“What the fuck is this?”

Park didn’t answer the question. He knew from experience that answering the question would just lead to more grief.

Grief, something he had in ample supply.

So when the plainclothes shoved the Ziploc of Ecstasy in his face, he kept his mouth shut.

“This your prescription, asshole?”

“What about this?”

The partner shook two large brown plastic bottles, one in each hand, like maracas.

“What we have? Ritalin? Xanax? Got ADD issues? Anxiety attacks? Can’t really tell with these unmarked bottles. Pharmacy forget to print the labels, asshole?”

The first plainclothes, the one wearing a black Harley-Davidson T and chrome wraparounds, kicked Park’s feet a little wider apart.

“He’s got an anxiety attack now, motherfucker. Got anxiety about how far he’s gonna have it up his ass once they see him inside.”

The partner tipped his Angels cap.

“Too true, too true, he’s a looker. Sistahs are gonna eat him up.”

Park shifted, trying to peel his face up before it blistered.

The plainclothes grabbed him by the hair and gave his head a shake.

“Fuck do you think you’re doing? Did I or did I not say not to fucking move?”

He nodded at his partner.

“This guy, he thinks he can get up and walk away when he wants. Thinks he’s at liberty to split.”

The partner pulled his head out of the car, flipping through the plastic zipper wallet that contained Park’s registration, insurance card, AAA, and extra fuses. All of it, except the fuses, essentially useless at this point.

DMV had frozen up when the state went broke; it was unlikely there was an insurance company left with the holdings to cover a claim on a dented bumper; and the phones at AAA had been playing the same recorded apology for nearly a year now: “We regret that membership services have been suspended indefinitely.”