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Thursday, 5:03 AM
It’s just before dawn. Calm, for now, though once again a storm approaches. That storm is a storm of justice. That storm is me, Todd Storm, college town police officer. I stand silently on the roof of the police station, overlooking the city, the land I’m sworn to protect at all costs. The usual clatter of bums hurriedly climbing out of dumpsters so as not to be crushed inside of a garbage truck is absent this morning, likely thanks to a late and harsh spring frost that probably killed most of them in their sleep, fills the air. Should be a busy weekend of cataloging hobo bones down at the landfill. As passionate as I am about the law, the red tape part can really grind on you.
The cold, deadly grip of old man winter claimed another lot of soft vagrants; their souls he now keeps in the miniature barrel of brandy tied around the middle neck of his loyal, three-headed demon St. Bernard. At least that was what it said in the old country legends that the homely Swiss wet nurse named Gilda, who worked my orphanage, would tell to me as I fell asleep at night. She wasn’t my wet nurse, I was fifteen when I was placed in that orphanage, so she never nursed me personally, though she did often lactate when we made love, sometimes quite furiously. We were having an illicit sexual affair, one born of our mutual appreciation for, and arousal by, strictness.
Ironic, really, that the first 93 times I made love it was in direct violation of that which I came to love most of all, the law. Though one can hardly blame a 15-year-old boy for acting in the interest of his love to cum, rather than what he would one day come to love. I had no foresight then. All I could see in front of me were the two beautiful, swollen, milk-covered bosoms of a 43-year-old Swiss immigrant suffering from extreme, chronic galactorrhea, and the sight made me insatiable. However, once my true love, my love of the law, was cultivated after reading a novelization of T.J. Hooker, I of course turned her in to authorities, but not before making love to Gilda one last time…because I needed proof. That bitch was going down.
To this day the hardest, most intense orgasm I have ever experienced was the climax I reached as a cadre of police officers burst into Gilda’s closet-turned-bedroom to arrest the my corrupting lover. My seed exploded from me just as the officers broke down the door and justice flowed in around us. Gilda evaded initial capture and ran to the third floor, with no regard for the fact that her trail of milk would lead the officers right to her. Cornered and desperate, she threw herself from an open window. She died upon impact, and on the street below my first lover lay, in a pool of her own blood and lactate. I would later find out from the police that what I had been living in was less of an “orphanage” and more of an “abandoned building full of like thirty toddlers who had three-ish moms between them, plus Gilda.” Crazy stuff. That was the first lesson of law I ever learned. Nothing is what it seems.
Thursday, 5:42 AM
The memory of the first police raid I had ever witnessed, and Gilda, was hot enough to keep me warm as the cold spring wind blew across the roof of the police station and my naked, meditating body. The cold wind made my focus sharp, sharp like the small switchblade hidden expertly beneath my scrotum, held in place by a thicket of pubes that was a length both suitable for concealing blades but not so long as to offend the sensibilities of a woman with modern pubic tastes.
The memory of the raid and Gilda was an appropriate one, for in two short hours I would be leading a raid of my own, on the Beta Kappa Gamma fraternity house. Campus Security had received one single anonymous report of hazing, and felt they had to act. The Chief had asked me to advise on the case.
I gave my usual recommendation: Justice, hard and swift. It was necessary. When a tip is anonymous you know the crime is legit. If the tipster WASN’T dealing with vicious criminals then they wouldn’t be too scared to give their name. Plus, there was only one hazing complaint. Clearly the hazing was so bad the tipster didn’t need to tell us twice. Sick bastards, they were probably performing all sorts of depraved acts on their pledges. It was time to take them down.
While I was in the locker room dressing for the raid, a rookie showed up to start his shift. I didn’t like the way he was looking at me so I shoved him the locker and pissed through the grate. Then I took his cell phone, called his parents, and informed them that their son had been killed in the line of duty. It was hilarious. Rookies, they never learn, UNTIL YOU MAKE THEM.
Thursday, 7:30 AM
Things were pretty light hearted in the staging area for the raid. Campus Security officers were joking around, it didn’t seem like any of them were wearing enough body armor. I grabbed one of those clowns by the collar and angrily asked, “What’s so GODDAMN funny!?!” He replied nervously, “I-I-I was j-j-just talkin’ about the episode of Modern Family last night.”
WHAT!?!?! He was more focused on some whacky show about white people owning minority kids than the daring raid we were about to execute!?! I knew then and there I needed to give a speech to rally the troops.
“Modern Family? I got a Modern Family for ya. It’s yours, after they bury your LIFELESS BODY in the ground and your kids ain’t got a dad no more, except for the trucker your wife starts lettin’ plow her outta loneliness, ‘cuz you couldn’t focus during a raid so you hesitated and guess what happened? Some punk ass whipped out a nail gun from the frat house utility closet and put three IN. YOUR. DOME! I’ve seen that shit before!”
Technically I hadn’t seen anything like that happen before, but this was for effect, so I continued.
“Shit is going down! You think these motherfuckers are gonna go quiet? Hell, I already drafted up three condolence letters for their families. Real tearjerkers. If you want me to fill your name in ‘em let me know, and then you can go into this frat house and try chattin’ up these sick hazing fucks about Modern Family as they beat you to death with paddles and throw your body onto a couch fire. You may not think this is a life or death situation, but guess what? Neither did those brave FBI agents who were tasked with taking down a house full of religious hippies in Waco. Turns out they were wrong too, and like heroes, they lit that house on fire. Get ready to roll.”
No one was laughing now. The guy I made the family crack about was crying. I didn’t feel bad, he probably wasn’t going to make it. What kind of sad sack just cries when a stranger tells him that he’s going to die and a truck driver is going to end up giving the business to mother of his newly fatherless children? He was a real baby. The rest of the men had steeled faces. They were ready.
Thursday, 8:15 AM
The raid was a mostly success. At the outset, Team Falcon, led by yours truly, was positioned at the front door while Team Jaguar, led by the sad sack, who I guess was the highest ranking Campus Security officer, positioned themselves at the backdoor. I shattered a few windowpanes with the butt of my shotgun, which I had loaded with rock salt (what can I say, the memory of Gilda’s tender touch had me feeling slightly merciful). After busting in the window I threw in a couple flash bangs, two legit, one homemade.
Two flash bangs detonated when I heard the backdoor kick in. The sad sack was trying to steal my thunder and prove himself a man. Admirable, but not on my watch. Still, I knew to wait for the third detonation. When my homemade flash bang, which was made of about a thousand sparkler fireworks wrapped in duct tape, finally went off, Team Falcon burst in the front door. That’s when I saw the sad sack screaming like crazy. “I’M BLIND I’M BLIND!” I guess some frat boy had blinded him and then run upstairs, because I still didn’t see any on the first floor. Flash bangs probably cleared ‘em out. Looks like that poor sad sack bastard was going to be watching the braille version of Modern Family from now on, or however TV works for blind people, I don’t really know. Chances are his wife is going to leave him too, what with his crippled eyes.
We cleared the house room by room, each one more harrowing than the last. I kicked one door in and a frat boy was already up. He pleaded, “We didn’t do anything! I swear!” A likely excuse. I shouted, “So you like hurting people who can’t defend themselves!?!” The frat boy waved his empty hands over his head and cried that he had no idea what I was talking about. I didn’t have time to waste so I delivered a quick Maglite blow to his groin, then maced him. Campus Security hauled his ass out to the van along with all his “brothers.”
Friday, 3:27 AM
After over 15 hours of intense interrogation I was finally getting some of the frat boys to crack. To say I was impressive during the interrogations was an understatement. I had attended some waterboarding classes recently, so I knew a thing or two about extracting information. Still trying to figure out how to make those classes a tax write off since they was supposed to be secret. They were so expensive though, since waterboarding being such a specialized and awesome skill. Also, we had to pay in cash. They nearly waterboarded me when I asked for a receipt. I assume other specialized skill courses, like flying lessons or adult gymnastics classes, are equally expensive. That reminds me, I need to sign up for adult gymnastics classes. The ability to nimbly scale trees and buildings will be invaluable when chasing perps.
The fraternity president asked me how much longer we were going to detain them. I said, “That depends, how much longer do you plan on hazing.” The president made the point that no one was hazing anyone currently since they were all asleep when we found them and in jail now. He said if anything, the police were hazing them, especially since we had detained and interrogated their pledges as well. I didn’t like his tone, so I waterboarded the shit out of him. I mean that literally. It was what the CIA would call an “enhanced enema.”
Finally the president admitted to everything and we all got to go home. The police I mean, he and like half the fraternity were expelled and a few went to jail. Justice served.