The Take Down

by W.L. Farrant

Detective Emily Taylor-Smith and her partner Detective Roger Anderson arrived at 2456 Livermore Crescent. Detective Emily Taylor-Smith was driving. She parked the car and turned off the lights. They watched the residence in focused silence. Inside Edgar Wayne Campbell walked around his living room, occasionally peering out; he pressed his forehead to the window and graced it with the side of his hand. The Detectives regarded this as his Nervous Salute. Edgar Wayne Campbell had stolen a Chevy Impala.

Taylor-Smith and Anderson loaded their guns efficiently and with purpose. They double checked the warrant, gave a couple of thumbs up, and walked towards Edgar Wayne Campbell’s house. They walked with very large important steps. The neighborhood was quiet except for the rhythmic flicker of a broken street lamp.

They knocked on the door. Edgar Wayne Campbell opened it. Detective Roger Anderson asked him his name and Edgar Wayne Campbell told him. Detective Emily Taylor-Smith took him down, cuffed him, and read him his rights. Anderson stepped on his back forcefully.

The Detectives roughed him up a bit, producing blunt force trauma to his face and upper arms. Detective Emily Taylor-Smith had cuffed his hands to his feet and then to the frame of an old couch. The Detectives recklessly placed the couch cushions around the room. Then they drew the curtains.

Detective Roger Anderson and Detective Emily Taylor-Smith sat on the black velvet love seat across from the hog-tied Edgar Wayne Campbell.

There was a long silence. Edgar Wayne Campbell was sweating.

The Detectives locked lips, French kissing; it was loud and wet. Both Detectives had one eye on Edgar Wayne Campbell.

Detective Emily Taylor-Smith stood up and wandered around the room. She found Edgar Wayne Campbell’s record collection and flipped through it. There were about thirty vinyl records in their cardboard sleeves. She took her time. She picked a record she liked and turned on the stereo. It was the Best of the Mills Brothers; four male voices filled the room with their jazzy, sensual swing.

Detective Roger Anderson removed his pants. He was wearing tight white underwear, Haines. His thick, muscular legs were exposed. Detective Emily Taylor-Smith took off her police jacket. This revealed her bulletproof vest. She approached Anderson, and while facing Edgar Wayne Campbell, leaned forward and touched the floor with her fingers. She spread her legs. She looked like she was doing early morning calisthenics.

Anderson intently groped Taylor-Smith’s buttocks. Then she slid down so that she was seated and her back faced him. Her legs pointed out straight forming an isosceles. Detective Roger Anderson massaged her shoulders while smirking towards Edgar Wayne Campbell and bopping his head lazily to the beat of Daddy’s Little Girl.

Detective Roger Anderson un-strapped Detective Emily Taylor-Smith’s bulletproof vest; she made a small whimper of affection. When the vest was removed she pulled off her blue police shirt with little struggle. The bra came off quickly from behind. Anderson removed it as if he’d just flipped a light switch. Edgar Wayne Campbell attempted to scream behind his duct-tapped mouth.

Taylor-Smith turned around to Anderson. She slipped off his pair of Hanes and serviced him. He placed his arms on the top of the couch gripping the corners with his hands. He was chewing gum.

Detective Emily Taylor-Smith stood up. Her pants fell to the floor heavily from the weight of her holster; she had undone her belt while she fellated Anderson. She slid her cotton Calvin Klein’s down smooth, tight legs and danced a little on the tips of her toes; she released her hair. She noticed Edgar Wayne Campbell had an erection.

Taylor-Smith sat on Anderson like he was a chair. They rode each other quietly to the whirl of If I Had My Way. Anderson placed his head on Taylor-Smith’s left shoulder, his hands firmly around her waist. The Detectives stared at Edgar Wayne Campbell.

When they finished Detective Emily Taylor-Smith and Detective Roger Anderson put on their clothes and embraced quickly.

The Detectives pointed their pistols towards his crotch; Edgar Wayne Campbell had wet himself. They laughed. And then they shot him.

The Detectives left Edgar Wayne Campbell bleeding and cuffed to the couch. They walked out through the still open front door, the refrain of Till Then escaping like smoke towards the evening sky.

William Farrant is a writer from Victoria, BC, Canada. This week he kissed a girl. And that made him proud.