Police. That one word says it all, doesn't it? They are our nemesis. They hide in alleys, unmarked cars, where ever. They even have cops on bikes that I have often mistaken for fellow couriers. They are everywhere and they dislike us. This is a fact. Not hate, dislike. Well, maybe some of them hate us. Me.

I step outside of 1775 Pennsylvania Avenue. It is a rare beautiful summer day, and when I walk around the corner to my motorcycle, my step is light and my thoughts are vague. Immediate focus. There is my bike on the sidewalk where I left it, however, something has changed. I didn't notice all of those Secret Service officers standing there when I parked. Strange. With the confidence of one who was born innocent I walked over to reclaim my ride. It was not to be so easy.

"Remember me?" snarls the one S.S. officer. ( I do not use the abbreviation S.S. in order to imply that this branch of the U.S. Government acts like Nazis. For to compare the Secret Service to Nazis would be libelous and I certainly don't want to be sued by any former concentration camp guards ).

I did not, and said so. He was unimpressed. In fact he proceeded to give me a detailed account of a high speed chase that had occurred two weeks earlier. He had held the starring role of pursuer, while I had been the pursuee. In true courier fashion I denied everything.

My license was taken from me and run through the computer. I waited. And waited. A co-worker came and took all of my packages. Whee!

I was fully prepared to go to jail, yet, no handcuffs came out. I have been arrested over a dozen times and let me tell you, they always handcuff you. I began to have a sneaking suspicion that I was going to walk. Yeah!
The cop said they knew my bike and me and blah, blah. But he had no proof. I wasn't about to confess to anything either. Like I said, I was going to walk. Weasel knew it too.

So he wrote me a ticket for driving on the sidewalk. A moving violation? Throughout the entire incident the bike never moved, I assure you. He had "invented" a violation in order to "get me." Those were his words. "I'm going to get you and all your courier buddies. You guys think you can do whatever you want. Well let me tell you something, the streets are mine!"

I smiled and nodded. Whenever I am stopped by the cops I am always very cheerful with them. I find it really pisses them off. Try it and see.

"Have a nice day," he sneered.

" You too, thanks a lot!" I gushed as I waved them off from the curb. I then went to call my work and tell them I was ready to go again. My malignant troll of a boss listened to my story and told me I should file a complaint. Why not?

My phone call was transferred to some S.S. Inspector who politely took down my story and promised to get right back to me. Sure. But he did. Furthermore he told me to rip up the ticket. It had been voided.

"Don't worry about that officer. He has been thoroughly chewed out. He's supposed to be guarding the White House, not up at 18th Street harassing you. If he thinks you did something wrong two weeks ago he has to prove it."

I was starting to like this guy. So he apologized, thanked me and hung up. So that's how I fought the law and the outlaw won. I know that no cop is going to read this story, but if they do, there are some things I would like to say.

One, FUCK YOU.

Two, The streets are MINE and,

Three, Catch Me, If You Can