When I was a cop, I wasn’t always a good one. I was officially disciplined a grand total of … well, I can’t remember. This far down Nightmare Lane, it’s easier to recall particular incidents than specific numbers.
For example, I was once written up for going to Utah Lake in the middle of graveyard shift and shooting carp because I was bored patrolling empty streets.
Half a dozen .45-caliber muzzle flashes on a dark and lonely dirt road not only kills the fish, but it also kills the mood of the people I hadn’t noticed doing a little tongue wrestling in cars parked a short distance away.