Friday, 4:57 PM
The law is order. The law is structure. Crime is an assault against that structure. I hold the utmost respect for order and structure, some people would say to a fault. By “some people” I mean the guests I played Jenga with at a recent cocktail party. Like I said, I have the utmost respect for order and structure, even something as “insignificant” (their words) as a Jenga tower, and when some fucking clownshoe pays more attention to the pig in a blanket he’s shoving down his face hole while he gropes at the cellulite filled thigh of a drunk, lonely secretary, instead of concerning himself with the structural integrity of the Jenga tower while he takes his turn pulling a piece, well then I might just lose it, and in fact I did.
It was a regrettable episode to be sure, but it wasn’t my fault. Seeing the tower wobble gave me a panic attack. I was on edge, a razor sharp edge, like the edge of the blade I had hidden in my boot, just in case. Some might ask, “In case of what, Todd? You were at a cocktail party. What could you possibly need a knife that can literally cut through elephant bones for?” You never know. Maybe I’ll need the blade to, one by one, quietly slit the throats of a gang of kidnappers who’ve come take the party hostage. Or maybe I’ll just need it because I ate too much salami and cheddar from the cheese plate and need to dice up a thick, heavy log I left in the host’s toilet, so as not to ruin their plumbing, and everyone’s night.
As an enforcer of the law, I always carry at least a blade. I feel naked without one. Conversely, I feel sexy when I’m naked with one. That feeling actually inspired my amateur painting series, “Blades of Desire,” which are just a series of paintings depicting me standing naked, holding various blades from my blade collection. The paintings were supposed to be a soothing exercise, recommended by my police department mandated anger management therapist. Unfortunately the exercise backfired, as the paintings ended up making me horny instead, which on my own emotional scale is nearly indistinguishable from angry.
Perhaps that’s why I became so enraged knowing that the fat man’s hands were more concerned with traipsing the ham sculpted canyon of leg fat that led to what I knew firsthand to be a snizz so large, and so beefy, in both smell and appearance, that a blind man could very well mistake it for a Texas slaughterhouse with a broken air conditioner.
“Get your greasy hand outta her snatch and watch your play more closely!” I shouted at the fat man as he haphazardly pulled his Jenga piece. Apparently my demand startled him, because his sad little hand shook with the fear one is normally accustomed to seeing expressed by a frightened child, or a the aforementioned beefy secretary whom I made angry love to on hidden camera, while strapped to the nines with blades and holding a cleaver in my mouth for a video art piece I had planned on adding to my “Blades of Desire” series. Unfortunately the footage is unusable, as she ran out of my home screaming before I could get her to sign a release form. Normally I would’ve been able to chase her down, but I was wearing ice skates at the time, plus I was pretty disoriented from the light and noise caused by the three Blade films being played simultaneously on the three walls of my bedroom within camera frame. I really went all out for that piece.
At the party, as the crowd shouted “JENGA,” the noise, as well as the sight of the crumbling tower structure, sent me into a defensive rage blackout. When I awoke I was in the bathroom, stabbing a salami log I had apparently thrown into the toilet. My other hand, meanwhile, was flawlessly pulling pieces from a reconstructed Jenga tower and placing them on the top. It was a reassuring feeling to know that my instincts were still on point, even if they had ruined a party. I grabbed my blade and the perfectly salvageable log of salami and left the party without incident.
Even now as I stand on the roof of this parking garage, watching the blood red sunset, writing a ticket for a car parked past its allotted time, and eating last week’s toilet salami, I marvel at the meaning of that metaphorical incident, that being my body’s natural response to even the slightest threat to structure. I was born to uphold structure, to uphold the law. Tonight I am once again ready to ride in defense of it. Out there in this college town I know that the law will be broken many times by wrongdoers, what they don’t know is that Todd Storm is coming for them.
Friday, 5:31 PM
Back at the station, the chief gave us our assignments for the night. Officer Jenkins and I were tasked with patrolling the university’s “Greek Town” area. I steeled my nerves. Crime was undoubtedly going to be running rampant in that area, I was definitely going to need all the blades I could carry. I hoped I had enough time to shave my thighs before our patrol began, so that I could duct tape my twin Bowie knives, nicknamed Slasher and Dennis Miller (in honor of his cutting social commentary), to my thighs. I felt so stupid. A good officer never lets his thigh pubes get too bushy. Worst case scenario I was going to have to play through the pain. Not like I hadn’t done that before, just ask the group of frat boys who thought I didn’t have a smoke grenade hidden up my rectum last week. Oh wait, you can’t, because they inhaled so much of the acrid smoke that their vocal chords still don’t work. That’s how you neutralize a noise complaint, Todd Storm style. Well, that plus I had to turn down their really loud stereo too.
My last patrol through Greek Town had been harrowing to say the least. I must’ve ended up firing off like 200 rounds that night, there was so much underage drinking going on, I had no choice. The night culminated in a standoff with a car full of freshmen drinking Boone’s Farm and Natty Light. When they rolled down the window to ask if there was a problem I fired a warning flare point blank into the car, to warn them that there was, in fact, a problem. Officially the department was forced to admonish my actions, because apparently John Q. Public can’t handle a few front page pictures of an 18-year-old girl with 2nd degree burns from a flare gun round, even if she did break the law by taking a few sips of The Devil’s Kool-Aid, aka Boone’s Farm Blue Raspberry Blast. Privately the chief gave me a high five and coupon to a local Asian rub and tuggery. I was put on paid suspension, or as we in the department call them, a “Justice Vacation.”
I couldn’t lie to myself though, I was downright nervous about another trip back into Greek Town. The amount of lawbreakers and zero-fuck-givers that roamed those streets was staggering. I lobbied the chief to let Jenkins and I roll out in the department’s brand new, totally, completely necessary and not at all a waste of taxpayer money, BearCat 4×4 armored vehicle. He said, “No can do Storm. Gassing that bad boy up is expensive. We gotta hand out a few more MIPs before we get that thing on the streets.”
“Justice begets justice,” I said with a knowing smirk. “Guess we better find these underage drinkers and serve them a tall glass of law.”
“You’re a Goddamn hero, Storm,” the Chief said, beaming with pride. “When my daughter comes of age, at sixteen, I’d be honored if you’d do her, and by extension me, the privilege of just absolutely filling her to the brim with your seed.”
“It’d be my pleasure sir,” I said sincerely. “I just hope you don’t change your mind, ten years is a long time.”
“Doubt I would. You’ve never let me down Storm. You’re the best officer this force has ever seen.”
Serving in this department is fucking heaven.
I quickly shaved my thighs before strapping Slasher and Dennis Miller on either side of my log ‘n plums (only little boys call ‘em “twig and berries”). Then I snapped a quick photo of that whole region. I figured maybe I could slap an Instagram filter on it and use it for “Blades of Desire.” Could be a real crowd pleaser, you never know.
Friday, 10:49 PM
Jenkins and I spent the first part of the evening rolling through Greek Town on our department provided Segways. Sure, it was no BearCat armored vehicle, but still, I couldn’t help but feel like a badass cruising around on one. Some officers preferred riding horses, but not me. Also I was no longer allowed on a horse after I rode one into a crowded “fiesta” themed party in a fraternity backyard in an attempt to disperse the crowd. The horse, Captain Trampler, got nervous and began kicking wildly. Captain Trampler drilled some punk kid square in the throat. I’ll tell you one thing, that kid’s drinking his margaritas through a straw nowadays. Well…there’s a decent chance he was drinking them through a straw before that too, but he definitely is now.
Anyway, Captain Trampler dislodged a shoe on the kid’s throat and I had to put him down, or I thought I did anyway. Apparently fixing a shoe is pretty easy, and also people don’t put horses down that often anymore, especially not by drowning them in a children’s pool filled with ice and Corona cans, according a few oversensitive veterinary students who were at the party.
Jenkins interrupted my fond memories of Captain Trampler (goodnight, sweet prince) and pointed to a nearby fraternity house.
“There’s people inside, doing stuff,” Jenkins said.
“PROBABLE CAUSE! LET’S ROLL!” I screamed as I swerved my Segway towards the frat house. Truth be told I wasn’t sure if Jenkins and I actually had probable cause, because I had no idea what probable cause was. No one on the force did really. I once asked the Chief if we were supposed to know, but he told us not to worry about it and we all went back to prank calling the 9-1-1 operators.
As my Segway navigated the fraternity lawn I gently stroked the Bowie knives taped to my thighs.
“Soon my children,” I whispered to my waiting blades. “Soon Dennis Miller.”
I was fired up, hard. In that moment I felt like Mark Wahlberg, all strong and capable of preventing 9/11 and stuff. We rolled up to the front door, full speed on our Segways. A pledge working the door asked us if there was a problem.
“Yeah, your face,” I replied with a smirk. “I prefer pepper on my mashed potatoes.”
“Uh…what?” the pledge asked, momentarily confused, though he I think he got what I meant after I gave him a swift boot to the face and pepper sprayed him until he was subdued.
I quickly jotted down my classic badass cop line in my diary so I could tell it to the guys back at the station. I knew they’d all get a kick out of it.
Friday, 11:04 PM
Inside the frat house perps were everywhere. Naturally they tried to flee, presumably because they all knew how guilty they were. One kid shouted, “Oh FUCK! It’s the psycho cop!” I guess Jenkins had a reputation I didn’t know about?
“You mean the one who drowned a horse and shot Schmitty in the face with a flare gun!?!” another terrified frat boy shouted. Had Jenkins drowned a horse too? Why was he still allowed to ride them then? I was going to have to have a talk with the Chief. I had to concern myself with the present, however.
“Nobody move! Unless you want some of this action!” I shouted with the commanding presence of cinema’s most dominating hero, the Robocop. The students froze. I reached into my pants to pull out my twin blades, but I had taped them tighter than I remembered. I yanked at the knives in my pants as the partiers watched in horror, no doubt terrified by what their very near futures held.
“Dude are you jacking off?” One of the frat boys asked, confused.
“Oh you wish,” I replied, still yanking at Slasher and Dennis Miller. “Because the load I’m about to drop is pure steel and justice!”
With that sweet one-liner I ripped my twin Bowie knives from within my pants and ordered everyone to line up against the wall. “NOW YOU SHITSTAINS! Slasher and Dennis Miller are thirsty!”
As soon as everyone was lined up on the wall I began my interrogation while Jenkins searched the premises. I turned on the old “Good Cop, Bad Cop” routine, performing both parts by myself. At first I assured everyone that nobody was in trouble and that the bad, “Psycho” Jenkins wouldn’t hurt anyone, that I just wanted to know what was going on. Before they could even answer I thrust Dennis Miller’s blade DEEP into my leg and screamed, “FUCK YOU PUSSY! ALL YOU FUCKERS ARE GONNA BURN IF I DON’T GET ANSWERS NOW!”
A frightened sorority girl finally spoke up. She claimed that they were “doing banner” for “Greek Week.” I had no idea what she was talking about. What sort of new street drug was “banner?” If they were pairing it with “Greek Week,” which sounded like nothing short of a sodomite festival, it probably had something to do with sex and tripping balls or something. My super quick police brain immediately concluded that “banner” was some sort of brand new hallucinogenic boner drug. This was a major drug bust. THIS COULD MAKE MY CAREER!
“Hey I know you,” a frat guy said from the line up. “You’re that cop who came into my art history class, told the professor she was getting towed, and then showed us all those paintings of you naked, holding knives and swords and shit.”
I was caught off guard. I didn’t know what to say. I was so honored that my work had left some lasting memories with someone.
“Oh my God. I can’t believe you remember that? What did you think? I’m especially curious as to what your thoughts were on the impressionist piece I showed. I used a sort of sponging technique…”
There I was, rambling about “Blades of Desire.” It truly was my passion, after the law of course.
“Oh yeah, the impressionist piece,” the frat guy said pensively, “I guess it mostly gave me the impression that you’re gay as shit.”
“THAT’S MY HEART AND SOUL YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”
Saturday, 3:19 AM
I awoke in the police station with a cold compress on my head. I had no idea how I had gotten there. After a few minutes the Chief came in.
“You really did it this time, Storm, you crazy son of a bitch.”
The Chief filled me in the details. Apparently that frat guy’s little crack about my paintings really set me off. Jenkins had to pull me off the kid, my knee was crushing his throat and I was telling him I was gonna rip his heart out and shit on it, the way he did to mine. Seemed fair really, I was still sort of hurt over his comments about “Blades of Desire.”
I told the Chief about my hallucinogenic boner drug theory, and asked if we had made any busts. The Chief said they didn’t find what I described, just a bunch of paint and a banner, though the department did decide to accuse all the students of huffing paint and book them accordingly.
Chief told me I was going to have to take another Justice Vacation, but this time I’d be paying for my own rub and tugs. Fair enough. I’m not spoiled. I’m just a man of the law. I’m just Todd Storm.