"People were drinking and whoring like their wasn't no tomorrow.
Same people who did that you'd see them the next morning at church.
The'd be singing in the choir and throwing out the amens like they was going out of style.
That was alright to me. I didn't judge.
Besides, you had to sin to get saved."
A Southern-Fried Crime Drama by Byrd Man + DotCom
Pickett County, South Carolina
The wooden door of the trailer flew off its rusty hinges. Through the threshold came a white man dressed in black tactical gear, PCSD stamped on his chest. In his hands was a black pump-action shotgun with a flashlight mounted underneath the barrel. He rushed through the dirty and clutter filled living room of the trailer. Behind him, a black woman in a police uniform and kevlar vest came through the door. She carried a Glock .40 tightly in her hands.
"Sheriff's Department," the man walking point yelled again. "This is a raid!"
He burst through another door and into a room that was devoid of furniture but not people. Three half naked people, two men and a woman, each of them covered in the scratches and sores that came with long-term crystal meth use, stared at the deputy in a glazed over haze that meant they were coming down off a long high. The fourth tweaker in the room, a fat man in soiled tighty whities, was trying and failing to pull open a window. Even in the dim light, the deputy could see the window was painted shut.
"Contact," he yelled to the other deputy. He turned away from the room, letting his partner go in and arrest the four tweakers while he searched the rest of the trailer.
His heavy boot crashed through another cheap wooden door and slung it open. He went into the room with the shotgun raised. The kitchen of the trailer had been converted into a meth lab. Warped plastic soda bottles and rubber tubing strung across the kitchen pushed the chemical concoction through to a slow drip above a baking pan on the kitchen table, collecting the drops of meth as they fell.
The deputy smirked and lowered his weapon. He walked towards the kitchen table and prepared to use the radio on his shoulder, when a shadowy figure popped up from under the table and bowled him over. He fell to the ground and the man stepped over him on his hurry out the trailer.
"Shit," the deputy yelled. "We got a rabbit!"
The fleeing man made it past the room with the tweakers and out the back door. He was coming down the rickety wooden steps of the trailer when the butt of a gun smashed into his head. He crumpled to ground while his assailant watched. The bald man in the raggedy red shirt groped around on the red dirt around the trailer before looking up at his attacker.
"Hey there, Georgie," Lieutenant Scott Andrews said with a grin. "You're under arrest, asshole."