Tales From The Hood - Gabrielle

Tales From The Hood - Chapter 4 - Gabrielle


By Ron De Laby

Every man with an idea has at least two or three followers – Brooks Atkinson

While the situation in the north end was concluding, an entirely different situation was developing, this time involving numbers of off duty personnel. Mention the word party to policemen and there will never be a shortage of participants. It was a well-established fact that the boys from the P.D. were among the best party hounds in the state. The Sheriff’s department, not wanting to be left out of the limelight, had been rumored to attempt some river bottom soirees. The parties, which included the introduction of alcohol deprived dispatchers to strange and unusual practices, paled in comparison to the inventiveness of their city dwelling cousins. Of the more memorable P.D. bashes, the one involving the lovely Gabrielle would be passed down from generation to generation.

Gabrielle Schnauchz was a twenty-eight year old divorcee who had four basic requirements for the sustenance of life: Food; Oxygen; Sex and Alcohol, not necessarily in that order. She worked the 4-12 shift at Cindy’s Restaurant at University and Iowa. Because of the lifelong relationship between policemen and restaurants, it wasn’t long before Gabrielle discovered a catalyst for two of her requirements. There is an old saying about women loving men in uniform and it is widely believed Gabrielle authored that very thought.

Now, among the officers of 3rd watch there was also a widespread belief: you can’t get enough booze or enough pussy. In fact to support that belief, the word was quickly put out amongst the anointed that the early Roman Legions, predecessors of the modern police warrior, also subscribed to that concept. Proof of this was offered following the showing of an old movie of roman troops marching off to battle. Heading each cohort was a soldier carrying a sign that read “SPQR”. The sign was translated by the more learned on the department to mean, “The Roman Quest for Strange Pussy”

In the eternal SPQR there were those who had their private stock and for reasons known only to them, selfishly refused to share the booty with their brother officers. Since logic and reason failed to persuade, it was up to the remaining doggies to find their own bones.

The discovery of Gabrielle’s talents, and there were many, took less time than it took a spider to shrink-wrap a moth. Uniformed cops instinctively know where horny women abide. Since their motto is to “Protect and Service,” what choice did they really have? With that rationalization firmly established their duty was clear. Service and duty called.

The relationship between Gabrielle Schnauchz and the officers of 3rd watch started innocently enough. A smile. A nod. The suggestion of a drink after work and before you could say psychopathic nymphomania the word was out. Gabrielle soon became known as pubic squeeze number one.

A slightly built, attractive blond in her own right, her shy persona melted away after a few small helpings of Jim Beam, Kamchatka, Jose Cuervo or scope mouthwash. In fact, alcohol in almost any form would change the sweet demure waitress from Miss Jeckyl to Madame hide the sausage. Pulling the train was her unique specialty and it was rumored she had entertained as many as 8-10 happy campers in succession.

Gabrielle’s name was of undetermined Germanic origin and therefore virtually unpronounceable to the standard police tongue. Therefore Schnauchz quickly became snacks and ultimately, SnackCake. Her latest adventures thus became the topic of conversation wherever two fellow members of the law enforcement community met to exchange notes over warm conversation, good fellowship and lots of booze.

Now, there are two unwritten maxims in the police service: Maxim#1; the deadly mixture of free, loose women and virtually unlimited quantities of alcohol is a delicate combination. When properly vented, i.e. sex, it maintains a self-driven equilibrium. Maxim #2; when out of balance, i.e. lack of immediate sexual gratification, it becomes as deadly as a fertilizer and fuel oil bomb.

So it was destined to happen. The word went out among the thin blue line that there was to be a poker party on the upcoming Friday night. There would be the usual chips, dips, beer and cards; and oh yeah, SnackCake.

Throughout the department there was a subtle tectonic shift in personal plans. Activities were cancelled and wives were placed on notice that the upcoming poker game could well determine the fate of the free world.

Over the protests of wives whose husbands had heretofore shown as much interest in cards games as in helping to plan baby showers, the movement began.

“But you NEVER play poker.”

“Can’t I take up a simple hobby without your criticism? Good God woman, remember the fate of the free world rests on the outcome of this game.”

The forces of nature converged.

The house was a typical three bedroom, one and a half bath, California style ranch about 35 years old. It had been through several sets of children and pets as well as one or two newly marrieds and a retired couple. Its walls had beheld the very basics of civilized life and family stability.

It was presently owned by two of the department’s finest. Richard Tessler and Dominic Ferrante. Tessler was a six-year patrol officer recently transferred from Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. Ferrante was a five-year patrol officer who had only recently added his first hash mark to his crisp blue uniform shirt. Both considered themselves to be the answer to the question posed by western women, “Was there life without Ferrante and Tessler?”

Although they weren’t currently radio car partners, they blended like rum and coca cola, smooth and sweet. Each had a personality that complimented the other; Tessler’s straight man to Ferrante’s set up gigs. Both represented what the police department’s recruiters looked for in their best dreams. Good physical appearance, uniforms immaculately tailored, empathy and compassion for the less fortunate. They could have been poster children for the United States Marine Corps.

Their house likewise reflected their good taste, a combination of English Gentry and hunting lodge. Their social soirees were quiet, sedate affairs carefully planned to avoid attention from the neighbors. If said neighbors ever entertained concerns about two good looking, well groomed single men with immaculate tastes in home furnishings and automobiles, they never really voiced them and needn’t have worried.

One of Ferrante’s favorite tricks, B.R. (before Rugs) was to tape record the nocturnal vocalizations of his more ardent sex partners. During particularly bestial fornication these vocalizations were known to reach high “C”. Of course no self-respecting gentleman would keep such a treasure to himself so the recordings were shared with the entire third watch at roll call.

Since Ferrante had become the undisputed master of the pinhole camera, no room in the house was safe from the all seeing, eye. As a result videos were available at discreet showings and the favored few developed an awestruck appreciation for the Chief’s new secretary.

On the eve of the poker game, which was shortly to be inducted into the police department’s hall of fame, the neighbors were being individually and discreetly told of the upcoming event. The task was relegated to Ferrante as the one with the most talented tongue. A truism attested to by many women for various reasons. His Italian good looks and his glib personality slithered their way into the hearts of his fellow homeowners.

“Mrs. Renaldi. How are you this lovely day? My, but you’ve lost weight haven’t you? You are looking good. Don’t tell Frank I said so, now. We don’t want a jealous husband on our hands do we? Incidentally, we’re planning a small (emphasis demonstrated by the placement of index finger and thumb approximately 1/8 inch apart) party.”

Or, “Hey, John. How’s it going buddy? Sylvia was asking about you. You remember Sylvia? I had her over for the pool barbeque last week: 5’2”, blond, bigggg gazongas, flesh colored thong; yeah, that one. She thought you were a hunk, man. What can I say? Ohh, incidentally…”

And so it went, the king of schmooze, preparing a carpet of foam to lessen the impending impact of the upcoming 787 wide body event.

By 7:00 p.m. on Friday night cars were starting to fill in the curb spaces in front of the neighbors’ houses. In the party house the den, living room and kitchen were starting to fill up as individuals nursed beers and shared war stories or complaints about dispatchers and their general lack of concern for the safety of their police charges.

Jolly was on his fourth Budweiser as a follow up to the twelve-pack he had consumed before leaving home. His blood alcohol content was rapidly reaching a happy functioning level of .15%.

Ferrante had been regaling two younger officers with his interpretation of a recent decision concerning racial profiling. One of the officers was having a difficult time with judicial interpretations, as they always seemed to favor the wrong set of people.

“Look, Dom. It’s just crap. If two white dudes stick up some mom and pop store no one says shit, but if some poor oppressed minority does it we can’t even stop ‘em and check ‘em out? That’s total and complete bullshit.”

“They didn’t say you couldn’t stop them, John.” Ferrante replied. “They said you couldn’t sit by the side of the road and stop every black guy or Mexican that drives by. You can’t fish for bad guys.”

“Works for me,” said the second of the two.

“Nine times out of ten you come up with something. I’d say those were good enough odds to gamble on.”

“You’re missing the whole point,” responded Ferrante. “Here, hold on, I need a refill.”

Reaching into the refrigerator Ferrante looked out the kitchen window and saw Gabrielle’s little yellow ford escort pull up to the curb. Two 1st watch guys were moving a couple of orange pylons, which had been strategically placed for just that purpose. They waved her in as though parking an airliner. She got out of the car carrying a brown Stater Bros. grocery bag and kissed both of the men on the cheek. She smiled as she walked up the sidewalk toward the house. Ferrante noted that she was wearing a light cotton blouse and a pair of shorts. “Pretty face and nice legs,” he mused, appreciatively.

The doorbell rang and there was a small buzz of conversation as she came in. Friendly greetings and some cheers rang out.

“Hey Gabby.”

“Hiya sweetie. How’s it going?”

Gabrielle acknowledged each greeting with a smile or a peck on the cheek of the greeter. She also welcomed the occasional pat on her rear end with a giggle.

Tessler entered the kitchen with his arm around the girl. He was carrying her sack.

“Look whose here,” he said.

“Hey, baby,” Ferrante cooed.

“Kiss.” He pecked her on the lips.

“Whatcha drinkin?” He asked.

“Just a beer for me” She replied. “I have to go slow tonight.”

Ferrante gave her a horrified look.

“What? No. You’ve done it. You’ve joined the convent. Our Sisters of Perpetual Orgasms.”

She giggled. “No, silly. I just need to slow down. I’ve been a little wild.”

“Wild Thang,” Crooned Ferrante.

“You make my heart sing,” echoed Tessler.

“You make everything, groovy,” they harmonized.

Someone from the other room grabbed her hand and started pulling her into the living room.

“Maybe tomorrow, then.” She smiled at Ferrante and shrugged.

He laughed and thought, “Ohh Lord.”

A poker table was set up in the dining room and a game was going. Small groups of men gathered in the hall and kitchen. The crackle of ice cubes and the clink of glasses competed with the fizz of fresh cans of beer being opened. Gabrielle Schnauchz was the only woman in the house.

No one knows how such a message is communicated. Some believe it is a telepathic phenomenon, some have held there is a change in the astral plane. Regardless of the method of conveyance, the word did indeed go out. There was a party at Ferrante and Tessler’s’ and SnackCake was in attendance.

At first it was some of the morning watch guys on days off, then a couple of sheriff’s deputies dropped by. By nine-o’clock several off duty highway patrol officers were at the door.

As the conversational noise level rose, the stereo music inched up to compensate for the discrepancy. Beer runs were being made and each time the front door was opened an undulating blanket of sound crept out onto the quiet residential street. Seismographs were beginning to pick up the slightest beginnings of energy transfer.

Snackcake was well into her sixth drink and was showing signs of loosening up. She was on the glass coffee table demonstrating her version of Madonna on PCP. The living room was packed with an appreciative audience.

Helpful volunteers had seen to it that Gabrielle’s glass was never empty and her drinks were always fresh. Fresh by police standards was guaranteed to poison the normal human. Beer had given way to rare California Chablis bottled two weeks previous. The Chablis metastasized into rum and coke and finally, rum with coke coloring.

The average person can be expected to burn off approximately one ounce of alcohol per hour. An experienced drinker like Gabrielle was better able to compensate for the effects of alcohol poisoning based, in part, on the fact that her liver was approximately the size of a regulation NFL football.

Nevertheless, as each new drink was poured it became darker and stronger until they were averaging two and a half shots of alcohol to one eighth of an ounce of Coca-Cola. It was an awesome thing to behold.

A chorus of cheers could be heard to emanate from the living room with each bump and grind.

The quiet residential street had turned into a parking lot. By eleven o’clock there were no curbside spaces available. In fact, the neighbor’s driveways were occupied, having been confiscated for this police emergency. Cars were now stacked up in such a way that no one could get in or out. As long as the doors and windows of the party house stayed closed and the rest of the neighbors remained engrossed in their evening sit-coms, the lid remained on the pot. The pot, however, was beginning to show signs of coming to a boil.

A small cluster of partygoers had assembled outside under a streetlight. A newly purchased Walther PPK in stainless .380 caliber was being passed around. Several of the admirers had already tested the weight, grip and feel of the weapon. Appreciative comments had been exchanged.

“Nice grip,” said one.

“Conceals easy, huh?” questioned another.

“The trigger pull seems a little hard,” volunteered a third as he sighted in on the overhead mercury vapor streetlight.

KAPOW!

The hammer of the small semi-automatic had traversed to the end of its design length and upon reaching that point reversed course downward at warp speed. The firing pin struck the primer of a seated round setting off yet a second chain of events.

The pressure of impact caused a compression of gasses, which generated heat, which ignited the gunpowder in the brass casing. This in turn propelled the semi-jacketed hollow point bullet in a spiraling rush down the alternately raised lands and grooves of the short barrel. The bullet, now traveling at roughly eleven hundred feet per second came into contact with the glass covering of the mercury vapor light, shattering the glass and extinguishing the light. The sequence of events occurred much faster than you could say, “Ohh Shit!”

For the briefest of moments the small group stared in stunned, disbelieving silence. The ejected casing hit the asphalt of the street with a small ting and did a little circular dance before coming to rest. The acrid aroma of gunpowder wafted up, teasing individual olfactory nerves and cementing the harsh reality of the event.

Then everyone began talking at once.

“You dumb fuck.”

“Whaddya mean? Why didn’t you tell me it was loaded?”

“Guns are ALWAYS fucking loaded, you moron.”

“Gimme that fucking thing. God Damn. What an idiot.”

“Jesus. Let’s get back inside before someone comes out.”

“Shit. How was I supposed to know?”

As the group reentered the residence they unleashed yet another amorphous mass of sound which quickly dissipated into the cool night air.

A block away, and over a screaming commercial extolling the benefits of hemorrhoid suppositories, a husband turned to his wife and asked,

“Did you hear something?”

“No. What, dear?”

“I dunno. Sounded like an explosion or something.”

“No. I didn’t hear anything,” The wife replied. “Hmmm. OK, then.” Finalized the husband.

The beast was beginning to awaken.

Years from now anthropologists may study the cause and effect of alcohol and the police mentality. Policemen today instinctively know the phenomenon as a state of “invisibility.” Simply put, it is pretty much the understanding that alcohol is an integral part of being able to cope and function in a thankless job, fraught with peril. This combined with the knowledge that since “we are the cops,” there’s no reason to worry about a gathering getting out of hand. Hence, “You owe it to us and we’re really just invisible anyway.”

The shooters had retreated to the sanctuary of the party and had lost all interest in muzzle velocity.

In the meantime SnackCake had reached up inside her blouse to perform a magic trick for her admirers. In a display of manual dexterity known only to women, she was able to remove her bra and drag it out through her right sleeve. She twirled the prize over her head a few times before tossing it into the crowd like a bridal bouquet; all without missing a step to the music. The prize was set upon by a snarling pack of semi-inebriates, each bent upon retrieving it as a personal trophy.

Now that she had broken free from the bonds of bradom, SnackCake was writhing to the music and toying with the top button of her blouse. A chant was taken up. Slowly at first, then building to a crescendo.

“yes, yes, Yes, Yes, YES, YES, YES!”

The first button opened to a cheer from the growing crowd. Three more sheriffs’ deputies and another highway patrolman drifted in, swelling the ranks to thirty-five to forty people. Later estimates would range from seventy-five to one hundred, but civilians are well known to be prone to hysteria and make poor witnesses.

In short order the remaining buttons were undone and the blouse was dragged seductively back and forth. First off one shoulder then the other. In the process an occasional glimpse could be had of one or the other pinkish brown nipples supported nicely by estimated 34C cup breasts.

The average American male will tell you that three days without sex pushes the comfort-o-meter into the discomfort range. Policemen have senses much more finely tuned due to their extensive training and will be able to tell you the exact moment the lackanookie synapse occurs. First, there is a subtle buildup of pressure which immediately triggers and internal alarm which screams “WARNING, WARNING! White count approaching critical mass.” If the warning is ignored there can be serious side effects such as impaired vision, lack of concentration and extreme irritability culminating in such classic exchanges as,

“OK, Asshole. What color traffic light would it take for you to stop for us today?”

It is widely held that the 1964 Los Angeles riots were the result of just such circumstances. In any event the conditions required for maxim #2 were fast approaching.

The music was resonating a primal beat as SnackCake, now completely caught up in the moment, abandoned all efforts to keep the front of her blouse closed. The chanting grew in intensity.

“YES, YES, YES, YES, YES!”

As she threatened to take it off altogether the crowd began to clap in time with the chanting. With a whoop she pulled the blouse off and threw it overhead into the seething mass of testosterone where it was promptly digested. Now divested of all topside encumbrances, Snackcake began to dance in earnest. The glistening of sweat shone brightly on finely proportioned breasts. They began a dance of their own in time with the music. Gabrielle was happy, her breasts were happy and the law enforcement community was exceedingly happy.

Holding up a far corner of the living room wall was Harry Link. Harry was a ten-year veteran who neither drank nor smoked nor engaged in wild sex (or any sex for that matter). It was well known Harry’s wife who was 80-100 pounds overweight and 80-100 years old had sworn him off such disgusting behavior for his own good. Harry was 40ish and balding. He was slightly built and wore Clark Kent frames for his glasses rather than the killer cool Gargoyles worn by the young, with it crew. In fact, he went without sunglasses altogether. No one could understand how he could possible function as a policeman without sunglasses.

Harry had been kidnapped and taken to the party. He had originally asked for a ride home from one on the young lions and was preparing his thoughts for a scintillating night of crossword puzzles when he realized he wasn’t going home.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked.

“Just to see a friend for a couple of minutes,” replied the young lion.

Content with his own understanding of “a couple of minutes” Harry reverted to Aardvark, 8 across and Docile, 6 down.

Once they reached the party, Harry was told he “just HAD to stop in for two minutes.”

As Harry stepped inside and was recognized, cheers of welcome and camaraderie greeted him. No one could ever remember sighting Harry at any social gathering. A beer was thrust into his hand. Three beers later Harry was practically blind.

Freud contended the human psyche was made up of ego, superego and id. The id was the beast of basic raw emotion and impulsive childlike needs. It was kept in check by the ego and superego. Freud postulated on the dangers of an unchecked id left to run amuck. Freud would have loved Harry Link.

SnackCake was now working on the top button of her shorts. With breasts bouncing in time to the music and rear end rotating in a counter clockwise direction she was the dance floor equivalent of rubbing your stomach and patting your head. The button popped open and the zipper started its downward journey. The room went wild. Harry was transfixed.

The shorts came off and disappeared into the gaping maw of the beast. All that remained between heaven and earth was a thin layer of pink polyester. Harry moved off the wall. SnackCake turned her back to the crowded room, bent over and dropped the panty level by two inches. The crowd roared. She faced the room and thrust her pelvis forward and repeated the procedure. The crowd went wild. For Harry, time stood still.

The seismograph jumped.

Several years ago Gabrielle had taken to wearing thongs in lieu of your basic two-piece bathing suit. The response was better but it required much more attention to detail. During a particularly difficult shaving process one day she elected to throw caution to the winds. From that day forward she decided to go to what the French refer as ‘sans muff’.

SnackCake had now reached the point of intoxication that overrides the common sense safety switch each of us have imbedded in our brains. She had, in effect, become invisible. Throwing her panties into the air she sat down naked on the coffee table for the grand finale. Bracing her arms behind her she extended her legs at a 45-degree angle into the air and opened wide.

Harry had never before seen a deforested beaver and at that very moment he snapped, unleashing the id from hell. Rushing forward and falling to his knees he thrust his face deeply into Snack’s cake, sinking up to his ears. Gabrielle let out a squeal of pleased surprise; the crowd went nuts and began to chant,

“HAR-RY, HAR-RY, HAR-RY.”

Ferrante turned to Tessler and quipped,

“What a cunning Link he is.”

Harry had lost all sense of propriety. Throwing off his clothes he fell on Snackcake dragging her to the deep pile carpet where he began to fornicate like a demented hare. Since this was the cue everyone had been waiting for, a conga line formed around the living room. A voice from the line paraphrased,

“From each according to her ability, to each according to his needs. Damn fitting, if you ask me.”

Harry’s long awaited reintroduction to labia majora resulted in an eruption of epic proportion. Sated, drunk beyond living memory and naked, he crawled around the living room floor. He finally managed to pull a pair of white jockey shorts over his head and crawl out the back door. He promptly passed out under an oleander bush.

Much later, in another home, a wife would awaken and interrogate her husband as to why he was wearing a pair of red polka dot boxers when he didn’t own any.

Gabrielle would surpass her record of achievement in pleasing the multitudes. In fact it was suggested the Guinness Book of World Records might be contacted. This idea was quickly abandoned when someone pointed out that names might have to be mentioned. Ferrante and Tessler became local folk heroes and were privately awarded the silver goblet for best party of the century.

Rumors floated up to the Internal Affairs unit of certain departmental improprieties. An investigation was briefly considered then abandoned when it was determined the city could not afford to lose over one third of its law enforcement personnel. The whole affair was quietly shoved under the table in expectation that it would not reemerge in the form of citizen’s complaints.