Incest is the best!

I step out of my car into the sun-bleached summer of July. My left boot finds itself grinding hard into the loose stone-covered driveway of an old tire and auto-repair shop that sits just off the highway. The door to my police car swings slow and heavy, echoing into the still breeze as it slams. Sweat builds on my brow and my gunbelt clinks with every step I take towards a leather-skinned figure standing in the purple tinted shade of the garage. My eyes struggle to adjust. With a forced smile his voice, thick with Texas, cracks. His words are carried to my ears on a breath of Copenhagen, "They're over there in them apartments cussin' and fightin'," he spits a long string of burnt-orange onto the cool shop floor, "and scarin' my customers."

I breathe deep, "Where are they, and who are they, sir?"

He tongues the wad of chew in his cheek and motions towards a cracked and leaning building that sits amidst overgrown dandelions and waist-high grass. "They're two boys in their twenties, I think."

"I'll go take a look," I say as my boots scrape across the pavement, through the underbrush of a front yard before making their way to a white paint-chipped door. I wipe the sweat from my face, draw my baton and bang it hard against the wood frame. I swear I can feel the house tremble and groan as the door swings open revealing a single room with nothing more than a hotplate, bed and television nestled carefully among balls of tinfoil and empty Dr. Pepper cans.

A figure comes bounding out of the bathroom as I shout "Police Department!" into the tiny room.

He is a white male, about twenty years old, wearing a softball uniform complete with red-striped knee high socks and cleats. His hair is in shambles, obviously a home cut, and a bad one at that. "Yesth, Offither?"

Oh, God, He's retarded. I think.

I focus and ask, "Have you been arguing with someone?"

"Yeah, me and my brother had a dithagreement," he stammers.

"Where is he?"

"John, ith the poleeth!" He shouts back over his shoulder.

John comes jogging out of the bathroom, yes the same bathroom the man I'm talking to just came out of.

"Yesth?" John lisp.

Another retard! "Is there a problem I need to know about, guys?"

John starts, "N-no thir, w-we were juth having a dithcuthin about football, a-and got a little angry, b-but ith okay now."

"Alright", I wipe my face again, "Y'all keep it down, okay?"

They answer in unison, "Yesth, thir."

A hot summer wind bows the dandelions as I trace my steps back through the front yard. I'm nearly to the yards edge when I hear "Thath, bullthit!" scream out from the backyard.

I walk up slowly, and stop just behind the corner of the house. The two men have no idea I'm there, and I hear:

"Theeth eighteen, that meanth that thee can do whatever thee wanth, and we can have a relathonthip!"

"But, John, y'all are firth cuthinth, thee, and that makth it intheth! Juth cuth y'all are over eighteen dothent make it right, ith illegal you retard! And I thood know! My parenth are cuthinth too!"

The door to my police car swings slow and heavy, echoing into the still breeze as it slams.