There’s Chief Bardwell, puffed up in his tactical vest like a steroid-fed mall cop, mouth open, eyes hidden behind those impenetrable mirrored shades, crowding my lens like he’s trying to swallow the truth whole. In the background, Sgt. Kurt Gilmore — glowing like a radioactive traffic cone in his highlighter-yellow vest — is squared up, hands near his belt, actively blocking my camera while the real aggressor walks free. Gilmore doesn’t touch the guy screaming threats at me. No. He shakes the motherfucker’s hand like old golf buddies and sends him on his way.They don’t even realize they are violating my rights. Therein lies the danger… they make their own rules.
Bardwell threatened me with arrest three separate times for the high crime of trying to bring a legitimate grievance to the race director, Mike McCusker — that spandex-wearing prick who shuts down our town every summer under the holy banner of “economic benefit.”
This is the exact pathology of a small-town police department that has completely detached itself from constitutional limits. When these guys step into a scene, they don’t operate on law — they operate on instinct, personal alliances, and pure institutional arrogance.
Bardwell threatened me with arrest three separate times for the high crime of trying to bring a legitimate grievance to the race director, Mike McCusker — that spandex-wearing prick who shuts down our town every summer under the holy banner of “economic benefit.”
This is the exact pathology of a small-town police department that has completely detached itself from constitutional limits. When these guys step into a scene, they don’t operate on law — they operate on instinct, personal alliances, and pure institutional arrogance.