(NOTE: This book contains adult language as well as police situations which would be rated PG-13, at least.)Things Mom Never Told You About Street Animals and Modern Day GunfightersWelcome to the world of urban police legend and lore. Homicidal Humor offers a glimpse of life through the eyes of a homicide detective, whose ability to see the funnier side of tragedy has helped keep him sane. These fictional short stories, inspired by real cops and real cases, are set in areas along the Texas Gulf Coast and include historical facts and interesting tidbits about the city of Houston and its police department. All individuals, as well as locations alluded to, are fictitious. You might say the names have been changed to protect the imbeciles.The Clot Thickens is a behind-the-scenes introduction into a world I hope you never see up close. This book contains stories of killers, con men, street cops and detectives, covering the days of Bonnie and Clyde to the present. What readers are saying about The Clot Thickens: "As a rookie detective, Brian was my first partner. He once told me that we were just human trash collectors. We pick trash up off the streets. The courts process them and the prison system recycles them. " -- Sgt. W. L. Andrews, Houston Police Department (Ret.)"These stories come across like they are being told across a kitchen table. This is the knife and gun club that I know all too well." -- Dr. Robert Jordan (Medical Examiner s Office), Las Vegas, Nevada"This book gives me flashbacks. Reading the stories you cannot only envision the beer joint, but you can almost smell the tobacco smoke, the stale beer and the blood." -- Officer Harry Womack, Houston Police Department (Retired C.S.U.)An excerpt from The Clot Thickens: was called to take photos at a traffic fatality scene. It was a Sunday afternoon major auto/motorcycle wreck and traffic was backed up into next week. A nineteen- to twenty-year old on a crotch rocket motorcycle plowed into some innocent Sunday driver, ruining his day and ending the life of the cyclist. I parked behind two women who were also headed to the death scene. I did not know it at first but they were professional mourners. Both women were corn-fed and chipmunk-cheeked lovelies. Either one of them would have field dressed at 250 pounds on any given day. The ladies in question stepped from their car and each slung a rather large purse over her forearm. They both wore wide brimmed straw hats and waddled toward the wreck site as they visited and adjusted their panty girdles. As they conversed politely among themselves I walked about fifty feet behind them. They walked a full block and a half until they got about fifty feet from the wreck site. You could make out a motorcycle wedged under the side of a 10-year old Buick. A sheet was draped over what was ob-viously a body that was awaiting the medical examiner’s office to arrive. It was at this point that both women stopped and threw their arms in the air. The first bellowed, “Oh Laud Sista, das June Bug layin’ in duh street. Laud have mercy!� The second followed up with, “Sweet Jesus duh po’ sweet baby boy daid.� First one and then the other would wail and carry on and then the other would chime in with a follow-up. They wailed and caterwauled for the news cameras for several minutes, trying hard to make sure they’d done enough to make it on the evening news. Then they gathered themselves up and waddled back to their car.
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