As bad for me as it was for you.

The headlights behind me closed in fast
so I already knew what was about to happen
when the rollers went on.
I pulled over right away
and thanked God I hadn't been drinking.
He (the cop, not God) hopped out of his car in an
uncharacteristically fast manner
as I rummaged for my registration
in the glove compartment.

"License," he barked.
I saw a fine myst of his saliva glisten
in the bright light surrounding his imposing silhoutte.
"And registration?"
"Just do as I say, boy."
A twang had suddenly developed in his voice.
"Sorry, sergeant."
I slipped that one in as a feeble attempt to gain
brownie points after noticing the stripes
on the sleeve of his jacket.
"I'm not a sergeant, son."
"I'm sorry, officer."
"I'm not an officer either."
"Then who are you?"
"I'm your ex-girlfriend's father
and I know what you did
in the back-seat of the Volkswagen!"
My jaw didn't even have time to drop
before he reached through the window
and tried to collapse my windpipe
with the iron grip of his two hands.

I jolted awake in a cold sweat
swatting my face in the process
as part of the nervous reaction.
The stubble raked against my palm.
Shaving would be painful, I shouldn't have put it off.

Pop Culture was giving me nightmares
and I would be giving myself razor burn.
It seemed like the usual unfair trade.