Police Story

I grip the wheel of my hybrid and put the pedal to the metal as "Night Ranger" blasts from the car stereo.  The trunk is full of contraband worn panties that will net a tidy sum when I sell them at that convention in Reno.

I think I'm home free until I spot a police car behind me with its lights flashing.  Not a problem.  Surely the cop must realize my vehicle gets excellent highway mileage.  I'll just keep on going and we'll see who has to stop for gas first.

The cop wasn't playing that game.  The black-and-white's nitrous acceleration unit engaged, propelling the car "Mad Max" style right up my tail.  Upon impact, my trunk flies open sending panties everywhere as I spin off the road and into a ditch.

I'm still dazed as I see the cop approach on foot.  She is a law-enforcement goddess with deep cleavage, flexed biceps, and camel toe that could sharpen a broom handle like a pencil.  She grabs me by the collar pulling me halfway out of the driver-side window, presses her nightstick against my throat, and says, "You've been a very bad boy."

Oh God, if only that were true.  Instead, I was sitting in an all-hands meeting at work.  The CEO was in front of us playing pocket pool and droning on about quarterly earnings.  After about an hour of this, the meeting mercifully ended and it was time to go home.

On the BART ride back to the Mission, I noticed the red light flashing on the ceiling of the train car.  I imagined a a transit cop watching from the command center and fingering herself over the prospect of waterboarding me, but quickly put the notion out of my mind.  This evening's footage, as always, will go unseen until the end of time.

I got off at the 24th Street station and started walking home.  A cop pulled up at the street I was about to cross and I stopped.

"Go ahead, sir," she said, waving me through.  I sighed and crossed the street.

I was glad to get home.  I had spent the entire day in the real world and found it wanting.  It was time to go online.

There is a chatroom called "Policewoman Brutality" made up of the vengeful women of law enforcement and the men who love them.  So far, I hadn't had much luck connecting with anyone, despite my rather clever handle "cinderfelon."

My luck was about to change as a private chat window popped up on my screen.

"SGT EVA BRAWN: Don't resist arrest if you know what's good for you."

I whimpered, then replied.

"cinderfelon: I won't.  Well, maybe just a little."

"SGT EVA BRAWN: Good.  Your profile says you live in San Francisco.  Where are you exactly?  I can take you into custody within the hour."

I gave her my address, complete with cross street and advice for the best places in the vicinity to park.

She was on her way.  I imagined her a spine-snapping Valkyrie, meting out justice with a rubber hose and whatever else she had in her toy bag.  I could hardly wait.

About an hour later the doorbell rang.  When I opened the door, I expected to be greeted by a woman in uniform.  And I was, sort of.  Unfortunately, the uniform was of the girl-scout variety and the person wearing it was no older than twelve.

"Cookies, sir?" she said.

"This is really not a very good time," I said. "I'll have to ask you to run along.  I have a guest arriving at any moment."

"If you're talking about Sgt. Eva Brawn, that would be me," she said.

"You've got to be kidding."

"Not at all.  I've heard all these stories about cops pretending to be kids and how it worked great for arresting perverts.  I thought I could do the opposite to sell cookies to them.  Pretty smart, don't you think?"

"That's the craziest idea I've ever heard."

"Not so crazy.  I've done it a lot and it works every time.  So mister, how many boxes?"

"Gee, I don't know.  How many do you have?"

"That's the spirit.  I have five."

"Fine.  Please take the money and go.  You know, you really should be more careful.  There are a lot of dangerous people out there."

"Don't be silly," she said.  "They're all just like you."