The Old Blog in the Desert

Now, gather ‘round for a yarn about the ruckus down in Mesquite, where the former chief of police, one MaQuade Chelsey, found himself in a pickle hotter than a steamboat’s boiler. The City of Mesquite, in all its municipal wisdom, let loose a report that’d make a catfish blush, and it’s a tale worth tellin’.

Accordin’ to the city manager—a fella who’d sooner wrestle a gator than mince words—Chief Chelsey was given his walkin’ papers on January 21, quicker than you can say “Huckleberry Finn.” Since then, Captain Tracy Fails, a stout soul, has been holdin’ the reins as interim while the town sets out to lasso a new chief.

But the devil’s in the details, and a news report stitched together from forty interviews runnin’ from November 4 last year clear to January 16. Forty souls, mind you, all singin’ like canaries ‘bout the chief’s doin’s.

The first exhibit—Lord, what a spectacle!—claims Chelsey took the city’s professionalism policy and stomped it into the mud. The chief was a regular gabber, jawin’ away on matters far from work, slingin’ remarks so offensive they’d curl a preacher’s collar, and tossin’ around profanity like it was confetti at a Fourth of July shindig.

Malicious gossip? Why, he was the town crier of it!

Threatenin’ language? He had it in spades.

And if that weren’t enough, he’s said to have subjected folks to conduct so unwelcome it’d make a skunk turn tail and run.

But hold your horses, for the plot thickens! The report—bless its inky heart—alleges Chelsey went so far as to chase criminal charges against some poor soul who dared file a complaint ‘gainst him.

A regular vendetta, it was, fit for a dime novel.

Then, in another twist, they say he fiddled with test scores like a crooked gambler shufflin’ a deck, all to boost his favored few for promotion. And when the complainin’ types piped up, he’d ferret out their names, swearin’ on a stack of Bibles he’d not retaliate—only to turn ‘round, come December 4, aim to demote ‘em both faster than a cat on a hot tin roof.

The police department became a house-divided—either you rode with Chelsey or agin’ him, no middle ground. They reckon morale took such a steep tumble over the last eighteen months that it made a skunk smell good.

They called it an “alarming decline,” leaving the good people of Mesquite wonderin’ if their lawmen were guardin’ the peace or stirrin’ the pot. So there you have it, a tale of power gone awry, of a chief who fancied himself king ‘til the kingdom cried foul.

Mesquite’s searchin’ for a new shepherd, and they’ll be hopin’ for one with a mite more grace and a heap less gall.