So I finally watched the film today, and... I just gotta say... THIS IS MAJOR COOL, YEAH! lol! I just love that line! So anyway, I had some free time today and I decided to write this fanfic to fill in the backstory for one of my favorite characters, Lt. Hendricks. I hope you like it!

The Highlight of My Life, by Scott L-B.

I just don't care anymore.

I notice my patrol car still pulls to the right. How did I become so apathetic, so disenchanted that I won't take it to the mechanic even when the department's paying for it? Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I'm not cut out for this. I wanted to be a hero, now I can't even look my co-workers in the eye. These days, as soon as my shift's over, I head for the edge of town.

I pull off the road, into the dirt, and come to a stop next to a picnic table. My picnic table. I leave the car running for a few moments, hypnotized by the steady, monotonous hum. It drowns out my thoughts, at least for a while. But they always come back. Telling me what a failure I am. Telling me I shouldn't be here, that I don't deserve it. Reminding me how Danny's been fixing my reports without telling me. I think I'm at least passing by, but all the while I'm forgetting signatures, fucking up times and street names, losing statements, and Danny's cleaning up after me. If it wasn't for his little secret, he'd have passed me in the chain of command a long time ago. But he knows to keep me happy, or I'll tell the sheriff about his... interrogation tactics.

Well, "happy" may be a bit of an overstatement.

I turn the key and the car dies. I push open the car door, pick up my gay-ass purple mini-cooler that never got claimed at the lost & found and my thermos, and exit the vehicle. A sharp spot on the edge of the door snags my pant leg, and I barely stop myself from cursing out my frustration—not that anyone would hear it all the way out here. Another thing to fix. Fucking hunk of junk.

I sit down at the table and notice initials carved into the bench: Z.D. WAS HERE. That wasn't there yesterday. Civilization. Every day it spreads, now into what I was hopeful would remain my private area, my one place I could be alone, away from the constant tediums of everyday life. Away from paperwork and the same 20 people making the same nonsense 911 calls every day. Away from alimony checks and parent-teacher meetings. Now it's claiming my territory.

I open the cooler, take out my place mat and napkins, my peanut butter and jelly, my apple, my soup. Sandwich is warm, soup is cold, so I take a bite of my apple. Tastes rancid so I spit it out and look at it. A fucking worm. Reach for my thermos to wash away the taste, the thermos my wife—sorry, ex-wife—bought me when we were still dating. Before we were married. Before we had David. Before I caught her doing the "crotch conga" with that clown from the fucking DMV. Before the divorce. So I reach for it, and it feels light. Open it to find maybe an inch and a half of yesterday's coffee. Knew I forgot something this morning.

I put down the apple and pick up the sandwich. The taste of the warm peanut butter and jelly pulls me back to the first grade. Back to when I had mission, a goal. A dream. I'd been told (by aunts and uncles—my dad and I never talked much) of my mother, the greatest police officer in Pittsburgh. She died (of a complication due to asthma, of all things!) when I was three or four. A hero to the people and to her fellow officers. And a hero to me. I'd spend lunch breaking up fights and keeping the line in the cafeteria orderly, hands on my hips like Mom showed me. I'm sure I'd have been beaten up daily if it wasn't for my rather considerable size. Times were better then. A year later, Dad lost his job and we moved west to Shamokin. Dad was never the same. And, I guess, neither was I. I pulled away from everyone, studied hard, trained hard, worked hard to become the best cop I could be, to make Mom proud.

Couldn't have failed worse if I tried. Sometimes I wonder whether all those things people said about my mother were true. Was she as miserable as I am, just waiting for something—anything—to happen to make life worth living? But no. I can't think like that. I need that memory of her.

I hear a truck, and it's loud. Too darn loud. No one drives through here; there's no where to get to. But still the monotony of civilization spreads, leaving clouds of smoky death behind it.

Not one truck, but many. Dozens. What is this? What's going on here? One says "Circuit City"? I doubt they even run the power cables where they're coming from. There's something not right here. This could be something big. This could be... this could be the shot in the arm I need. I pick up my pen and start writing, and as I write, one thing, one pathetic thought keeps running through my mind.

This... this is the highlight of my day.

oh man...is that from the new prequel coming out? where'd you get a copy of the script?

LOL! I didn't! But I did meet Tom Wilson once when I was working my way through college in the service industry in Hollywood, and he told me that what I wrote was actually pretty close to the backstory he came up with when he was getting into character! Pretty cool, right? I nearly wet myself! He probably thought I was such a geek!! Oh well! He was the coolest guy, totally down to earth, and he totally takes the time to talk to fans, even though I'm sure he's super-busy.

Did you know he was actually born in Pennsylvania? It's like he was born to play Lt. Hendricks!