“what’s this bullshit? Stevens come here. who took this shit
down? Fucking dwarves-this is fucking bullshit. What the fuck is this, man?
‘There’s more sir; there’s four I think’.
Four report sheets lay in the tray and stared up.
Senior Sergeant Pat Marker’s face contorted into a rage so
hideous, the fly on the wall dropped down dead. The veins on his bald head
bulged out red and his moustache began to twitch; his eyes grew larger, his
breath laboured and his whole body shook, slowly then faster until his whole
head exploded showering blood, snot, brains and a sizeable chunk of ear wax all
over constable Stevens who, luckily, was already wearing his emergency
overalls. His false teeth hit the window and bounced onto the floor, before
scuttering out of the door in search of a new home.
Half an hour later, after everything had been sucked back in
by Dr Strouthous and his trusty vacuum cleaner and the head patched up, Marker
sat at his desk with Senior Constable Burroughs, the only officer in the
station he ever listened to.
23 years in the service had taught Pat many sophisticated
and subtle ways of people management, bullying his inferiors and sucking up to
his bosses, which had given him a solid reputation amongst his colleagues. As a twat.
‘I’ve been in the service 23 years and I’ve never even seen
a fucking dwarf and now we’ve got vanloads of them driving around harassing
people. what the fuck is this? are these people morons?’.
Words swelled in Burrough’s mouth but his brain restrained
them; Marker still looked edgy enough to explode again if the wrong expression
was used. Only weekly injections of a drug used to sedate psychotic baboons put
him in a state close to human and Burroughs knew most of all how thin the line
could be. As Marker said in his more lucid, reflective moments, ‘if it’s good
enough for monkeys, prime ministers and royalty, it’s good enough for me’.
“do they have beards like the ones in that movie? maybe
that’s what it is, they escaped from the movie set!’
‘sir, how do we know they’re not what they say they are?
Maybe they’re a special section of SIS that’s manned just by dwarves’.
Like a layer of smoke left after the fire is put out, the
words hung there so their absurdity could be savoured
‘don’t be stupid; where would they get them from? we need to
pass this on and get these people talked to. I’ve got better things to do’.
‘you probably never
noticed but one of them was from your friend Bruce’.
……
‘Bruce, Pat here. what’s this about dwarves?’
‘Hi Pat, I was expecting you to ring. it was really strange,
we’d just got out of Waihola, when we came across this silver van facing
towards us, lights full on and a flashing sign on the roof saying stop. I
thought it was cops because I was speeding a bit so we pulled over and these
three little men got out. they were dressed in black. I thought they were kids.
one of them had a little stool that brought him up to window level so I wound
it down. he said “hello sir’ and showed me an id card’.
‘what did it say on it?’
‘It had a photo of him and across the top said Internal
Security Service and his name, Greg Mabinowski’
‘so what did he say to you?’
‘that they were conducting spot checks for terrorists in
line with a new law which he quoted. Don’t remember it though. He was very
polite; looked at my licence, checked it on his computer and said thank you
very much sir, sorry to bother you, it all looked official. it is,misn’t it’?
‘no idea. We had other reports as well. Did you get the
licence plate number?’
‘no, couldn’t see it. Just assumed it was some new thing. It
was only because my cousin in balacutha rang me to say he’d been stopped as well
that I thought I’d ring you. he rang the ODT as well.’
‘fuck, no. sorry Bruce, I’ve gotta go-have to find out
what’s going on, I’ll have the ODT down on our necks again’.
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