The backdrop was good (no pedestrians, houses, nuns), the gun was clearly there, I had given multiple commands, and then of course there was his race (oh yes, I said it, because even black officers are racists when black suspects are shot, and you race-baiters out there can eat a specially prepared turd for causing cops to hesitate in life and death moments like these). The news broadcasts were running in my mind, and—OH, he’s finally reached the gun and is pulling it out of his waistline, here it goes, will I hear the shots, I wonder?
…And he drops it. Son of a bitch drops it.
The pistol clacks and skitters when it hits the pavement at his feet, and he again raises his hands about the time a second patrol car skids to a halt on the lot. It’s all over but the hyperventilation risk now.
Twelve seconds. That entire transaction took place in less than 12 seconds.
Life happens pretty quickly, you know? Ends that way, too, especially when you’re drunk and stupid. But not tonight.
(There’s a lesson in there, folks, but I won’t spoil it for you. Enjoy.)