I was just watching a news story about a police officer who was killed by a “career criminal”.
Now there’s something for the perpetrator to be proud of. A murder to add to his resume.
Come with me to an interview with a career criminal composite. We’re having coffee at a Mac Donald’s in a really scary part of town.
“So what do you do for a living, Bob?”
“i’m a career criminal.”
“Could you tell us a bit about your job?”
“Yeah. I sell drugs. Steal and kill and stuff like that.”
“What kind of compensation can a good career criminal hope to make?”
“Well, the drugs are always good for a few hundred, even a grand some nights. Or you can always get some cash from someone walkin’ down the street. It depends on the victim. You have to be good at targeting your mark. If you’re lucky, you can make hundreds in just one night. If you screw up and the mark has no cash, there’s always the payoff of the thrill kill.”
“Yeah, you know, like, you kill the mark anyway because you’re pissed off and just want to at least get a rush from that. Cops are better though.”
“Cause they think they’re so above us, and are always sticking their noses into our business. I mean everyone has to make a living, right? I need a roof over my head and food on my table just like anyone else.
“Well…it must be dangerous?”
“Some. ” (He flexes his muscles a bit, clearly proud.) “But not if you’re tough, and you’re good. A lot of so called career criminals are just criminal wannabe’s. They’re amateurs. They don’t stay on the street, or anywhere else, very long.”
“Does your mother know what you do for a living?”
“Well, she knows I’ve done time but she also knows I was wrongfully convicted. I mean, otherwise why would they allow us conjugal visits?”
“Yeah, man it ain’t so bad at all. In our state, we have the right to get a trailer one weekend a month for our booty call.”
“Have you ever thought of going straight, getting a…real job?”
“Hey lady, you ever see where I grew up? Did ya think I was gonna be a banker, or a lawyer? I”m doin’ just what my daddy did..”
“You could go back to school…”
“And make what? Ten, fifteen bucks an hour when I get out? Who could live on that?” He looks at me like I”m a complete jackass and stomps out, like a bull ready to charge.
I walk fast, trying not to run, and get into my upscale car, locking all the doors. I feel scared, confused, angry, and also strangely sad for him. For the blankness in his eyes and the danger in his soul.
I zoom home to my cozy little house in the burbs, and thank God our sons were born into the life we’ve been able to offer them.