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-Dean Everett 08:24 A.M. 2/6/2025 âThe San Andreas Sheriffâs Department isnât a force of law; itâs an ecosystem, a bizarre zoo where power-hungry hogs wallow in the muck of authority, snorting and grunting with a hunger for dominance. A fever dream made flesh, these porcine predators, yes, pigs, through and through, plod down the sun-scorched veins of Blaine County, leaving behind the sour stench of fear, stale whiskey, and the electric buzz of flashlight batteries. It shouldâve been a quiet night. One glass of whiskey, a couple of Oxy, and a slow goodbye to Grapeseedâs indifferent horizon. But fate had other plans, dressed in beige uniforms and pig-snouts, masquerading as deputies with all the moral clarity of a broken vending machine. There they were: three deputies, their faces contorted with the smugness of men who had never been told "no" in their lives. Their flashlights werenât tools, they were instruments of oppression, beams cutting through the night like righteous spotlights, tearing into my very soul. âá§ÆĄĆł ÉàœĆłĆÆ, áȘĆłÉÉá§?â one of them oinked, his breath thick with the stench of stale coffee and a superiority complex. They circled me like buzzards with badges, their questions less about finding answers than inflating their pathetic egos. Each insult they lobbed felt like another brick in the fortress of their fragile power, built high on insecurity and ignorance. They prodded, they goaded, they shone their lights into my face like they could somehow force a confession out of me. What they couldnât see, what their piggy little eyes failed to understand, was that the only thing they were illuminating was the ridiculousness of their own existence. And then there was Caveman. A homeless drug dealer with the aura of a fallen wizard. Imagine Gandalf, if Gandalf traded his staff for a cracked glass pipe and let a lifetime of poor decisions render him mad, yet somehow more coherent than the deputies themselves. Caveman had once drugged my friend at a club, an event not so much horrifying as it was absurd. She thought she was hitting crack from a balloon, but ended up stuck in a K-hole, her brain lost somewhere between the dance floor and oblivion. Meeting Caveman was like shaking hands with chaos itself. His beard, a maze of crumbs and lost secrets, his eyes flickering with the remnants of a thousand bad choices. His words came in fragmentsâcracked wisdom, laced with the kind of manic truth only a street prophet could speak. Earlier that day, I had taken refuge in a bar in Grapeseed, a place steeped in the odor of cheap disinfectant and bad decisions. The bartender was a hulking man, with a beard and ponytail as dark as a Viking's soul. He had the demeanor of a man who'd fought in wars and lost, only to be pressed into the dull task of slinging drinks for a living. His eyes told stories of violence and regret, tales heâd never speak aloud. The whiskey was cheap, but it was a necessary anchor as I floated through the absurdity of Blaine County, a place where everyoneâs hiding something, and no oneâs story is ever finished. Back on the scene, the deputies made their move. They arrested me for DUI, their snouts twitching in self-satisfied glee. Sure, Iâd had my share of whiskey and Oxy, but it wasnât intoxication that put me in that cellâit was their desperate need to assert control, to play the role of tyrants in a kingdom that no one asked for. NOW FOR COMMERCIAL BREAK!! Handcuffed and humiliated, I realized it wasnât justice they were afterâit was theater, a pathetic play where they cast themselves as the stars, all while misunderstanding that fear isnât respect, and authority isnât earned. In the cold, graffiti-scarred walls of the holding cell, I thought about Caveman, the Viking bartender, and the three little pigs who had me cuffed. Each was a different facet of the madness that defines Blaine Countyâa place where the absurd is just another day, and realityâs a joke no oneâs in on. The deputies with their flashlights and fragile authority were nothing more than clowns in uniforms, playing dress-up as protectors. Cavemanâflawed, filthy, and far from âsaneââwas more honest in his madness than the deputies were in their so-called order. And me? Just a witness in the wreckage, trying to piece together a world that makes no sense, all while scribbling feverishly in the margins of it. Blaine County isnât a placeâitâs a story, a dark fairy tale where the pigs wear badges, the wizards sleep on the streets, and the lessons are taught with bruises and breathalyzer tests. The San Andreas Sheriffâs Department can snort and strut all they want. Beneath their pomp and pretense, theyâre just pigs in uniformsâtrapped in the fragility of their own myths. And somewhere, probably laughing somewhere in the back of his mind, Caveman is free. A wizard without a kingdomâbut more freedom than any badge could ever give. ((COMMENTS ARE ENABLED)) ((Username: Comment))
