in mail slot 29C." I switch on the light and scrawl on a small pad of paper.

"Is the package… with other packages?" I stumble, feeling like a fuckin' retard. I hate usin' this fucked-up language.

"No. It is alone. Goodbye."

The line goes dead, and I stare at the phone. I'll be a son of a bitch. That was quick.

I set the phone down on the bedside table, then reach over and turn it off. Fuck all you people. I'm goin' to sleep.

PHIL

I spring up in the motel bed, covered with sweat, as a fist bangs impatiently on the door. Why the fuck hadn't I brought a gun, or any kind of weapon here? Of course, they'd find me. I lamely thought about dashing for the bathroom and locking the door.

"Housekeeping! Is anyone there? Housekeeping?" a woman's voice, plainly Hispanic and very shrill, calls out.

I exhale sharply and dash to throw on my rumpled pants. The door opens and the woman starts, obviously surprised to find someone inside. "Sorry…" she begins, "I come back later." She has an expression one would wear if looking at a crazy man.

I look at the alarm clock. 9:45 AM.

"This was on your door."

She holds out a blank envelope with a piece of tape attached. "Uh, thank you" I manage, as she leaves hurriedly, banging her supply cart against the doorframe in her rush to exit.

I stand looking at the thing for a few minutes. Probably should save it for fingerprints, is my first thought. But then again, I was doubtful there were any to find.

I sit down at the small desk and rip the thing open. Inside is a white piece of paper with the words: WILL CALL AT 10:30 AM. ANSWER.

I start to sweat again, and my hands begin to shake as I place them on my forehead. I feel the sudden urge to vomit and rush to the bathroom, but nothing comes up. I can only pace the room nervously for the next 45 minutes.

At precisely 10:30, the motel phone rings. I pick up on the first ring.

"Y-Yes" I stutter.

Silence for a few seconds, then a distorted mechanical sounding voice says, "We have the girl. The price has gone up."

I say nothing, my mouth paralyzed with fear.

"$150,000" the computerized voice says, "Instructions to follow. Do not call the police or she will suffer." Then the line clicks, goes dead.

I rip the phone from the wall, breaking the cord and hurl it to the floor as hard as I can, shattering the plastic cover.

TONY

No sleep for yours truly, but after a number of phone calls to some buddies in Vail and New York (and about 6 cups of Espresso), I'm feelin' better than ever, more in control. I know what I have to do now, and it makes beautiful sense.

I have breakfast in the restaurant downstairs, and then call Julie to tell her I'll be on the road again today.

The drive to Vail should take roughly 4 hours, but with the thought of never having to light another cigar or cigarette for that annoying little cocksucker in the front of my mind, it'll fly by. I find I'm looking forward to it.

PHIL

The rest of the day is a blur.

I go to my bank, and talk with the same loan officer I've dealt with for the past ten years, but never get past him pulling my maxed-out credit report.

G knows I don't have 150. Knows it, as surely as he knows how many pairs of diamond cufflinks he has. So why would he ask for it? All I can think is that he obviously wants to negotiate some other deal. I sickeningly recall Tony telling me about another "deadbeat" who was working off his obligations as a butt cowboy and torture slave in one of G's exclusive BDSM clubs, and shudder. But what are my other options? What's one more groveling session, if it will buy me time? I am at the end of it, and I'm going to have to play the part of the victim, at least until I can get hold of Natasha and pick her brain further on ways out of this mess. I've got to find G and throw myself at his mercy, and hope his evil mind will be content to concoct some other way to subtly torment me without killing my family. One thing Tash had said the other night stays in my head: "He needs to control people. That's what it comes down to. It's not about the money or anything else. You've pissed him off and he wants you to know you're beaten, that you're his. Never forget he's nothing but a playground bully in a $5000 suit."

I drive over to the Brown, park half way down the block and wait. One thing I know about this fucker: he's far too high-and-mighty to lower himself to room service. He'll be leaving his plush hideaway to dine at some five-star restaurant at some point.

When the sun sets and it's past 7 PM, I start to get nervous, thinking that maybe he's already checked-out and escaped back to New York. But, at 7:30 on the button, his fancy Black showboat glides up to the entrance, license plate: MR+G. For once, I think wryly, his over inflated ego is working to my advantage. I watch as Vito escorts the fat piece of shit --- outfitted in an immaculate, form-fitting tuxedo and clenching an ivory cigarette holder jauntily in this mouth --- into the rear of the stretched sedan. Man of leisure, living the high-life, I think spitefully. I wonder how often he's pleasantly thought of the hell Jenny must be experiencing these past few days, and my anger boils.

I follow the limo to Morton's Steakhouse, in South Denver, and sit in the parking lot for close to an hour and a half, failing several times at attempting to exit my car. But I know enough about this place to realize no one gets out in less than two hours for an elaborate dinner.

I finally steel my nerves with several deep breaths and begin walking towards the restaurant, hoping for a relaxed dress code.

MR. G

I'm in my usual booth in the right rear corner of Morton's, one hand up Tiffany's slit-skirt and the other on Yvonne's succulent milk-white thigh, contemplating the dessert menu. Jeffrey, the Maitre d', has deferentially refused to seat anyone around me, even though there is still a waiting line at the door by 9:30 PM. Vito's table, at which he sits nearby reading a new copy of Cigar Aficionado, is the only exception.

I place the order, along with a request for a bottle of 75 year-old tawny Port from my private wine locker, and settle back in the leather banquette.

"You have exquisite taste, Mr. G" Yvonne croons, coyly sniffing the Red rose that adorns my silk lapel.

"I take it you come here often, you nasty boy" Tiffany chimes in.

"I come often, and with much gusto" I say, raising my eyebrows up and down and doing my best Groucho imitation, waggling a fresh Cuban between two fingers. They laugh on cue, while I leer nastily at their low-cut tops.

Both girls are relatively new to my enterprise, but have come with high recommendations by most of my men. Tiffany, the younger of the two at 20, is rumored to be particularly insatiable. My cock stiffens against the 150-thread count wool of my tuxedo trousers as I think of the many ways I will bring them both to the peaks of agony later tonight.

After the sommelier uncorks the Port and lights my Cuban, I'm taking the first fragrant pull (much to the chagrin of the 4-top nearby!) when what before my wondering eyes does appear but Phil Palmer? At first, it's all I can do to stop laughing. What in the hell is this loser doing in here? He can barely afford the price of an appetizer. But as I stare at him, looking expressionlessly back at me, his hair greasy and unkempt and his sport shirt half-untucked, my mouth begins to feel a bit dry. Looking over for Vito, I notice he's gone, and I quickly take a swig of my San Pellegrino.

"Ah, Mr. Palmer, enjoying your evening?" I ask, trying to sound magnanimous.

He continues to stare.

The waiter brings the desserts, three warm full-size Chocolate soufflés oozing with chocolate sauce and decked with layers of fresh whipping cream. He looks at Palmer, then back at me, sensing the tension. "Is there a… problem, Sir?" he asks.

"No, not at all" I say, dismissing him quickly, and searching again for fucking Vito. "Girls, if you'll excuse me, I need to talk with this gentlemen outside."

"That's not necessary, Mr. G," Palmer says softly. "What I have to say won't take long."

I quickly scan his body for any sign of weapons, and then tell the girls to go powder their noses.

I promise myself Vito's head for an after-dinner cordial container, and then, once the girls leave, say in a tone that barely masks my irritation "Sit down, you're making a scene."

"I prefer to stand, Mr. G."

Now I'm getting pissed. If Vito or any of my other men were around, this insect wouldn't dare contradict me.

"I received your latest message, Mr. G. I don't have what you want."

"What in the fuck are you babbling about, Palmer?" I shoot back, now openly annoyed.

"Your message… this morning" he says, voice rising just a tad.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I know you've got Janice," he says, and my pulse skips a beat. I can tell he's serious. What in the fuck? I haven't heard of this development at all. Jesus Christ, are my men this fucking out to lunch?

I straighten the tail of my jacket indignantly and meet his gaze. "I have no idea what you are referring to. I don't know any Janice. Now, please leave, or I'll have to alert the staff that you're becoming a nuisance."

"A nuisance? " he parrots, now very loudly. " I'm becoming a nuisance?"

"Yes. Now go, or I'll have you taken out," I hiss, looking around the room and feeling mortification creep slowly over me, as people cease their conversations, and begin to stare at us.

"You pompous FUCK!" he suddenly erupts, reaching for the tablecloth and yanking it violently, sending all three soufflés tumbling over, onto the table and my Brioni. There are several gasps from the room, and more to my chagrin, a few chuckles.

I find myself frozen, unable to move, frantically trying to signal one of the staff with my eyes.

"You fat piece of shit!" he screams. "Not so tough, without your thugs, are you?"

"S-sit down Palmer. Let's discuss this like gentlemen…" I stall, as I thankfully see the Maitre d' and two of his staff rushing over.

The two men touch Palmer's arms and he shakes them off, wildly.

"Sir! Sir! I must ask you to leave!" Jeffrey says.

"This man… this THING…" Palmer raves, "has kidnapped my wife. He's a monster!"

The two wait staff begins to hustle him away, and I can feel my face begin to flush. Unfucking believable! And where the fuck is Vito? Rage quickly replaces embarrassment and I bellow at the Maitre d', stabbing my cigar in the air. "Why are you standing around? Chop! Chop! Call the police!" I look down disgustedly at my $4500 jacket, now covered in White cream and warm, sticky chocolate sauce. "If that psycho is allowed to leave here, Jeffrey, I can assure you that your next health inspection will yield very negative results!"

"Yes, Mr. G." he mutters, pacing away.

PHIL

I should have known I would lose it. Every good intention… It was just too much, too much. I can't lick his boots one more time, while he soaks it up, wallowing in luxury while my family is undoubtedly drowning in pain, waiting for him to order up another vile torture the way most people order a pizza.

I try frantically to explain everything to the tuxedoed manager, but he refuses to look at me. Two big guys from the kitchen have been brought over to "baby-sit" as the cops are called. I sit and sob hopelessly in a chair in the waiting area, surrounded by beautiful, well-dressed people with net-worths, looking at me as if I was a freak-show exhibit.

I suddenly hear G's husky voice bellowing at Vito, something about "incompetence," "humiliation," and a "price to pay." The fat turd comes charging out of the dining room, with the 6'4" Vito scurrying behind like a field mouse. As he strides angrily through the wait area, numerous staff chime "Good Night, Mr. G," "So sorry, Mr. G," "Please forgive us, Mr. G".

As Vito opens the restaurant door, G shoots me a death look and a hideously twisted smile that is truly chilling to behold. My wife and daughter are dead; I know this now. He looks around the room at the crowd, who are embarrassed and silent, then tears off his ruined jacket and flings it down wretchedly. He then straightens himself up, brushing a few crumbs from his unsoiled vest. "These people eat for free tonight, with the exception of HIM," he barks at Jeffrey, while gesturing to me with his stogie. Then to the crowd: "My humble apologies." Always the goddamn hero, I think sickly, looking at the floor.

Outside, the cops are equally impassive, not listening to me, telling me over and over to "Shut the fuck up." I am handcuffed, while G's limousine idles, purring softly at the curb. I can see the officer in charge talking to the shitbag through his rolled-down rear window, and notice the cop attempting to laugh lightly.

One of the cops that cuffed me propels me forward toward the limo, and I stand, burning a hole through the now raised, rear window. The glass comes down and G sits there, puffing thickly on his cigar --- warm, content, and cozy --- as the wind whips around my coatless form. "Apologize!" the cop behind me orders. I say nothing. G smiles smugly and the cop strikes me from behind, smashing my shoulder blade with his hand. I still say nothing for a bit, staring hatefully at him.

"What now?" I blurt out.

"Oh, the price for this little tantrum will be very hefty indeed, Mr. Palmer" he smirks, as the smoked glass rolls up, silently.

I start to sob again.

"Get him the fuck outta here!" the commanding officer orders, as I'm led to the squad car.