The First Warrior

Joe Lynn Gaines was the only man I ever saw tear apart a pair of handcuffs with his bare hands. The time he did it, we were out at the Eagle's Landing, a biker bar on the old Turner bypass.

Joe Lynn was majorly tanked that night. We got called in because he'd been roaring like a bull, swinging a pool cue around, busting out the overhead lights. Smashing pitchers and glassware. Generally making a big damn nuisance of himself. He'd already about poked one old boy's eye out, and he was in the mood for more, if anybody was stupid enough to get in his way.

It's a funny feeling to be welcomed into a dive like the Eagle's Landing. To hear a big-breasted blonde biker chick mutter "thank God" when you arrive. To watch the crowd by the door part like the Red Sea to let the men in blue through. Almost made me feel like I was quarterbacking for MacArthur High again. Of course I knew the only reason the road lice wanted us cops on the scene was to get in there and tackle ol' Joe Lynn Gaines. After we were finished with that, we could go screw ourselves.

"Put down the pool cue, Joe Lynn," I said, as calmly as I could manage. It was like giving orders to a feature of nature. I used my best cop voice, trying not to show how scared shitless I was.

"Schcrew you!" Joe Lynn Gaines slurred, blinking, brandishing the now-broken cue, sweat dripping off of his black-disheveled hair, his eyes out of focus, "and the horsh you rode in on, too!"

You could almost feel sorry for the guy. Joe Lynn's head was the size of a large pumpkin. His body looked more animal than human. He was closer kin to an ox than a chimpanzee. He'd got his middle name for his mama's best friend, Lynette Stewart. That was before Lynette ran off with Joe's daddy down to Texas. I don't think Mama was very friendly to her hulking son after that.

Joe Lynn smiled a toothy smile at me. His canines were as big as a carnivore's. It was a lame thing for me to say. Joe Lynn knew that, drunk as he was, and I knew it, too.

Yep, I sounded like a real wuss, but I didn't care. I had a plan, see. While I kept him talking, the other guys were inching their way around the pool table, in the semi-darkness, under the busted lights. As soon as they were behind him, I nodded. Two of them grabbed each of Joe Lynn's arms, which was about like grabbing tree trunks in a windstorm. Or the tentacles of a giant squid, maybe. They had the element of surprise, and they managed to shove the pool cue out of his hands. It clattered to the floor. Then Joe Lynn yelled out, and began to struggle mightily, whirling the cops around with both arms. Their polished shoes made crunching noises as they slipped around, grinding through the glass and peanut husks on the floor. But they held on, grunting and swearing, as I pulled my baton.

I reared back and slammed Joe Lynn in the gut with the baton. He grunted and exhaled, throwing a shower of sweat around with his gyrating head. I jumped onto the pool table and grabbed him in a headlock. After a few wild and tense moments, and a few punches to his face on my part, we had him off his feet, on his knees, then down on the floor on his stomach.

Lying there, he began roaring, "I'll sue you!" He yelled it over and over again. And that was fine. Because I'd much rather be facing him and his mouthpiece Phil Ward in a section 1983 suit down at the courthouse than worry about whether I was using excessive force to wrestle his scummy ass to the floor.

With considerable effort, I got the cuffs on him. They barely fit, even on the loosest setting. We hauled him back to his feet. He let out something like a sob, then he got quiet, his giant head bowed, like that Indian in the picture "At The End of the Trail". The silence didn't last long. Soon, he started growling, a low, throaty growl, like a German Shepherd dog. I just shook my head at him. We hustled him toward the door.

It was out in the darkened parking lot, on his way to the cruiser, when he pulled his Houdini trick. Being a cop, I've seen a lot of things that scared me shitless, but this one takes the cake.

Everything was going according to plan, when all of a sudden, Joe Lynn Gaines dug his heels into the gravel. The whole procession stopped for a minute. You don't move a guy that size somewhere he is flat unwilling to go. Everybody tensed up. I pulled out my baton again.

Bob Applewhite must have had the same thought I did. We both pictured us riding back to the station house with a guy with a pant load of crap. He muttered, "Oh, jeeze, not here, asshole."

Then, faster than I could believe, Joe Lynn gave a roar and flexed his enormous biceps. There was a ka-ching! sound, and the cuffs flew apart. While I was still in shock from that, he flung out a mighty paw and grabbed Bob Ramos's service revolver, tearing the safety strap right off the holster.

I watched in horror as I saw Joe Lynn move in slow motion, silhouetted in the weak light from the bar, raising the pistol, pointing it. It gives you a real sense of clarity, knowing that in the next few seconds, somebody's going to die. Probably more than one somebody.

I think I yelled something stupid, like, "noooooo," just like in the movies, right before the bright light exploded behind my eyes and blinded me.

I thought maybe I'd died for a moment there. When I could see again, she was there, in the midst of us. Standing right next to Joe Lynn. Radiant. Winged. A painfully bright and beautiful angel.

Joe Lynn lowered his weapon. He was crying. What happened next went so fast I didn't have time to breathe. Two other angels, just like the one standing next to him, swooped down screeching from nowhere, lighting up the entire parking lot like the world's biggest flashbulb. They grabbed Joe Lynn under the arms, and carried him away into the sky, faster than fighter jets, like he was light as a feather. The pistol fell from his hand and hit the gravel with a thud.

The remaining angel looked at me. She spoke in a voice with silvery tones. The voice sent shudders through me, giving me gooseflesh from my calves to the base of my skull. It was soft and female, see, but steely underneath, with a hidden fire that could melt stone.

"I am Hilde," she said. "Tell your Folk that it has begun. We are collecting warriors now, for the day of Ragnarok. We will be back for more."

Hilde smiled. The smile was wonderful and hideous all in one. She was Wotan's daughter, after all. And Wotan, as I recall my mythology, was one mean son-of-a-bitch.

"Wotan's daughters will serve him honey mead, along with all the warriors taken to his great hall to await the final battle. During the day, he will fight, learning the art of war from the greatest warriors of all time. During the night, the shield maidens will minister to him."

I just shook my head, in disbelief. Hilde gave a great cry that about busted my ear drums, something like an Indian war whoop: "HA-YA-TO-HO!!" Then she sprang up into the heavens.

We practiced our story about ten gazillion times down at Edith's Donuts, me and the other officers. Our story made us look bad, sure, but at least we didn't look crazy. Here's the official version: Joe Lynn snapped his cuffs, surprising us all, then made a run for it, evading capture by five of Natrona's finest by running into the woods behind the Eagle's Landing. No, we never did see him again. Simple as that.

That was five years ago. I thought I'd be promoted to detective by now, but I'm still a patrol sergeant. And I don't think that has anything to do with Joe Lynn's bungled disappearance. Just not many openings at the top of your podunk police department.

My wife is more unhappy with my lack of occupational progress than I am, I think. She spends most of her time now on our home computer, in internet chat rooms. Doesn't even come to bed with me at night anymore. Last night around two a.m. I snuck downstairs and caught her looking at a site called "Malaysian Millionaires." Maybe she's planning on escaping the impoverished life of a Natrona, Oklahoma cop's wife by becoming a mail-order bride to the Far East.

Well, more power to her. In fact, at this point, I'd gladly sell my marital rights to some island sultan, cheap. Say, for the balance she ran up on our Visa cards last year. (Then again, that's not so cheap.) And she can take our daughter Yvonne with her, too. Have her date some prince over there, instead of the townie scum bags she hangs out with here.

Meanwhile, I keep working out down at the gym, dreaming of shield maidens and honey mead. I've nearly got six pack abs now. Last week I ran a mile on the treadmill in 5:42. I figure Hilde's watching. Hopefully she'll be back soon to give me an escort to the same place she took ol' Joe Lynn.

You think I'm dreaming? Listen. I was the guy who slapped the handcuffs on Joe Lynn Gaines in the first place. I mean, I got the drop on the guy, their grosse Helden, and that's got to count for something up there in the Halls of Valhalla ...right? Right?