Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Police Officers vs Charles Eimers - Hands Up Don't Shoot - He dies Anyways

I mean . . . what can I say? 61 year old probably loses temper, takes off, jumps outta the car and is beaten to death. Yesterday we seen how the system takes care of itself. Let me plug in an arrest scenario from Brand of Justice. I've also included a link to the whole Charles Eimers incident. I get the feeling he was law abiding and did something stupid and paid for it with his life. Ten broken ribs! Anyways, the system (Grand Jury) failed to better the Law Enforcement Community. No Indictment.

Ready Set Click!

This from Brand of Justice . . . Dub was practically on top of him before the young cop spotted him. Ma was hoping Dub could talk some sense into the young whipper-snapper and get her butt outta the car. Then her morning got even stranger. The young fella went to fumbling and pulling on his pistol before finally pointing it at Dub. He was also hollering.
“DOWN on the ground—hands up . . . DOWN on the ground . . . DOWN—DOWN . . . NOW!” Dub looked at the kid officer, with an expression conveying the fact he’d never had a gun pointed at him before. He wasn’t sure if his hands went up first or if he should sprawl out on the ground then stick them out. He froze up on the dilemma. He never was much for questions and certainly wasn’t going to start asking them with a Glock pointed at him. The confusion was suddenly cleared up. He was tackled from behind by the detectives from the house.
“Hands up, asshole . . . now . . . hands up. Keep that gun on him.” Then he felt punches or kicks. “Quit resisting, scrot. Now, hands behind your back. You hear me, scumbag . . . hands up noooow!” Dub was hearing it all. He just wasn’t sure how to do anything with his hands due to the fact they were pinned under him. He wanted to say something but the words couldn’t be gurgled out under the weight of the two detectives crushing in on his back. The punches hurt. Then the prying started and before he knew it one of the detectives had painfully pried his arms out from underneath him.
“Okay, asshole, you just added a resist to the charges . . . do I make myself clear? Resisting, buddy boy!” Dub was hauled to his feet after being cuffed. Then it came to him, the young cop was Dylan Klebold, the same feller who stopped Tinkey out on 220 for the brake light. He had no idea why that little piece of useless information popped into his head, but it had.
“Okay big guy . . . your ma already went and told us that you hauled off and whacked her good. Didja feel good doing that asshole. Huh?” Dub was thinking some on whether his shoulder or wrists hurt worse. The handcuffs had been clamped down plenty tight and his fingers were tingly.
“C-c-c-can. C-c-c-can. My hands. C-c-c-c.”
“Look, you always talk like ya got a load of manure in your mouth? Or are you a stutter box? Haul off and hit a woman. If you’d do as you were told . . . you little piece of shit . . . just maybe I’d loosen ‘em . . . if’n that’s what your whining ‘bout. If it was up to me I’d tighten ‘em some is all Im’ma gonna say. You hear me boy?”

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