They say knowledge is power. “They” are wrong. The law is power, and it gives power, like a radiation tainted spider from one of those queer picture books about crime fighters that I found wholly unappealing to masturbate to. Normally I don’t go for comic books, but there’s only so many times a dedicated lawman like myself can crank a justice jerk to the stairway scene from The Untouchables before a woman screaming “My baby!” and Andy Garcia’s impeccable aim with a service pistol ceases to make him cum like someone uncorked a champagne bottle with a goddamn howitzer. I’ve made holes in drywall with, unfortunately, what isn’t as great of a drywall patch as you’d think.
Knowledge is power? HA! The bookworms who think that bologna is true clearly haven’t ever stood over a quivering perp, held the barrel of a Mossova in their mouth, and threatened to, “Jackson Pollock their spine all over the side of that school bus if they don’t tell me where they got the GODDAMN CHERRY BURNETT’S RIGHT FUCKING NOW!” Trust me, we found out where she got that Cherry Burnett’s Vodka. She got it at the liquor store, just like I had suspected all along.
Still, I suppose knowledge has its benefits. An informed officer is an officer that knows things, and knowing things means you know things about stuff that’s bad, and stuff that’s bad isn’t good, unlike justice, which is good. It was my desire to become a more informed officer of the law that led me to construct my underground intelligence lair. Inspired by the NSA, and the Bat Cave, I’d go home every day after my shift and tunnel beneath my basement. Did I break a few zoning laws in the process of building my secret crime fighting lair? Sure, but when you’re digging an underground justice HQ replete with what the people at the Apple Store assured me was a computer that would stylishly fulfill all my crime fighting needs and one that all the hippest officers were using, a blade closet, a wine cellar (because, I mean, I had the space and the temperature was perfect, so why not?), a painting studio for all my justice inspired art, and no less than three of those kick ass rooms with the rope ties and interrogation boxes from Zero Dark Thirty (note to self: add ZD-30 to my justice jerk list), then isn’t all of that worth a few teensy little zoning law violations?
Yes, to be fair, while I was digging I also ruptured a gas line that kept part of the neighborhood without hot water and heat for a few weeks, but that turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because that stupid old man, Mr. Jenkins, who landed on Omaha Beach, froze to death in his home. I hated the way he always got more attention than me at the neighborhood Fourth of July party. Uhhhh, excuse me, he wasn’t the only veteran in the neighborhood, or did I not teach Forceful Suppression of Peaceful Demonstrators 101 at The School of the Americas? Oh wait, I did, and I was awesome at it.
I don’t think Mr. Jenkins minded dying though. He was always blabbing about how he missed his wife, who tragically passed away last spring when a group of underage drinkers I was pursuing ran onto their property while she was gardening, forcing me to drive the station’s armored car through the yard. The back right wheel well on that thing still smells like peppermint and mothballs. Also, horrific death. We like to play a little joke on the rookies and say that if you put your ear up to the wheel well you can still hear poor old Mrs. Jenkins’ terrified and unfathomably pained screams echo within the metal. We always get a good laugh from that one, though it’s just a goof of course. Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t screaming about anything, because she wasn’t physically able. Her throat and chest were crushed instantly, though I’ll be damned if that old gal didn’t live for another twelve minutes, flapping around in the wheel well as I drove through a dry creek bed and a field freshly spread with manure, in further pursuit of the underage drinkers. She was resilient woman, and I was proud to call her my neighbor.
I assumed it would have been some consolation to Mr. Jenkins that, despite the fact I had crumpled his wife’s frail old bones beneath my swift, rocket propelled grenade proof wheels of justice, at least those underage drinkers had learned their lesson, which was apparent when they were all puking their guts out and crying hysterically as they scraped poor old Mrs. Jenkins out of the treads of the tire. Mr. Jenkins didn’t seem to agree. He was just the worst.
Even after my justice lair, which I christened “The Eye of the Storm,” was finished, there were still setbacks. For one, I made it so secure that I was initially unable to get out of it for three weeks. For twenty days I lived off nothing but rats and my own urine, which I filtered through rat pelts and then later stored in a bota bag I had fashioned, also from rat pelts. I killed and ate a lot of rats while I was down there. I actually gained seven pounds while I was trapped in my justice lair.
Like any other man would have, I had urges. So, after seventeen hours trapped in my justice lair, I sculpted a woman’s body from the clay I had dug into. I used extra rat pelts to fashion a wig. I made love to my clay mistress often. So often, in fact, that it probably hindered my escape. I wasted a lot of time fucking that mound of clay. Eventually I became so delirious from my increasing claustrophobia, as well as what WebMD would later diagnose as Tunnel Mania, which is usually only suffered by coal miners and subway hobos, I came to believe that my clay lover was real, or rather, that I was a claymation character, like Gumby. I also got rabies from the rats. Surprisingly, it was the rabies that would end up saving me. During an especially vigorous love making session with Carly Clay Jepsoil, my thrusts ruptured a water pipe, and because of the hydrophobia that had onset from the rabies, I frantically tunneled my way out of The Eye of the Storm, and triumphantly rose through my front lawn, nude and fully erect, like a rabid, horny phoenix. Everyone who was outside when it happened seemed pretty impressed, especially the kids, but then again, kids always look up to police officers. While I was glad to escape my dirt prison, I will never forgive myself for leaving Carly Clay Jepsoil behind to drown. She was like my Wilson, except I fucked her…a lot. Though I’m willing to bet Tom Hanks banged that volleyball. There wasn’t a single monkey on that island. Goodbye Carly Clay Jepsoil. You are soil, so to the soil you will return, though since you literally were soil the entire time, you aren’t so much “returning” as you are just “no longer shaped like a woman and getting fucked.”
Long story short, I now have a justice lair beneath my house, and now it’s fully operational. I use it to spy on the Twitters and Facebooks and Instagrams of students. I learn their movements, find out where the heaviest drinking is occurring, and then I descend upon them in the name of justice, firing off MIPs and rubber bullets until the threat is subdued and lightly fined, the way the law intended, the way I intended, because I am the law. I am Todd Storm, and once again, the forecast may be cloudy, but there’s a 100% chance of justice.
My justice lair is on high alert. The super justice computer yielded the following information, a tweet from some male student who goes by the handle @DRNDTF. He sent out the following last night at roughly 2:14 AM.
Probably gonna run on the field and bang out one of the dance squad girls tomorrow, because I’ll be blackout and fuck you.
My God, the sick son of a bitch plans to drink AND trespass!?!? When you prepare to fight crime, you expect to see certain things, but nothing can prepare you to come face to face with a true monster. I hadn’t even finished reading the tweet before I started loading tear gas canisters into my M32, and strapping as many blades to my thighs as possible, in case I had to cut my way through a crowd to get to this bastard.
Who is this bold, lawless scoundrel who boasts about such heinous crimes? He has a strong jaw, the devil’s glare, and a rogue’s smile. He may be the most formidable drinking criminal I’ve ever faced.
I burst into the police station, ran straight for the Captain’s office, and kicked in his door.
“Storm!?!?!” he shouted, terrified. “Jesus Christ, we thought you were dead. You haven’t been to work in a month. We had a funeral. No one came other than me, not even the priest. He’s still pretty steamed about the time you raided a First Communion and pepper sprayed all those 2nd graders drinking wine. But goddammit, it is magnificent to see your grizzled, ugly face, you crime fighting son of a bitch. Let me guess, you were deep undercover? Were you the one who viciously beat the kingpin of that high school Fake ID operation?”
“Someone beat the shit out of Billy Miller? Dammit! That lucky SOB.”
“Oh, right,” the Captain remembered, looking at a nearby file. “That couldn’t have been you. It was Billy’s stepdad who did that. We need to find him, because Billy is still in that coma. On the bright side, we did write 47 MIP tickets last night.”
While I was jealous that someone had the pleasure of putting one of Storm’s Most Wanted in a justice snooze, I had more pressing issues. I explained to the Captain that the day’s football game was in danger. At first, the Captain assumed I meant terrorists, but I assured him that it was much worse. Someone planned to run onto the field, while drunk.
“Well, yeah. If the Tigers win today the students are probably going to rush the field,” the Captain said.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“AND YOU’RE JUST GONNA LET IT HAPPEN!?! Drunk people? Being places!?! You’ve changed since I spent a month deep below ground eating rats and humping dirt,” I snarled.
Before the Captain could finish, I slapped him across his fat face and shook my head in disappointment. Perhaps he wasn’t the lawman I assumed him to be after all.
“Me, my two machetes, my tear gas loaded M32, my kick ass Gestapo knife I won on the black market version of Ebay, and the finely ground glass shards I use to blind dangerous perps, are going to be on that field, and if this @DRNDTF character or any other drunk student so much as places a foot on the grass, well, let’s just say that I will literally kill them.”
On the field now. My eyes scan the crowd for any sign of intruders. I may or may not have accidentally thrown some glass shards into the eyes of a student athletic trainer. HE SHOULD HAVE HAD CREDENTIALS…more readily visible, because he did actually have them in his pocket.
Sort of freaked out when the band came on the field. Fired a tear gas canister right into a tuba. The fat nerd holding the thing was still crying and shitting his pants as they carted him off the field.
Damn criminals have me so on edge that they’re hurting innocent people, through me. They’ve perverted the law, and not in the good way, like my surrealist painting series, “Perverted Law,” in which I depict myself and Justice Sonya Sotomayor 69’ing on top of a bed sheeted by the U.S. Constitution and also we both have bald eagle heads.
My God. The home team is up late. The student section is brimming with treacherous excitement. Better crap out my machete handles and assemble those bad boys.
Chaos. Pure chaos. Students everywhere. I’m slicing tendons as quickly as I can but they just keep coming. Some psycho covered in face paint ran straight at me. I took the perp down but I used up all my broken glass in the process. At least that girl won’t be getting up again.
MY GOD! There he is! The strong jawed sick son of a bitch from Twitter. He’s across the field, chugging from a bottle of whiskey and absolutely plowing some cheerleader.
Hold on. Wait. The son of a bitch just pointed at me, powerfully. I WILL DESTROY HIM. No one mocks the law, especially drinking laws.
I awoke in a hospital bed. I have no idea what happened. The last thing I remember is being pointed at before I began to see red with rage. The Captain told me I crippled seventy-three students. I asked him how many were underage drinkers.
“DAMMIT STORM. It doesn’t matter. We have to let you go. Disavow all knowledge of your existence. I’d arrest, but…” the Captain began to well up. “I’ve got too much goddamn respect for you. But it’s over my head. So I’ve decided to tell the governor you were a crazed hobo. We’ve already killed a different vagrant and shown the governor the body.”
“What about me?” I asked. “What am I without the law?”
“You’re nobody, Storm. I decided to keep you dead. Now get out of here.”
The Captain turned around to wipe a tear. As he did, I silently whisked myself away through the window. Though it probably seemed pretty stealth and awesome to him, I actually landed really hard on an awning four stories below and broke my arm, so I had to readmit myself to the hospital literally like ten minutes later.
But that was it. My career as a lawman was over. Ended by the arrogance of a handsome drinker with no regard for the law or the fact that he was absolutely pummeling some cheerleader’s innocence. Could it really all be over?
No. NO. My days with the law are not through. I was once a soldier of it, but now that I am dead, I shall become the law’s guardian angel. For now I retreat to my justice lair, The Eye of the Storm. With blade and shotgun and possibly bow and arrow, like in that show, Arrow, I will keep defending the law. And I will take down that handsome son of a bitch.