Mistaken Identity (Part I)

Sunday mornings should be peaceful and easy like that Lionel Ritchie song. A glowing sunshine peeking threw a half drawn shades accompanied by a chorus of red cardinals chirping in melodic unison is the way to gently rise from an eight plus hour slumber. No blaring alarm clocks necessary, it’s Sunday morning. Maybe you sleep in, maybe you go to church, and maybe you try to get some from the wife; who coldly rejects you because it’s her time of the month again for the third time this month. A peaceful Sunday morning should never be interrupted by the sound of police officers pounding at the front door.

“Did you hear that?” my wife asked. “Yeah, another cold rejection from you, yes I heard” my blue balls and I answered. “No the pounding on the front door” she said frantically. I said; “It’s probably Mrs. Shackleton needing to borrow milk or something.” Mrs. Shackleton is our eighty-three old neighbor who became a widow the year Reagan was elected president; which was about twenty seven years ago. But, she has arthritis in most of her major extremities so I don’t believe her capable of putting that kind of thumping on a steel door or any other door for that matter. Besides she always uses the doorbell when nagging us. She is proper that way.

Although I do recall a few years back when she opened up a keg of whoop-ass of some neighbor teenagers who made the mistake of smoking weed on her front yard. She hobbled toward the front yard toting an old Louisville Slugger that may actually bear Babe Ruth’s autograph. Either out of amusement of the vision of a decrepit old bag headed toward them carrying lumber, or just the fact that they were totally baked, the stoners cackled together in a half-laugh half-cough. The one stoner was laughing/coughing so hard he fell to the ground; it was at that point that ‘ole Mrs. Shackleton administered the cold-hearted beat down. The irony is that the stoner she beat like a Piñata was actually Mexican. The more ironic part is that he was legal. Fortunately for him, he was too stoned to feel his femur being smashed.

But, I digress back to the door being pounded by the police…

I would have rather slept for another hour or four, but at my wife’s urging I made my way downstairs to answer the relentless thumping on the door. On the other side of the door stood two police officers and another guy in a suit who was quick to let me know he was FBI. This trio of law enforcers looked as happy to see me as I was to see them. “We’d like to ask you ask you a few questions” the Fed said. This can’t be good, I thought to myself. Before I could answer with some stuff I remembered from Court TV, the wife invited the boys in blue into the house...