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Standing on the beach I can see lightning in the distance. Out over the ocean. Those rig boys could be catchin’ some hell. Wonder if those black, angry clouds* are gonna roll this way.
*(Because of recent cultural issues and departmental procedural changes I have to clarify that I don’t think the clouds seem angry because they’re black. I’m just saying that they’re angry and that they’re black. It’s two totally independent observations. NO way I’m catching hell for this like I did that time in the locker room I told the Captain, “As far as cotton pickers go, Michael Jordan is one of the good ones.” I was talking about his Fruit of the Loom endorsement, dammit! He picked some good cotton underwear to endorse! Those boxers are softer than a French titty! I had just bought their underwear and for the first time in about a decade my donger wasn’t redder than Rudolph’s nose on a foggy Christmas after chasing down a perp. The Captain was all like, “Jesus Christ you can’t just say that shit anymore! The glory days are over, you gotta watch your dumb fuckin’ mouth!” I tried to tell him, “Cap, I’m talkin’ about my skivvies. You take a look at my tip right now and tell me that for the first time since the Clinton administration — when my peen ball hammer was still young and resilient — it doesn’t look like somebody threw me in a sauna and took a cheese grater to it! Admit this is the freshest you’ve seen my cock look at the end of a shift in years!” The Cap just shook his head and wrote me up. Said he “had to” because of “faggot politicians” and then he said “Fuckin’ shit fuck me fuck everything” and wrote himself up. He says he’s thinking about going into private security. Maybe overseas. Where you can “call a spade a spade and nobody makes ya fill out 20 miles of paperwork and apologize to a camera every time you crack a jerkoff over the head for bein’ a jerkoff.” Anyway, the storm looks pretty bad and the clouds are dark, is my point. Ah fuck! FUCK. The storm doesn’t look bad because the clouds are dark. Well, no, it does. Dark clouds are worse, though, aren’t they? I CAN’T DEAL WITH THIS SHIT!)
Whether or not that storm rolls through, another storm has already made landfall. In a town of rabid lawlessness, where underage drinking has run wild and literally figuratively raped it hollow, a man was called upon to bring about change. To bring about the law. And so he rumbles into town like so many thunder clouds, to wash away the filth with his rain of justice. That man is a storm unto himself. That man is Todd Storm. I am who that man is. I am Todd Storm.
When our department received a request for assistance from Gulf Shores, Alabama the town was a pit of chaos. The beaches were littered with empty beer cans. There were at least twenty seagull corpses, killed from asphyxiation after sticking their heads inside one of the innumerable used condoms discarded on the beach. It looked like Hurricane Katrina had hit all over again, if Hurricane Katrina had a thousand dicks. And, just like when the real Hurricane Katrina hit and I went down to New Orleans to police looters as a private citizen, I once again brought my paintball gun filled with marbles. I called it Wal-Mart riot control.
They say the best way to kill a snake is cut off its head. Clearly whoever said that never ran a rattler over with their single cab F-150, because that kills the shit out of a snake too. So does fire. And a sledgehammer. And putting a timed explosive inside a live rat, feeding it to the snake, and then waiting for it to detonate. (You just make sure the snake eats it before your neighbor’s cat does. Trust me.) It’s like whatever idiot said that killed one snake and was like, “Yeah this is the way to do it.” My point is, when I crashed my F-150 through the front door of what I was told was the beach house with the coolest kids on Gulf Shores in it, screamed “KNOCK KNOCK IT’S JUSTICE MOTHERFUCKERS,” jumped out of my truck and swung my sledgehammer into the chest of some twat wearing a tank top that read “$LUT IN$PECTOR,” and started lighting the furniture on fire to funnel everyone outside, it was because I knew the best way to kill a snake is actually all of the aforementioned ways combined. Find the head, crash your truck into it, smash it with a sledgehammer, and then light it on fire. And on my way out I left some explosives inside.
This beach house was the place to party that week. It had to be destroyed. And sure, I suppose the property owners could’ve been mad at me for burning down their house, but A) all I did was beat the sick fuckers staying there to the punch, and B) I blamed it on them anyway. It’s not like they weren’t going to start a fire there. When I ran upstairs to the bedrooms, to clear out the sodomites and fellators, I found two 19 year old girls taking turns blowing some kid who had has eyes closed and was fist pumping everywhere out of celebration. There were lit candles ALL OVER that room. Granted, that makes sense, because what was happening was romantic as shit, so the mood needed to be set. (Worth every penny of the $100 Red Lobster tab I assume it cost him to get those two to suck him down faster than a basket of Cheddar Bay Biscuits.) But with his limbs flailing and open flames everywhere, the room was a ticking time bomb. Trust me kid, blue balls in jail is a hell of a lot better than cumming in an inferno. Take it from a guy who has responded to the aftermath of multiple accidents caused by a DUI/road head situiash gone horribly wrong. You ever been to a cookout where they roast a pig on a spit? Imagine that, except it’s two pigs, and one is blowing the other one, and they’re both married to other pigs and you gotta go knock on their front doors and explain it to the 12 year old piglet who answers before the pig’s wife runs up and says, “What are you saying to my child? Who are you? Where’s my husband?” And then you gotta start the story all over, and that’s a bitch. The candle room I found wasn’t even as bad as the unattended, lit BBQ pit out back, sitting next to lighter fluid and three handles of Ten High whiskey. There are Syrians at an airport with only a carry-on and the cheapest one-way ticket they could buy less likely to explode than that back porch.
Once I had the “cool” kids in lockup I was able to interrogate them. I started with the $LUT IN$PECTOR.
“TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW!”
“My… my chest. I can’t breathe.”
He was sucking air. No doubt crushed by the weight of Justice (Justice is what I named the sledgehammer I smacked him in the chest with).
“DON’T GIVE ME THAT SHIT!” I bellowed. “WHERE’S THE NEXT BIG PARTY?!?”
“On… on the beach you dipshit. It’s… it’s fucking spring break Jesus Christ. Who cares if people are drinking?”
(Then his face turned blue and he conveniently passed out before he could answer any more of my questions.)
But who cares? How about the law? That sacred, God-given set of rules that tells you what you’re not allowed to do. Or maybe he’d be okay with terrorists breaking into his house and fucking his dog, or 14 year olds buying wine coolers at their leisure. You know, stuff that would happen without the law. Idiot.
The $LUT IN$PECTOR was right about one thing, though. The beach was where I needed to be. Gulf Shores had banned booze on the beach, and I was about to make sure that ban was upheld. I spent the night preparing. I meditated. I took target practice by shooting marbles from my paintball gun at party goers on their way home. I jacked off with my non-writing hand so as not to wear it out before what was sure to be a long day of ticket writing. I was ready.
That morning the dawn rose from the east and bathed me in warmth. It was as if justice was embracing me. Telling me, “Todd, complete my sacred mission.” I nodded, and loaded my paintball gun with marbles. Marbles that I had also left in the freezer all night, because fuck. unlawful. drinking.
The beaches began to fill. Margaritas and hand jobs were everywhere. The “woos” and “nice to meet yous” of the college students disgusted me. They had no regard for this poor town, whose economy they were exponentially boosting. Why couldn’t they have let it live in the peace of mediocrity and anonymity?
To infiltrate the beach I buried myself inside a makeshift sand beer pong table. I lay there in the blackness waiting for my moment. Then, I heard a college kid say, “Dude, shotgun this,” and I knew it was the perfect time to strike. I exploded from the sand and shouted, “SHOTGUN THIS” and pumped ten marbles into his scrotum. One down, a thousand to go.
I called in artillery support.
“SMOKE THESE UNHOLY FUCKERS OUT!”
Tear gas rained onto the beach. Coeds coughed and choked as they dropped their Natty Lights and tried to sprint through the noxious clouds and my unrelenting hail storm of frozen marbles. Their screams echoed across the water. The pain they felt was not, I imagine, unlike the pain of the poor, helpless men and women who were forced to clean the beaches these kids trashed for no other reason than that they were being paid to do it because it was their job and they were supposed to.
Kids were swimming out into the open ocean to get away from us. Little did they know we hired a crew of Japanese fishermen to put out nets and catch them. The ones who tried to escape out to sea were hauled up into the boats along with whatever dolphin and whale parts the fishermen had been too lazy to clean out of their nets. I was told there was a lot of vomiting. Damn drunks.
“Why God why!?!” I heard someone scream.
I’ll tell you why. Because delivering justice is a divine act.
After I shot another kid in the nutsack with my riot control weapon I wrote him a ticket for public intoxication before bursting into the women’s restroom and wrestling a crying girl to the floor so I could write her an MIP.
By day’s end we’d given out more than 800 alcohol related offenses. There would’ve been more, but a lot of the kids were unconscious from either passing out because of a panic attack, one of my marbles hitting them in the temple, or lack of oxygen. We couldn’t officially give them the ticket until they were awake to acknowledge it. Personally I thought they were playing possum, which is why I farted on several of their faces, to see if they’d wake up. Justice would have to wait, I suppose. But sweet, rightful, proud justice would come to them, even if my farts couldn’t help.
And now, after I terrorized kids for giving a town lots of extra money and causing a minor inconvenience to its citizens, peace had finally returned.
No storm lasts forever. Only justice. And so I must roll on. Back home. Because spring break is over now, and I’ve got some little fuckers back in school who think a good time is more important than the law. It’s that type of thinking that in fact murders the law, the same way that drug dealer murdered a 17 year old last month but no one caught him because me and the rest of the police were busy handing out MIPs to kids walking home from the bars. It’s just like that murder, except I’m preventing this one.