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I awoke this morning as I do every morning, hungry. I have many hungers. Though my hunger for justice, always justice, is strongest, I hunger first, of course, for food. Physical nourishment. To keep my body pure and strong I ingest only the freshest meats and produce. For example, in my backyard I’ve been raising a hog for several months. The neighborhood children have grown quite fond of it, even naming the hog “Mister Piggelsby.” They’d laugh and chase it around the yard as I watched them and sharpened this blade or that on an old whetstone that I had confiscated from a farmer’s barn. The confiscation wasn’t unlawful (because I am the law); the farmer had been picking up vagrants and hitchhikers and butchering them with a sickle. His land was barren, and his plan was to bury their bones in one of his fields and then scam the state’s historical society into thinking he was sitting on top of an Indian burial ground. His hope was that he could lawfully open a small casino and finally turn a profit on his land.
The murderous farmer probably would’ve gotten away with it too, but I happened to be patrolling a county road that ran through his property one evening, as I had suspected that there was some underage drinking going on in a nearby field. I wasn’t expecting to inadvertently stumble upon some traveling band of hippies getting their heads chopped off by a drunk, angry, impoverished farmer, driven mad by his failure to fertilize both his land and his wife, who had left him for a farmer down the road, one whose seed was far more potent. “I’ll show that disloyal bitch,” he grumbled into his bottle of whiskey as the hippies cowered beneath his sickle, which, if I’m being honest, as a blade enthusiast, was glistening pretty awesomely in the moonlight.
“She thinks she can give me the runaround! She ain’t gonna be laughin’ when I show the state these Indian bones, call me an aluminum siding company, and build a casino.”
I’m no expert on gambling laws, so I’m not sure if he would have been able to build a casino on his land or not, but the murder was definitely illegal. If only I could have prevented that farmer from killing those seven innocent people, but I thought it best to do a lap around the county road first and make absolutely sure there weren’t any minors drinking nearby. There weren’t. By the time I got back all the hippies were dead and the farmer was digging their “Indian graves,” which basically just entailed feeding the bodies to his pigs until only the bones were left, and then dumping them in a hole with a bunch of feathers and pots and stuff. Seemed pretty stereotypical, maybe even a little racist. Since the hippies were already dead, and the farmer had A LOT of digging to do, I figured I’d do one more lap to see if there were any minors throwing a farm party. I mean, the farmer wasn’t going anywhere, plus those minors could’ve hidden in the bushes during my last go-round. Again, I found nothing. I even drove with my lights off to stay completely stealth. I think I hit a dog. Probably (hopefully?) it was a stray, though you don’t see many stray dogs that size. It was pretty small. Maybe it was a raccoon, though it was white. It could have been an albino raccoon…that someone had recently taken a groomer. There’s like a 90% chance it was a Scottish Terrier. That’s what I get for cutting through a yard, though to be fair, it was in the interest of ambushing possible minors in consumption, of which I found none…for now.
Anyway, I got back to the field and the farmer was still digging the “Indian graves” filled with dead, headless hippies. I arrested the farmer, and confiscated that whetstone because, man, that sickle could cut. I mean, I know that, scientifically speaking, hippies are softer and thus easier to slice through than hard-bodied humans such as justice bringers like myself, or soldiers, or those beefy clowns that climb up and down shit in Cirque du Soleil, but even still, that sickle’s slicing ability was something to behold. I also took home one of those pigs the farmer had been feeding humans to for presumably quite a while. That would explain why Mister Piggelsby went absolutely apeshit crazy when one of the neighborhood kids playing in my yard last week skinned his knee. His thirst for human blood is insatiable, I’m sure. I can’t blame Mr. Piggelsby. Once you eat human meat who would want to eat, say, a dead Scottish Terrier? Which I may or may not have collected and fed to the pigs. I don’t need any more paid suspensions, or as we like to call them at the precinct, “justice vacations.” The streets need me patrolling them. Without the Storm of Justice rolling through, people get hurt, and more importantly, minors drink. Unac-fucking-ceptable.
It doesn’t matter now; I killed Mister Piggelsby this morning. I should probably clean up that mess before the kids see it. Don’t know why I staked its head on my fence post. Instinct, I guess. I was pretty pumped by how cleanly my machete cut right the neck. Man, that crazy farmer’s whetstone is something else. Regardless, Mister Piggelsby’s bacon is delicious, and it’s the fuel I need to invigorate me for another day of delivering justice. I also slugged about a fifth of whiskey. To think like an underage drinker you often have to be as drunk as they are, if not more so.
Crap, a couple of the kids saw Mr. Piggelsby’s head. Lots of crying. Gonna hear from the neighbors about this one. I’ll probably just tell them it was police business, that usually works. Regardless, just gonna leave Mr. Piggelsby’s head there now. Damage is done. I’ll get my house zoned as a butcher’s shop this afternoon, shove it in the neighbor’s faces. Sorry ornery neighbors, the decapitated head of the pig your children loved stays on my fence, the law says so.
At the morning briefing the Captain told me I had some serious business today. Rumor has it some fraternity is throwing a day party, no doubt there will be underage drinking there. Have they no decency? Minors, drinking in the light of day. I shouldn’t be surprised, crime has no shame. Fortunately, justice has no mercy, and justice is me. The Captain was clear with his instructions.
“Storm,” he said, “I know you like to roll in hard, shooting first, asking questions later, such as, ‘Who didn’t I shoot yet?’ Goddamned if I don’t respect ya for it. Hell, every time you bust some punk kids I just about bust a nut. You’ve brought this municipality more money on MIPs than we took in in taxes last year. Weren’t for you we wouldn’t have our kickass Segways, our Gator golf carts, our RPG proof armored car, our armored Segways, or that tear gas that also gives people diarrhea. But proceed with caution on this mission. This fraternity has several high profile members, including the governor’s son. No doubt he’ll be there drinking. He IS underage. The last thing I need is the governor breathing down my neck. He’s already steamed that we used all the MIP money for the department. He claimed there was so much that we should put some towards the local schools. I says to him, ‘What, so we can teach more kids to be smart so they can get crafty and evade justice when they’re underage drinking later? Yeah right.’ Storm. STORM! Stop transcribing what I’m saying and pay attention.”
Truthfully I was so busy writing that I didn’t even hear most of what he said. Something about making sure to bring the tear gas that gives people diarrhea too? I’ll have to reread his instructions later. I nodded and headed to the ammo locker, and loaded up on flashbangs and beanbag rounds, and of course the diarrhea tear gas, as per the Captain’s instructions. Let’s roll.
After an hour or so of surveillance on Greek Town, via armored Segway, my new partner Danforth and I located the offending fraternity. The scene was straight out of a nightmare. Kids drinking everywhere, all in neon, as if they weren’t flamboyant enough with their crimes. The neon, no doubt, was intended to obscure my vision. It was a nifty trick, but I had a trick of my own up my sleeve. Justice is blind, but I can’t afford to lose ANY senses. However, I did train myself to go in and out of color blindness for just such an occasion. It was a difficult process, and the first time I tried it out in public I might have tazed an entire painting crew who were covered in paint and exiting a home because I mistakenly thought they were covered in blood and had just butchered the family inside. In my defense, they looked way too poor to be in that neighborhood, and my police senses dictated I act. That was a LONNGGGG justice vacation.
Regardless, I switched on my color blindness sense and prepared for action. It was time for the Storm to rain justice.
We rolled into the party hard and fast, the shields on our armored Segways up. Hundreds of college students scattered left and right. I knew if I had any chance of rounding up as many underage drinkers as possible, I needed to deploy the ordinance. All of it. I tossed a flashbang into a group of girls and told Danforth to move in as they fell to the ground, disoriented. Danforth was still a little new, and hadn’t quite gotten used to the torque on the armored Segways. He ran over a few of their legs. It wasn’t pretty. Of course, neither were they, now that the flashbang had them bleeding from the eyes. They were actually quite fetching before, definitely pretty enough to do fine for themselves in a wheelchair, and oh man were they ever going to need a wheelchair.
I moved forward as Danforth zip tied the girls. I was impressed with how unsympathetic he was to their bloody tears. The first time you see a 20-year-old girl crying blood can be a real mindfuck. You just have to remind yourself that, hey, they’re breaking the law. They’re drinking, underage.
Once I got into the main party area I fired off a few tear gas rounds, stopping dozens of underage drinkers in their now extremely soiled tracks. The sand volley pit looked and smelled like a giant litter box from hell. I leapt off my armored Segway and into action. I pulled a blade from between my thighs, cut down the volleyball net, then I proceeded to capture roughly 20 minors in it.
“What’s wrong with you!?!” one of the drunk frat boys screamed.
“Everything’s wrong, when you’re on the wrong side of the law,” I calmly rebutted as I moved forward through the party.
“That doesn’t make sense!” the clearly intoxicated and confused drunkard screamed back. Of course it made sense, it was the law talking.
I leapt on the porch and surveyed the scene. Many underage drinkers had escaped. Even lady justice’s mighty net, which in this case was a volleyball net, can’t catch all the wrongdoers in one fell swoop. No matter, that’s the nice thing about underage drinkers, they keep giving you a second chance.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted one of the girls entrapped in the volleyball net on her phone. I sprinted over as she screamed into it.
“My sweet! My love! Where have you gone!?! Why hath thou forsaken me? Were we not meant to be?” she sobbed.
I snatched the phone from her and put it to my ear.
“You’ll have your call,” I informed her. Then I spoke into the phone. “Who is this?”
“Who the fuck is this?” an admittedly impressive voice roared back.
“This is justice.”
“Your name is justice? You sound like a faggot. But do me a favor. Delete this number from that chick’s phone, she’s fucking crazy. I don’t want her to have this number,” he demanded.
Did he not know who he was speaking with!?!
“How DARE you talk to the law this way,” I shouted.
“Yeah, whatever, eat a dick.”
I was infuriated. Normally I’m as cool as can be under pressure, but this bastard brought out the worst in me. I couldn’t let this transgression stand, so I made him a promise.
“I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know what you drank. If you are looking for leniency, I can tell you I don’t have any. But what I do have, are a very particular set of skills. Skills that I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for underage drinkers like you. If you stop drinking underage now, that’ll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don’t, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will give you an MIP. “
No one can hide from the Storm. I will find him.
The Captain arrived on the scene an hour after Danforth and I had heroically broken up the underage drinking. Despite our success, he was kinda pissed.
“Please explain to me why the Governor’s SON is sitting tied up in a volleyball net, pants full of his own shit, and crying blood!”
The group I had corralled in the volleyball net had gotten unruly, plus that guy on the phone really pissed me off, so I tossed a flashbang in the middle of them, to calm the group, and really myself, down. It felt sorta good.
Still, the Captain was furious. I told him I was only following orders. He had me reread my diary. Whoops. I tried to tell him that he couldn’t argue with results. We were projected to net over $500 in MIP revenue, numbers based on the fact that half the kids we had detained were likely to have all charges dropped after their parents hired some fancy pants lawyers. But those poor kids, man they were fucked.
The Captain swallowed a handful of Tums and told me he’d take care of it. He instructed me to take everyone Danforth and I had arrested back to the station for booking, so I ziptied all their zipties together and then ziptied that chain to my armored Segway, and led them back to the station, twenty blocks away.
Justice had once again been done, but somehow I felt incomplete for the first time in my justice bringing life. One had gotten away. One had insulted me. I will not let it stand. None can hide from the Storm of Justice. From Todd Storm. From me. Justice.