Dispatch in the Rain
Grayson let out a long, tired sigh as he slowly stood up from the card table in the back of the precinct.
Rain tapped against the windows like ticking clocks, reminding him of everything he didn’t want to deal with.
He adjusted his shirt, smoothed out his wrinkled uniform, and grabbed his police cap off the back of his chair.
Then, without a word, he reached over the table, snatched up the game’s score sheet—and tore it clean in half.
Straight into the trash.
One of the officers blinked.
“Hey! What the hell, man? You lost. We all saw it!”
Grayson didn’t even look back.
“We’ve got real work to do. Let’s move.”
The others groaned in unison.
“Aww man… Jesus Christ. You always do this…”
Grumbling, the four officers reluctantly got to their feet.
They pulled on their jackets, grabbed their gear, and shuffled toward the garage like kids headed to detention.
—
Out back near the squad cars, Grayson struck a pose.
One hand on his hip. The other pointing across the rain-drenched parking lot.
“Gentlemen… we ride out now.
For justice.
For peace.
For the safety and order of this great city!”
No one responded.
His teammates just walked past him—silent, soaked, unimpressed.
Grayson stood there alone for a beat… then awkwardly jogged to catch up.
—
Minutes later, their patrol car tore through the city with sirens wailing.
Rain smeared across the windshield. Streetlights flickered past like ghosts.
A voice crackled through the radio:
“All units, suspect description confirmed.
Male, mid-build, very skinny.
Unusual facial hair.
Very small eyes.
Suspect is reportedly wearing… a pink apron.
Last seen near 48th and Chester Alley.”
Grayson grabbed the mic.
“Unit 7 responding. We’re close. Moving in now.”
He tossed the radio back into its holder, and the car picked up speed.
—
Didn’t take long.
They pulled up to the mouth of a narrow backstreet behind a row of shops and restaurants.
The alley was dim and quiet.
Steam rose from nearby vents. Trash bags sagged against the walls.
And there he was.
Standing alone behind a dumpling shop—bald, bony, cigarette dangling from his lips, pink apron wrapped tight around his skinny frame.
Tiny eyes. Weird little beard.
He wasn’t hiding. Wasn’t running.
He looked like he’d been waiting.
One of the officers whispered:
“…Is that him?”
Grayson squinted.
“Yeah. That’s him.”
They stepped out of the car.
Rain still pouring.
The Pink Apron
Fifteen minutes earlier—
Inside the cramped kitchen of a bustling noodle shop, the bald man in the pink apron stood hunched over a cutting board, carving through yet another roasted duck.
Not just one. He’d gone through several already. His hand was starting to cramp.
Between cutting ducks, boiling noodles, and juggling a dozen other hot dishes, his whole body felt like it was running on fumes.
He checked the clock.
9:00 p.m.
Dinner rush was finally slowing.
The counter was stacked with neatly packed takeout containers, waiting for pickup.
He exhaled through his nose, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, and slipped out the back door.
Time for a smoke.
—
He leaned against the brick wall in the narrow alley behind the shop.
With a practiced flick, he lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
“Man… smoking’s the only time I actually feel human.”
Technically, the place didn’t allow breaks. But they did allow smoke breaks—so he took full advantage.
Fifteen, twenty minutes? No one ever said a word.
He tilted his head toward the sky, letting smoke trail out his nose.
Rent was due in three days.
His paycheck barely covered it.
“Maybe I should try buying a lottery ticket.”
He chuckled, dry.
“Win a jackpot, retire early… otherwise I’m gonna be slicing duck until I’m seventy.”
He scrolled aimlessly through his phone.
A headline popped up:
“Maniac Destroys Dozens of Storefronts With Bare Hands – Citywide Curfew Announced.”
He tapped the video.
There, on-screen: a man in a pink apron, punching through shop windows like they were paper.
People screaming. Glass flying.
He squinted.
“What the hell… this guy kinda looks like me.”
Another short laugh.
“He’s probably just another line cook who snapped.
Pressure’s too high these days. Everyone’s goin’ nuts.”
He pocketed the phone, took another drag.
Then—red and blue lights lit the alley.
Sirens. Doors slamming.
Officers pouring in.
“HEY—HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE ‘EM!”
He blinked, confused.
“Huh? What the hell—?”
Too late.
“DOWN! ON YOUR KNEES! NOW!”
His cigarette fell from his lips.
He never even got to explain.
Beat Him Down, Fuck Him Good
The five officers pounced like wolves.
He didn’t fight. Couldn’t.
He barely had time to raise his hands.
“Wait! I surrender! I don’t know what—”
One officer yanked his arms back and cuffed him hard. Another shoved him face-first to the ground.
“DON’T MOVE!”
“STAY DOWN!”
“HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE—”
Boots crashed into his ribs.
An elbow drove into his spine.
“Stop resisting! Resisting is futile!”
He wasn’t resisting.
But it didn’t matter.
A heavy boot slammed straight into his face.
His cheek ballooned. Lips split.
Blood trickled into his mouth.
“I… I wasn’t resisting… I’m cooperating…”
Didn’t matter.
—
They weren’t mad at him.
They were mad at the rain.
Mad at being called in late.
Mad that this guy—this apron-wearing nobody—was making them do work.
So they let it out.
Ten minutes of pure venting.
Punches. Kicks. Sloppy knees.
They weren’t trained for this—they were just angry and out of shape.
The man stopped screaming.
Just curled up. Silent.
Shirt torn. Apron shredded.
Face swelling. Bruises blooming.
One officer crouched and rubbed his bald head, laughing.
“Man! Bald already? You’re still young—just like our Chief! Hahaha!”
That’s when Grayson stepped in.
Silent. Cold.
He pulled out his baton—
and swung it sideways, cracking the laughing officer across the mouth.
The officer froze.
Lips split open. Blood dripping.
From that day forward, they called him Broken Lips.
—
Grayson pointed down at the man, then at the others.
“You think this is funny? You think this is a game? Look at him.”
They looked.
The man on the ground shook.
“I’m… I’m not the guy you’re looking for…
I know what it looks like… the video, the apron…
But I’m not him… I swear…”
Tears welled. Voice cracked.
“I didn’t do anything…”
The alley went still.
Streetlight humming. Rain falling.
No one moved.
Cops? More Like Gangsters.
Then—
“You think that little sob story’s gonna fool us?
Scumbags like you are always the best liars.”
SLAP.
Hard and fast across the face.
And just like that, round two began.
They weren’t chasing justice anymore.
They were chasing relief.
From boredom. From stress. From whatever was eating them inside.
They beat him again.
—
While they wailed on him, Grayson crouched down, slid a hand into the man’s pocket—
and stole his wallet.
He opened it, plucked out every dollar, and tossed the empty leather shell onto the pavement.
The man saw it all.
Swollen face. Bloody lips.
But his eyes? Still open.
Grayson noticed.
“What the fuck you lookin’ at?
Never seen a cop rob somebody before?”
He stuffed the bills deeper into his coat and walked away like it was nothing.
The man didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.
This wasn’t law enforcement.
This was worse than any street gang he’d ever seen.
—
Then he vomited.
A wet explosion of blood.
Dark red, splashing across the pavement.
A full square meter, soaked.
The officers froze.
He twitched. Wheezed.
“…Shit. If we keep going, he might actually die.”
Not fear. Not guilt.
Just dread—of paperwork.
Grayson stepped up like he was giving a speech.
“Alright, brothers—wrap it up. I think the lesson’s been delivered.
Let’s call it a day.”
They backed off, panting.
Sweat-soaked, fists sore.
“Alright… let’s bring him in.”
Oops, the Wrong Guy
Right then—
GLASS shattered somewhere nearby.
They turned.
Through the rain, they saw him.
Not the man they’d just beaten—
but the real Raymond.
Thin. Frail. Long, wet curls stuck to his face.
Pink apron. Tiny eyes.
Right fist still clenched midair.
One cop blinked.
“Hey Chief… looks like Raymond’s not bald after all.”
They looked down at the broken cook.
Then at Grayson.
The silence was thick and ugly.
Grayson stroked his chin like a philosopher.
“We all make mistakes.”
Then snapped louder:
“What matters is—we learn from them!
You agree with me, don’t you?”
The others nodded.
“Yes, Chief.”
Grayson turned back to the cook—
and kicked him in the head.
“If you weren’t the damn criminal, then why didn’t you say something earlier?!”
“I’ve been trying, man…
I’ve been trying…”
Just a whisper.
Barely heard.
Grayson spun around like a commander.
“Let’s go, boys. We’re bringing in the real Raymond tonight!”
The officers took off into the rain.
But Grayson wasn’t done.
He kicked the cook again—full-force to the ribs.
The poor guy rolled across the pavement—
and right into an open storm drain.
He vanished into the dark water.
“Hey! You guys didn’t unlock my cuffs yet!”
His voice echoed up from the drain.
Abusing Authority 101
They found him.
The real Raymond.
Ten meters out, they stopped.
Didn’t rush.
Didn’t dare.
Something about this guy…
The way he stood. The way the rain danced around him.
Even from a distance—you could feel it.
Power.
—
Grayson stepped forward.
One hand on his hip. The other outstretched like he was summoning thunder.
“The criminal ahead—surrender immediately,
or we’ll be forced to unleash our wrath!”
Right then, a scooter pulled up beside them.
A delivery girl. Helmet on.
She parked, kicked the stand down, and popped the helmet off—
Long black hair spilled out.
Pretty face. Calm expression.
She looked past the cops toward Raymond.
“Wait a second… isn’t that the bakery guy?
Raymond? That’s him, right? He’s always been super sweet.”
She stepped closer.
“I don’t know what happened today, but…
if you’re going to arrest him, please be careful.
He’s a good man.”
—
Grayson oozed forward with fake warmth.
Hand on her shoulder.
Then—sliding lower.
“You’re absolutely right.
We’d never harm a citizen unless it was the absolute last resort.
Don’t worry, miss. We’ll handle it properly.”
His hand crept toward her chest—
until she caught his wrist and pushed it back up.
“Good. I’m glad to hear that, Chief.
You really are a good officer.”
She stepped back politely.
Eyes filled with fear and quiet disgust—too powerless to resist authority.
—
Grayson didn’t back up.
Instead, just leaned in with a greasy smile.
“You mind waiting here for a sec?
If we pull this off… maybe we grab a bite?”
She hesitated.
“Oh… I don’t know about that…”
Didn’t want to say yes.
Didn’t dare say no.
So she just stood there, helmet in hand, awkward and still.
Grayson adjusted his belt, then turned back to his team.
“Alright, boys… let’s do it.”
And just like that—
The show went on.