01 Party Time is Over

In 2006, Brad Cartner bought a retired Ontario Provincial Police car off a super dodgy guy at a used car lot. On that day, Brad became Fake Cop - and the town of Newmarket, Ontario, Canada has been paying the price ever since.

Transcript

SPEAKER_03 0:00

Since April of two thousand twenty four, Greg Carter has been hosting a pod show called Sick Man Talking. During that time, he has released a wide range of episodes expanding confessional, cultural, and historical commentary, creative storytelling, and experimental narratives, including a series called Fake Copy. These episodes are presented as part of the Sick Man Talking Archive. What follows is one of those episodes. We got a sick man talking here.

SPEAKER_01 0:56

When I was a kid, there were no pictures of cars or airplanes on my walls. It was all Freddie Krueger. I certainly couldn't fix a car. I could barely perform the most basic maintenance tasks. But for not being a car guy, they sure have played a significant role in my life, beyond the practical nature of mechanized travel, of course. I can't talk about how they work, but I can talk about how they feel. And if I'm in the right car, I feel pretty damn good. My first car was a 1984 British Racing Blue Ford Taurus. My second car was a 1994 Hawaiian Orchid Chevrolet Cavalier R. S. I believe the R S stood for Rally Sport, but I was never sure. I used to call that one the Millennium Falcon. It was in constant need of repair, but it was fast as hell and great for smuggling. My third car was a 1990s Silver Birch Buickless Saber. That was actually a pretty sweet car in its day, but by the time we found each other, it was on its last wheels. At that time I would just drive cars until they died, and I would leave them on the side of the road with the keys in them, and then just walk away like Bill Bixby during the closing credits of the Incredible Hulk. I'll circle back to my fourth car after I talk about my fifth car for a moment. It was a brand new 2009 Orion Silver Mitsubishi Eclipse GT. That was more than just a car. That was a symbol, not of status, no, but of freedom. It was a huge symbol of physical and financial freedom for me. From 2000 to 2006, I was struggling terribly with my health, but by the time 2009 rolled around, I was much healthier, which gave me the capability to work properly, which gave me the capability to buy a brand new car, which gave me the capability to drive anywhere, anytime I wanted to, without fear of being forced to leave the thing on the side of the road and walk away like Bill Bixby. It was a symbol of good health, is what I'm really trying to say here. Of independence. I was getting healthy. My career was rapidly growing. I was going out on dates with actual women, and I was picking them up in a cool new car. It was a good time for me. Until that point, I'd only driven large, loud, heavy North American cars. I need real estate inside of a car. Most foreign cars I got into were just too small for me. Every Honda or Mazda or Toyota I got into was just too small. I'm tall, but I'm not a goddamn giant, okay? I should be able to be in a car without being forced to sit like a fucking praying mantis. Until I stepped into that Mitsubishi eclipse, that is, it fit me like a glove. I swear it was contoured to my body. I felt like I was in a rocket ship when I first got in. I was so low to the ground. Getting in and getting out was a difficulty, I confess, but once I got settled, that car felt like an extension of my body. I had multiple nicknames for it. Sometimes I called it Quitsilver, other times I called it the silver bullet. I mostly called it the blade. It cut through air and friction like a sword, and exactly five years after I bought it, to the very day, on the very day I made my final payment, I was no longer physically able to drive. I've talked about this before. It's traumatizing. I will not talk about it again. So that was my fifth car. My favorite car. My slickest car. My most expensive car. But it wasn't my most interesting car. No. That title definitively belongs to my fourth car. A 2002 Cop White Chevrolet Impala. A retired Ontario Provincial Police pursuit car. That's right. I bought myself a cop car. This was in 2006. I paid for it in cash after my first big voice job, and this car marked a turning point in my freedom journey. It really did. In 2005, I was still very sick, but getting into voice work, really, really tough business to crack. But I was working hard, I was getting the brakes, and I was able to get out further ahead than anticipated. Now my 1990s Silver Birch Buicless Saber was sitting on the side of Young Street in Newmarket, every engine light on the dashboard solemnly announcing its passing. I spent a few last moments with the car, said a few words, grabbed what meager possessions I had, slung my jacket over my back, and slowly walked away. Luckily, my friends Mike and Kelly lived about ten minutes away from the scene of the death. I saw Mike clearing snow off the porch dressed like it was 1930 Saskatchewan. He was a welcome sight. He always was. And I was invited in for a warm drink, a warm conversation, and a warm phone to call the dead car people. Mike and Kelly are wonderful hosts and wonderful people. Two days later, I'm at a used car lot negotiating the purchase of a retired cop car. They got it from a police auction. They were practically giving them away. Now the guy selling me the car was a real piece of work. He was using my name every three seconds, which is always a bad sign. If somebody's using your name a lot when they're talking to you, they might be trying to manipulate you. He just kept saying it over and over. Brad, Brad, look, Brad, Brad, Brad, Brad, Brad, Brad. Money is not my God. It's not a god. I do not worship it, Brad. Money is not my god, Brad. Honest to God, hand of God, money is not my god. Honest to God, hand of God. Turned out he was lying. But I still drove out of there with a 2002 cop white Chevrolet Impala, Ontario Provincial Police Pursuit Car. That car would change my life and the lives of every person around me, including innocent strangers driving or walking down the road. It was on that day that I became a fake cop. I'd come from a long line of fake cops. My dad was a fake cop. His dad was a fake cop. My uncles were all fake cops. So I thought it was best to follow in the family footsteps. So I, too, became a fake cop. Eventually I became a fake rogue cop. Things started to get pretty dark. I'll get to that. That cop car had a lot of pickup. It had a cop motor, a 440 cubic inch plant, it had cop tires, cop suspensions, cop shocks. It was a model made before catalytic converters so it ran good on regular gas. All I had to do was fix the cigarette lighter. Actually, I had to do a lot more than that. The interior came very bare bones. It didn't have any form of radio or a stereo system or anything like that. They just ripped everything out of it. There were wires hanging everywhere at my feet, around my head, exposed wires hanging, running everywhere. Gun racks had been ripped out. It had an antenna, and my favorite feature, oh yeah, was the was the decal impression still left underneath like the trunk of the car in between the brake lights. Now depending on the lighting, and especially at night, you could still see the word police where they where they had torn off the decal. It left a permanent impression, and with the right angle and the right light, especially at night, you could see the word police on the back of the car in glowing red. I couldn't believe that when I first noticed it, and it was so fast too. As long as I was driving in a straight line anyway. There weren't many cars out there that could keep up with me or get away from me. The moment I drove off that lot, the moment, I couldn't believe how different everything seemed. It was fascinating to be driving a car from that perspective. I would absolutely paralyze traffic around me, or I could make it go faster. I was single-handedly able to control the entire flow of traffic around me on any route I was on. I'd creep up gradually on someone, and immediately I'd see their shoulders seize up behind the wheel, their hands would go to a perfect ten-to-two position, their posture would improve. That was my favorite part. That was always funny. They would drop their speed to just below mine, and when I would eventually pull up next to them, they'd be looking at me out of the side of their eye. It was hilarious, but like they're terrified to look over at me. They're terrified, but they desperately want to look over at me to see if I'm looking over at them. They're just they look like velociraptors, kind of like looking out of the side of their eye. And and in trying to act so ridiculously casual, they would make themselves look so comically conspicuous. So that's when I began cleaning up the mean streets of Newmarket, Ontario, Canada. I started off small. I started talking like a cop. I was using words like proceeded and perp. When going somewhere, I said I was en route. I'd refer to other drivers as motorists. The road became a roadway. I was always approaching, and sometimes apprehending. A forest became a wooded area. A fight or an argument was a physical or verbal altercation. It would be fled instead of ran away. I wouldn't say anything, I would state. In the cop world, people don't say things, they state them. One time I called my buddy Chad a skell. I no longer took a left turn on an old green light. I'd take an L-bender on a stale emerald. If I went right and hit a red, that means I took an R-bender and hit a fresh ruby. That's a good example of some fake cop lingo for you civilians out there. You know, while I'm at it, let me give you some advice from a fake cop's perspective. When you're driving without a seat belt on and you see that fake cop car creeping up on you, and you try to sneak on your belt without him seeing, we see it. Usually we just chuckle and let it go. But we see it. We see everything out here on these streets. The way I communicated changed. I spoke in a more commanding manner, used chopping gestures with my hands. I'd prowl the New Market streets like Steve McQueen and Bullet, my fake cop car growling like a lion in the bush, stalking fake criminals. I began looking like a cop, too. The day I bought that car, I got a haircut in a shave. There were times when I'd be undercover and grow my hair out, but I usually kept it high and tight. At one point, I grew a mustache, started wearing mirrored sunglasses. That's when things started to get serious. Whenever a passenger would get into the back seat, I pushed down on the back of their head. One time my mother pulled up to meet me for lunch and I said, I'm gonna have to ask you to step out of the car, please, Mom. I would randomly ask my friends to produce identification. Sometimes I'd even pat them down. I frisked a thousand young punks. I'd nod to real cops when I drove by them. Sometimes I'd pull up beside one in a parking lot somewhere. You know how they do that? They pull up next to each other in opposite directions, so the driver's side windows are facing each other and they start shooting the shit. I started doing that with them. I'd complain about paperwork, and I'ma clusky just won't get off my goddamn ass. Then I just started showing up at crime scenes. Eventually, they tolerated me. I think they were impressed by my commitment. Things started to escalate. I developed a donut addiction. I was drinking 12 cups of coffee a day, even though I despise this stuff. The Pizzaville next to the porn shop started giving me free slices. I'd pretend to protest, but I didn't pay for one lunch while I had that car. Didn't pay for any porn either. One of my favorite tricks was pulling into the parking lot of a convenience store at a high rate of speed, and then suddenly parked diagonally across two spots. Every teenager in sight would scatter in terror. Adults, too. I stopped walking and I started striding. At one point, I had a full fake police force, fake helicopters, fake SWAT team, even got some fake horses and had a fake mounted unit for crowd control. Once in a while, some punk would come up and ask, hey man, are you even a cop, man? And I'd say, yeah, I'm a cop, I'm a fake cop. And I got my eye on you, fella. Better keep your nose clean and get a haircut while you're at it. And then he'd say, Hey man, what's your problem, man? What's my problem? Punks like you, that's my problem. Listen up, funny boy. I see you out here, smoking your reefer, you and your good time buddies, but I got a flash for you, Joy Boy. Body time is over. But I didn't truly cross the line until the first time I accepted a bribe. I caught my friend Chris driving with a load not properly tied down. Serious stuff. Chris had always shown criminal versatility, and I'd had my eye on him for a while. He'd been pretty careful up until that point. Always used messengers, never talked in the phone. Smart. He offered me a Van Halen CD if I'd let him go. And I took it. I took it, goddammit, right there in the spot I took it, and it changed my life forever. That's how easily it starts with a fucking Van Halen CD. One I already owned. Yeah, yeah. It was women and children first. I'd owned it since 1983. But that's what greed can do to a fake cop. Accepting a Van Halen album you already own from a known fake criminal. I'd begun my career as a fake cop having only benevolent intentions. To serve and protect my community. I wanted my deeds to speak. They did. Next thing I know, I'm shaking down drug dealers, extorting local businesses. I've got confidential informants, an entire network of snitches. And now I'm a full-blown fake rogue cop. And I've got a crew of other fake rogue cops working underneath me. I've got the mob after me for gambling debts. I got three wives. None of them know about each other. I've got internal affairs all over me. The DA's breathing down my neck. The captain's gonna suspend me anytime now. And it looks like I'm starting to get a little too close to a suspect. That last part happened to Michael Douglas a couple of times. Didn't go well for him. My retired fake cop father is disgusted by me. Says I brought shame upon him and all the other fake cops in our family who did the job with honor. I laugh, calling him a naive old man. But I know the same thing he knows. I'm headed for trouble with a capital T. But my partner Mendoza's been missing for a week. I've lost three partners in two months, and I'm not losing this one. Not Mendoza. The department's moving too slow. They told me to be patient, not to be so reckless like that time at the breakfast buffet. Easy for them to say, he's not their partner. Tonight, I'm not a fake cop. Tonight, I play by my rules. Tonight, I'm gonna do it the new market way. Mendoza's in a warehouse down by the docks, being held by the consul general of a foreign power. This consul general is missing a hundred million dollars in bearer bonds, and he wants it back. He thinks he's got diplomatic immunity, but not from me. It just got revoked. Mendoza was in bad shape by the time I got him out, and so was I. I was never the same after that night. Neither was Mendoza. Eventually, the cop car couldn't keep up with crime anymore, or the corruption, and neither could I. I just couldn't be trusted with that kind of power. The power of a fake cop. And I was, as they say, too old for this shit. So the cop car was retired again, and I retired with it, took a permanent 10-7. And by that point, I'd been on the job for three years. Thought it best to get out with a pension and in one piece. Spend more time with my fake wife and my fake kids. Being a fake cop is tough on relationships. But having a hundred million dollars in bearer bonds makes things a little bit easier. Ain't that right, Mendoza? Pass me another beer, buddy.

SPEAKER_00 18:02

Let's be careful laugh. Let's be careful laughing one, seven, and seven, left and on the corner of bottom. It wouldn't have stopped road. Play it tough but play it safe. Let's be careful loud. Let's be careful loud. Let's be careful at them.