The Death of 1977 (Book 3)

It was around nine p.m. that evening. The air was warm and pleasant. The scent of rain could be smelled for miles away while lighting in the far off distance to the west could be seen flashing off and on like blazing fireworks.

Livingston, still adorned in his dapper suit, brazenly walked towards the small police station that was located just five miles away from the Downtown district. The building itself was surrounded by nothing but waving palm trees and tall grass that looked as if it hadn't been cut in months. From just a few feet away he could hear reggae music come from within the building. It wasn't loud, but it was present enough for him to become nauseous. Without taking a single breath the man struck through the door to find six officers all lounging around the office like all their individual cares were cast to the four winds. The humidity inside the office was thick, which would have explained exactly why all six men were seated in front of various fans throughout.

"Well, who be dis?" One of the officers managed to get up from out of his seat and approach the front desk.

Livingston ruffled his hair with his hand, lifted his head and boldly said, "I've decided to file a complaint."

The officer, as well as the others behind him all looked at the man in the most confounded way. "Why ya here, mon?" The officer questioned.

"I'd like to report a robbery."

"Hold it!" One of the officers from behind stood up. "I remember dis snow white." He approached the desk. "He was disturbing de peace earlier today."

"I'm afraid that's a falsehood, my friend." Livingston remarked.

"Are ya calling dis mon a liar?" the first officer asked.

"I'm not calling anyone anything. I just want what was taken from me."

The two officers gave one another casual, arrogant glances before returning their attention back to Livingston.

why ya go home before we

and counted all six men before the other two officers that accosted him earlier in the day came down a series of stairs and made their way

dis?" The commanding officer brazenly stood before

rasta mon call us liars." One of

"Is

"That is very much correct." Livingston put his

ya here, mon?

officer, Livingston replied, "I'm here to retrieve

Livingston. "What, ya crazy, mon? Ya come all de way here to accuse me of taking yer money? Ya best to be gwan before we lock

his sweaty neck and steadily say, "I deem it necessary to explain something to you blokes. What you see here before you may be the worst of the scalawags, but I happen to come from stately nobility. You see, way back in the 1600's, my ancestors sailed the world in search of great wealth. They were instrumental in colonization and trade; slave trade to be exact. My ancestors gathered rodents like yourselves and used each and every

right then. The music that was playing clear in the back of the room was the only thing uttering a single sound. The air became increasingly stifling and ridged to the point where taking a breath became

"See here, check dis fucker from top to bottom," the commanding

and patted Livingston down,

be

corner of his right

was then that the man relaxed his body. "Do you still have my money,

with a razor blade. At once, all the others instantly went into attack mode, all that is but the commanding officer who

in a defensive posture, like a cat ready to pounce before two of the officers were sent flying backwards by an unseen force into the wall.