You’ve never in your life been so happy to see a cop. You push the nagging thought of your fake I.D. out of your head and remind yourself that your personal safety is more important than the prospect of being caught impersonating your cousin.
Your breathing is labored as you stumble to the driver’s side of the squad car and fall against the window, your margarita breath steaming a little spot on the glass. Your limbs feel spongy, and you are fighting to remain conscious as the cop forces his way out of the door upon which your entire weight rests.
“What the Sam Hill’s goin’ on ’round here?” he demands upon extracting himself from the car.
You are unable to speak as your mouth suddenly feels filled with crumpled paper … you pitch forward into the startled arms of the cop … darkness.
You wake on a hard slab of cement with a bare lightbulb glaring down at you. As you sit up slowly, you are shocked to see that you are behind bars, in some kind of holding cell.
“Where am I?” you mumble, too shocked to figure it out for yourself.
“You in detox, pal,” says a deep voice. You look up into the face of a large person who appears to be entirely covered by tattoos. “Whuzza mattah? Ain’t nevah seen a Suthener before?”
“My God,” you mutter. As a police officer walks by, you shout, “Hey! I’m not supposed to be here! I’m not a crook, I’m a college student! I don’t belong here!”
All around you, seeming to come out of the walls, you hear high pitched chants of, “Fishy! Fishy! Fishy!”
You huddle in the corner of your cement cot, shaking with sobs. The Southerner taunts you with graphic descriptions of the treatment that awaits you during your stay in Hotel Incarceration, patting your knee and telling you that you can check out anytime you want, but you can never leave.
THEEND