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I was waiting patiently at the Starbucks window while the barista got my green tea latte. Hot. I liked to drink it hot despite the heat outside. It reminded me of being a kid when it actually dropped into the fifties in the wintertime.

Anyway, as she handed it to me, some asshole buzzed me from below. The upward rush of air knocked me up a few feet, spilling my drink on my nuts. Pissed, I chucked the cup out the window, turned on the lights and dove into traffic after him.

"This is white one victor. I am in pursuit of a late model Chevy Camaro. Orange. Black trim." Shit, and I had only ten minutes left on my shift.

This guy was going to cause a serious problem ignoring lane and altitude markers. I seriously considered jamming his controls, sending him down, but a crash might wipe out a few grovelling proles who eked out, what they called, an existence at ground level. At worst, I might get a verbal reprimand. I couldn't do it. Even though I was a Jobsian and attended services at the House of Steve, I still felt sympathy for poor people. Even proles.

"This is the Dallas PD. Please surrender your vehicle at the nearest docking ramp," I called, overriding his personal communications. The driver's window opened and an appendage emerged. It was a 'pus. It always amazed me what rude and offensive meanings a writhing tentacle could convey.

While they superficially resembled Terran octopi, they were not aquatic. They were land dwellers on whatever backwater planet they were whelped on. They were here petitioning for recognition by the Planetary Confederation of the Orion Spur. While not yet members, they had a quasi diplomatic immunity.

I continued to pursue at speed until the slimy bastard buzzed a truck sending it into the school level of an apartment tower. Thank Steve it was Saturday.

"This is W1 Victor. I am in pursuit of a 'pus. He has just committed a moving felony. Requesting backup," Toggling a switch on the yoke, I shot a tracker into his ass end, "Perp tagged. Tag identifier Whiskey Zulu."

In the excitement, the chase seemed to stretch to hours as I tailed him into Deep Ellum, though mere seconds elapsed before help arrived and boxed the fucker in with a mag net. He was caught and knew it. He slid into a docking ramp and grounded.

I came in above and slightly behind to block him should he try to run. I gave him an EMP blast, disabling his drive and possible weapons before I grounded. In time honoured tradition, I took my time getting out of the growler and approached the driver's side.

"Licence and registration, please."

The 'pus burbled at me. It took a second for my 'plant to translate, "Fuck you." I don't know how the 'pus did it with that expressionless "face" and dead eyes, but it looked smug.

"License and registration, PLEASE," I barked.

It burbled again. I heard, "I said, FUCK YOU! Didn't you here me? I have diplomatic immunity."

"Not quite. You are not a species formally recognized by the Confederation and as such have no legal rights. What "immunity" you may think you enjoy is merely the Texas hospitality we extend to all tourists. Therefore…," my plazter seemed to leap from its holster into my hand of its own volition and discharge. I always hated the smell of singed 'pus.

As I said, despite being a Jobsian, I feel sympathy for poor PEOPLE.