Wednesday 8 July 2009

Dirty Harry: RIP

1987, San Francisco

I was born in San Francisco in 1979. My neighbourhood was pretty rough—I was involved in backyard brawls since I was 7. But somehow, I didn’t end up on the wrong side of the law. I always wanted to be a cop, just like my dad, because when I used to see him walking around with a gun and people saluting, I thought it was a cool thing. Yeah, Chico Gonzalez Jr. (that’s me) wanted to be a cop.

But nothing was cooler than what my dad told me about somebody named Harry, Harry Callahan. Apparently, he hated bad guys to the point that he would just shoot them off in the head with his .44 Magnum. That sent shivers down my spine, but heck, I was willing to do it. The more he told me about it, the more I wanted to be just like him. Yeah, that was my ambition. To be like Harry Callahan.

 

2009, San Francisco

11:00 PM

He was lying on the floor, his clavicle completely shattered (that’s collar bone to you fellas). I was late by five minutes and those scumbags got to him. But Harry did take out two guys, even in that kind of situation. It was just him.

“Don’t waste your time, sonny. Get out and after them. I might go any time.”

I couldn’t do that. I called 911 and alerted an ambulance. It’s the least I could do. I mean all my life I’ve wanted to be like him. Couldn’t let him go like that, could I?

Ah, there’s the ambulance...

11:00 AM

“... and today, we have come to witness the last day of Inspector Harry Callahan as an inspector. It truly has been an honour. Please, Mr. Callahan, accept this award on behalf of our community. It’s because of you our children have been able to walk these streets at night without any fear. Thank you.”

I saw him walking toward the stage to collect his award. At 78, he still had that swagger. He collected his award and went hurriedly back to his seat, but was caught by the MC. “No, no, Mr. Callahan, you have to share something with us. You can’t get out of this one with your .44 Magnum.”

The crowd roared with laughter. Callahan too managed a wry smile. He walked up to the podium.

“Hey guys... and gals.” The throaty, manly voice was still intact. “All I want to say is... I hope future police officers aren’t scared of dishing out justice to those pricks out there like I did. Sure you don’t win friends, but you keep your enemies off the street. That’s all I have to say, thanks... and oh, all you lucky punks out there, you better not feel so lucky. I still have Smith & Wesson with me.”

Saying so, he drew out THAT big gun. The audience let out a gasp. Ol’ Harry just gave them a wry smile and put it back in.

I was put in his department. Homicide—where my father first assisted Harry. I saw some pleased faces on my way to the Police Department. Must say I didn’t like them. They were the pieces of dirt, the scumbags in whom Harry had put the fear of God. They felt they were let off the hook. Really, now?

11:30 PM

“Too much loss of blood... we can’t give him too much of a chance.” The words rang in my ears. I told the doctors I’d be back.

Meanwhile, my assistant (MY assistant, lord it sounded so funny) was on the trail of those bad guys. They just wanted to get back at Harry, and get back they did. JEE WHIZ THIS TRUCK’S COME OUT OF NOWHERE, I’M ON COLLISION COURSE...

Chico Gonzalez Jr. assistant’s narrative

They were six of them. SIX of them. Chico had to take Harry to the hospital. I don’t know why. What was so great about this guy any way? An old guy with arthritis in his hands who thinks he rules the world. Not happening for me. For me, NO ONE is above the law.

Uh-oh. Bullets coming in from all directions. I think I had just run into them.

I could only see the silhouettes. They just started firing again.

I ran for my life. I hid behind cars, trees and anything that came in my way. In the ensuing chase, I lost all my bullets. So I had no gun and six crazed guys after me.

DEAD END.

I turned back and looked at them. My time had come. They all raised their guns. Suddenly, I heard a few gunshots.

I thought I was gone. But I opened my eyes. Nothing happened to me. I just saw four dead guys, and two standing facing the other side. I checked my pocket and found one bullet left. I shot one of the guys with that. Now only one was left.

What I saw though, in front of me, was frightening. At the far end, I saw a shadow, in a sling, holding up what looked like Magnum .44, hair frazzled. And on the look of it, his skin on the outlines were wrinkled. The guy in front of me was shaking in his boots. I then understood why—I heard a familiar, throaty voice of that man.

I know what you're thinking, punk. You're thinking "did he fire six shots or only five?" Now to tell you the truth I forgot myself in all this excitement. But being this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world and will blow you head clean off, you've gotta ask yourself a question: "Do I feel lucky?" Well, do ya, punk?

Back to Chico Gonzalez Jr. narrative

I found myself in a hospital, feeling all woozy. Suddenly, I realised, Darren (my assistant) had gone after those six mad thugs. I gotta get there. I somehow managed to convince a frantic nurse and a very anxious doctor that I was ok. I just picked up my gun and off I went.

I ran, without realising that I was lost and wouldn’t have the faintest idea where the crooks were. Suddenly, I heard gunshots around the corner. I ran.

When I reached there, I saw six guys with their backs to me. Obviously, they’d cornered Darren. I took out my gun—hey wait a minute, this is Harry’s .44! After I picked it up, I got a message from the doc on my cell phone—we’d lost Harry Callahan. Excessive loss of blood.

I couldn’t let him die just like that. I had a fully loaded .44 Magnum with more bullets in my pocket to spare. Aimed it at those b*#@$%s and BANG! BANG! BANG! Four down, two to go.

By this time, I suppose Darren had woken up, because the guy in front of me just dropped dead. Yeah, he was looking straight into me just like the last crook. But the both of them had this queer stare.

And then, with a bit of a flourish, I gave him that piece of talk which I grew up listening to. The last guy was so terrified, he shot himself in the head. Good thing, because I fired and realised I’d run out of bullets.

Darren came out of the shadows and asked, in fear more than anything else, “Harry...?”

I just turned away and walked.

Live on Harry, live on.