"Do not give that pig a sandwich. He almost killed your friend."

I was playing Parcheesi down at The Five Brothers Knights of Arabia Market in my neck of the ‘hood the other day with Umar, Amir, Rashid, Bilal and Safa. All of a sudden, some cop walks up to the counter and looks us over.

It was a sight for bloodshot eyes. Before this very unholy intrusion, we were arguing like crazy, nothing more than skinny desert buzzards – one and all. We were screaming at one another over the configurations on the Parcheesi board. We were making a lot of noise and speaking in a cross between Arabic, Hebrew and Swahili. All of the sudden, Umar remembers we’re not in Bumfuck, Egypt, nor were we in Bagged Dad, Israel, but in the back room of his family’s inner city convenience store in Miami.

"There are no goats here, only thieves and murderers," he laughs and sneers.

Rashid starts screaming at his brother for drinking too much "Oasis Carnage," or, a mixture of cheap concentrated vodka, cranberry solution and mango juice. Pretty, unveiled Safa bats her beautiful eyelashes at me and spits a big, ugly olive pit right into my left eyeball.

Some hip-hop song that makes women look like poisonous house pets is crooning from the radio, stuck high above in the open window of the store.

Some criminals were in the back, near the coolers, fooling around with a Smith & Wesson .357 or .38. Proud, arrogant Bilal laughs vociferously, then pulls out a Uzi for him and a single bolt action elephant rifle for me.

Bilal closes the bulletproof glass window in front of us, hits a button that locks every door out of the shop and smiles, clicking his fingers. He reaches under the counter and grabs a hand grenade. All the weapons were laid up on the counter like accoutrements to the game board.

In the meantime, a chicken that became unhinged from the butcher block in the basement started pecking at my horn rimmed black glasses, thinking the shiny surface is bird food . . . .Then, the unimaginable occurs: the cop opens the cashier cage with a skeleton key and takes out his taser gun. The bastard starts electrocuting me with it!

Huh - Just one of many sad stories of police brutality of late. According to CBS News reports, the deaths of more than 70 people can be linked to the use tasers by police in the short few years that they have been used to deter crime. Meantime, some more conservative journalist organizations hail these electric bazookas as a great addition to law and order in America.

Listen, phools, only a diehard S & M enthusiast who is already half past dead would enjoy being clobbered by this John Law lightning. It’s ironic, just on Sept. 18, a University of Florida student was tasered by police for asking questions at a political pep rally. Later, police claimed this student was out of line in publicly questioning Sen. John Kerry, a candidate whose whole political career, according to his political enemies, has been built on a host of outlandish dog & pony show political stunts.. Later, it was found that this student, Nate Kyle, may be somewhat of a professional demonstration guru, much like those of the ‘60s who used to travel from riot to riot. Nate Kyle, it turned out, joked about this incident with family members, tried to brownie up to cops after the arrest and genuinely, was a top rate phony asshole.

Anyhow, pain is pain: ‘YEAOWWW!!!" I screamed as I fell to the floor of the store.

I began flopping on the floor like a dying fish.

Mr. John Law began laughing boisterously in a sadistic manner, obviously enjoying my pain and agony. I pulled out a medal I wear around my neck for any occasion involving the police hitting me with 5,000 volts of electrical current. It says: In case this man acts up, shoot him with a high caliber handgun. Do not hit him with a taser since he has a heart condition and will most likely expire if strong electrical currents are sent through his body.

Funny, that damned medal is shaped like a seashell, but some girl I’ve become familiar with swears it’s a deadeye duplication of her vagina.

Then, the cop snears and mutters, "We shoot electrical currents first, then give eulogies later, as you hang from a beam in the county jail."

"Hold on sir, I’m a college student. If you hit me with that thing I’ll be late for my night class," I pleaded.

Anyhow, Safa got nervous and went into the back and made the cop a sandwich. Her brother Umar, who never was a member of the Taliban but who rode with the local Bikers from Hell clubhouse for a few years protested, screaming, "Do not give that pig a sandwich. He almost killed your friend. By the way, what happened to our game!!! And put that monkey suit back on, with that black veil, girl!!

As the cop hit me with the beams from the taser again, I couldn’t help but notice how pretty the electrical currents were, right then. They were aesthetically pleasing against the backdrop of the Parcheesi board, the perverted, starving chicken and Safa’s beautiful mop of jet black hair. It was sort of like having a wet dream involving a full grown wolverine and the ghost of the late, great comic Sam Kinison.