the blue pig john h. matthews The way you knew it was Fledge was no matter what kind of beat up car he drove, it always had the same bumper sticker on it. The bumper sticker that read: Burt Reynolds is Driving This Car. And the way you knew it was Officer Lofredo was, that tight-assed way of walking he had, the way he tended to tilt forward and was always hitching up his police utility belt and cracking his neck as he went about trying to sniff out some crime. If you'd been to a Fledge party, you'd seen them butt heads numerous times. Usually it was at the height of a Friday or Saturday night. Led Zeppelin would be blasting out of Fledge's screenless windows, people would be doing coke off of Thin Lizzy mirrors in the bedroom, the backyard would be overrun with every beer-drinking bad ass and gear head in DuPage County. The whole block smelled like bong hit. Lofredo would pull up out front with his gum balls flashing and take a few minutes to let everyone know he was there before he got out of the cruiser and pounded on the door, effectively allowing everyone to stash the coke, squash joints and send any minors to the basement laundry room. Fledge would be summoned. Fledge would steam up to the door and squeeze onto the porch. "What's up... Dick?" he'd say. This was Officer Richard Lofredo, of course. Lofredo would give his best menacing stare, would crack his neck a couple times and say, "Turn it down, Fledge, we got a noise complaint." "What? They don't like Led Zeppelin?" Fledge would say. (He'd always change the band to match the one currently blasting out the windows). "Time to come up with a new comeback, Fledge," Lofredo would say and Fledge would just smirk at him. Lofredo would turn. "Last warning," he'd say. "Turn it down. Get those minors home... It's past curfew..." And Fledge would go in and stop the CD player for five minutes while he located his David Peel American Revolution CD and would play the early 70's cop-hater anthem 'Oink! Oink!' at fifty decibels. It was not uncommon for Lofredo to return (or some other hapless officer) and repeat the warning, but by that time usually the party was winding down anyway. Even still if he had continued to ignore the warnings, it was unlikely anything as serious as an arrest was going to happen. Fledge, though one of Weston's premier fuck-ups, had diplomatic immunity of sorts. His father was the brother of the Mayor of Weston. As a matter of course, members of the Maholic family were not hauled off to jail for any reason short of murder. In it's own way, the almost weekly showdown between Fledge and Officer Lofredo was an amicable one. Both players were aware of their roles-of what they could and could not get away with. Still, the complaints were real and it was not a matter that could just be brushed aside. Over the years, Lofredo had visited the front door of Fledge's small clapboard home numerous times and had grown weary of having his hands tied when it came to this frizzy haired punk. So it came to pass that one Saturday night Officer Lofredo appeared yet again on the doorstep of Fledge Maholic on the very eve of Fledge's thirtieth birthday. It was a night rowdier than usual and Fledge was correspondingly wasted on the cusp of this important milestone when he poured himself toward the door where Lofredo stood waiting for him. "What's up Officer LoFucko?" Fledge said. The usual entreaties about turning the music down and getting the minors out were dutifully repeated. This time, they met with the suggestion from Fledge that the good officer "go fuck himself". Lofredo, for his part, kept his cool. As an officer, this was expected of him, even required. Besides, he had too much wrapped up in his career, a mortgage to pay off, a car payment for a new Monte Carlo and a baby girl on the way to do something stupid like haul off on this bucket head. Instead, Lofredo suggested that he and Fledge "meet" someplace and settle this rivalry "like men". Normally, Fledge would not have been so enticed however, as mentioned, he had located the bottom of at least fifteen or twenty cans of Old Style and was thus not in the best of judgment states. While Fledge stood trying to process a good comeback, his new girlfriend Christine, a petite, sharp-tongued creature, spoke for him. "Sure he'll do it!" she said. "He'll kick your mother fucking ass too!" If there was any sliver of fear in Fledge's eyes it was hard to make out in the bleary and loose expression he wore. "Hellfire!" he said strangely and belched. "How 'bout it, Fledge?" Lofredo said. "Me and you, mano y mano? I'll even give you a month to get your worthless ass into shape..." "Fledge'll be there," Christine said, sputtering saliva on Lofredo's face. "Fuckin' A Right!" And so, without really committing, it was somehow decided that a duel should result a month hence. Upon waking up the following morning, Fledge felt poisoned. His mouth tasted like a dragon had shit in it. As he stumbled towards the bathroom seeking the relief of Ibuprofen, weird memories and dreams slid through the ooze of his mind. He kept trying to get to something. Something had happened last night... He looked at his fingers. All there. No major cuts were in evidence, that was good. Then he remembered Lofredo. "Lofucko" he said, chuckling at the memory. But a second later he was still. He recalled Lofredo's fight challenge. Worse, he recalled word of the challenge spreading through the party, with everyone encouraging Fledge to send Lofredo to the sweet hereafter. "Oh Christ," Fledge said, examining his pale, slack face in the mirror. He gulped down two pain relievers and sighed. To back down was not an option. Fledge was an icon. He couldn't let his weekend warriors down. To chicken out would entail a loss of respect. They might start buying weed from someone else. "Fuck fuck fuck," Fledge said. He lifted his arms and attempted to flex his muscles. His biceps were like tubes of jelly. They were fucking muppet arms. As the day wore on and Fledge's hangover burned off, the inevitability of the fight evidenced itself. He had vainly hoped that the challenge would be forgotten if not by Lofredo, then at least by friends at the party. Quite to the contrary, however, no sooner had he slumped onto the couch to watch the Sox game then the phone starting ringing as various friends called to offer their support in beating Lofredo to a pulp. "Who was that?" Christine said when Fledge hung up the phone. "That was Woogie. He says he's got gallons of this bulk-up shake stuff in his garage he's gonna bring over to help me gain some weight." Ken Dynacko, probably one of the toughest sons-of-bitches west of Cook County, said Fledge was welcome to come over to weight train in his basement. "I'll turn you into a monster, dude," he said. "One month." When Fledge got a third call from Art Gozdel who said he'd be willing to show Fledge some martial arts moves, it depressed him even further. Clearly all of his friends thought he was going to get his ass kicked. The next several weeks were a whirlwind of physical activity that Fledge hadn't experienced since he was in gym class in the 7th grade. He cut back on his Marlboro reds, ate high-protein meals at every opportunity and gulped shake after shake of powdery expired "Mota Fuel". For extra inspiration, he put together a tape showing the sequences of Officer and a Gentlemen, Rocky I and Stripes where Gere, Stallone and Murray, realize what physical wrecks they were and vow to do something about it. If there was a unionization and solidarity of the skids of Weston, likewise over at Weston Police Station, there was a similar binding of police. News of the fight was kept hush hush from police administration but all the regular cops had the date marked on their calendars and looked forward to watching Lofredo vanquish Fledge in front of his stoner pals. By week three of his training, Fledge was feeling more confident about his chances. Endless coaching from Dynacko and Gozdel had actually had some results though Fledge still winded easy and sometimes broke down in coughing fits when he exerted too much energy. The day of the fight, stoners trailed from all over to Saint Rita's parking lot as if for a Grateful Dead concert. On the other side of the lot, cops and friends of cops parked their gleaming SUVs and pick up trucks. Lofredo emerged from the back of a mini van that was decorated on the side with a banner that read "The Blue Pig". Fledge emerged from a van with a wizard painted on the side wearing a shiny gold cape that someone had written "Old Style" on. The crowd formed behind the church in a patch of grass that was secluded by trees. The referee for the match was Father Brown, a rum-nosed pastor who had boxed semiprofessionally back in the day. Father Brown explained the rules to the fighters and backed into the circle of bystanders where he hit a disconnected school fire bell with the end of a metal crucifix. The opponents stalked toward each other while their support crews yelled encouraging remarks from the sidelines. "Get 'em Fledge!" "Smoke the doper, Lofredo! Smoke him!" Once onto the grassy ring, Fledge forgot nearly everything he'd been taught in the past several weeks. He opened up on Lofredo quickly and left himself unprotected. Lofredo dodged some ineffectual swings easily and then closed in on Fledge. Above the crowd's shouting, Fledge could hear the voice of his girl Christine screeching out in her high-pitched nasally whine: "Cream him, Fledge! Cream him!" He knew it was over the second he set foot into that church yard. He was outmatched. You don't make up for fifteen years of hard partying in one month. He had already began to wheeze. Blindly, Fledge rushed in, and attempted an unwise cross punch that Lofredo easily blocked and used the opening to send a rocket fist directly at Fledge's face. To onlookers it appeared as if Fledge's circuitry had been cut off. His knees buckled, his torso went limp and he flopped to the dirt like a puppet severed from its strings. Fledge lay motionless just long enough for the assembly to consider what a world without Fledge would be like. But then he moaned and his legs pulled up and it was clear he was not dead but surely defeated. "Shit man, I told you to keep your fists up... Your head is the meat, your hands are the bread... Sandwich man! Sandwich!" Dynacko's admonishments were barely heard however. Fledge was carried off into the van while Lofredo basked in his win, high-fiving his buddies until all insults had been traded by each side and the crowd dispersed. It was perhaps presumed by Lofredo that a win in this match would import a respect for his person and the law and for the next three weeks while Fledge healed, indeed there was no cause to visit the Maholic residence to respond to a noise complaint. Various officers enjoyed reminding any burnout wastelifes they happened to pull over for traffic infractions about the resounding defeat of their "Dope King" and suggested justice had indeed prevailed. Fledge's low-profile was shed before too long, however and once again he threw a rager, what he called "The Summer's Almost Gone Party". Windows were opened on the top floor of his home and various partygoers were stripped down to their underwear doing jumps into the above ground pool in the backyard. A local Black Sabbath cover band was mid-set when Lofredo showed up to enforce the right of non-Sabbath-lovers to have their peace and quiet. Fledge was standing on a ladder in back, rocking to Sweat Leaf, his arms extended in a fringe-flapping Ozzy/Nixon peace wave when he was informed of the officer's arrival. Fledge assumed a very serious demeanor, climbed off the ladder and put down his cup of beer. Christine followed at his heels but this time Fledge told her to stay back. Fledge went outside and quickly shut the door behind him. "Hi Fledge," Lofredo said. "Officer," Fledge said. "How's the face?" "Not as ugly as yours." Lofredo smiled. "I can work on it some more if you like." Responding to the flashing lights, some people crept from the sides of the house to see what was going on. Fledge ordered them to the back. "Let's turn it down, huh Fledge? Tell that band to pack it up now." "I'd be delighted to," Fledge said. Lofredo narrowed his fish eyes at Fledge, trying to read him. "Anything else?" Fledge said. "Just do it," Lofredo said. He went back to his cruiser. To the surprise of many, Fledge told the band to call it a night. There was general dismay and grumbling that Fledge had gone soft, that he was now Lofredo's toby. Ignoring these remarks, Fledge returned to the house and started carrying speakers to the front windows which he positioned toward the street. Fledge located his David Peel American Revolution CD and put on 'Oink Oink'. He played it repeatedly until finally the seal on his diplomatic immunity was broken and he was hauled off triumphantly to jail.