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Terry L Vinson

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Duped-Net, Episode I -'The Big Brawl'
By Terry L Vinson
Posted: Friday, May 19, 2006
Last edited: Friday, February 15, 2013
This short story is rated "PG13" by the Author.
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Recent stories by Terry L Vinson
· Southern Extinction
· Bitter Ingredients, Bitter Pizza
· Jingle BONES
· WHAT Goes There?
· Reign of Goblins
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· Duped Net: The Interrogation
           >> View all 29
In a comedic homage to the classic '60's TV cop series, two by-the-book yet slightly warped 'flat-foots' protect and serve as best they know how....'Just the Facts, M'am'.....

There are a thousand stories in the naked city...this is but one...

This is the city, Testicle Flats, Texas. I was born a ward to the state in this grand city and I’m proud to serve and call it home. I live here. I work here. I also get my prostate gland checked here at least once per calendar year. I carry a badge (and occasionally head lice).

It was Monday, May 23rd. It was cloudy and warm in Testicle Flats, with a good chance of the wet stuff by this afternoon (though hopefully my newly purchased ‘adult diaper’ would absorb the seepage). We were working the day watch out of J.P.O.L.D Division (Juvenile Punks on the Loose). The boss is Captain James Kirk. My partner’s Bill Melater. My names Munday. Sergeant Jake Munday.

8:03 AM
– Captain Kirk informed us of a possible school yard riot at Dustbowl Elementary. It seems a kickball game had turned violent. Bill and I stopped by Rube Cobb’s coffee shop for our usual morning cup of Joe and a donut or six before heading on over to the school grounds. As is normally the case whenever my partner has had less than the required seven hours of shuteye (in this particular incidence, he said he’d stayed up late in order to watch a ‘Surreal World’ marathon on VH-1 and had not hit the sack ‘til almost a quarter past two in the AM), Bill managed to spill half a cup of boiling black java onto his crotch. As is par course in this thrice-a-week ritual, I asked Bill (wiping fresh tears from his eyes) if he desired medical attention, to which he whimpered ‘I’ll live’ while limping out to the cruiser. With each pothole we encountered, my partner’s feminine whimper grew ever louder.

8:18 AM
– We arrived at the scene of the alleged brawl, the upper elementary/middle school playground at Dustbowl Elementary School. We were met and first spoke to a Misses Emelda Hops, a seventh grade teacher at the school. Misses Hops is described as a slimly built black female whose advanced age is virtually impossible to gauge (in his written report under ‘Physical Description’, I noticed Bill simply wrote ‘Skeletal Remains,’ while in the ‘age’ block he scribbled ‘older than Aztec clay’. Crude, but nonetheless strangely accurate). Unfortunately, Misses Hops was unable to either answer nor fully comprehend my questions at that time, as Bill had accidentally jarred the hearing aide from her right ear while attempting to shake her hand, and my size thirteen Buster Brown shoe had shattered the tiny hearing tool (obviously constructed of cheap plastic) into approximately one-hundred sixty-nine separate pieces. We attempted sign language for a few rather awkward and frustrating moments, in which time Bill accidentally poked Miss Hops in the right eye in true ‘Three Stooges’ fashion. Holding a fresh bandage over her bloodied orb, Misses Hops then brought over a few of the involved parties.

8:27 AM
– We spoke to involved party #1, listed as Pete ‘Boogers’ Pickman, age thirteen. I asked Pete what had transpired. Pete informed me, while digging his left forefinger deep into the recess of his oversized right nostril (a rather nasty habit Bill later referred to as ‘scratching his brain’), that a female subject by the name of Lori Petticoats had purposely kneed him in what he referred to as his ‘jewels of pride’ and that her actions had initiated an altercation between all the boys and girls accompanying the playground at that time. As I listed names of some of the other involved parties, Bill pulled Pete to the side in an attempt to lecture the boy on ‘personal hygiene’. Moments later, Bill rejoined me wearing a disgusted expression while cleaning a chunky, brown-colored, sticky-type substance from the lens of his glasses.

8:35 AM
– I spoke to suspect #1 in the case, a Lori Jean Petticoats, age seventeen (‘Going on thirty’ Bill would say with a rather perverted sneer), a ninth grader at Dustbowl Middle School (she later admitted to ‘flunking’ the sixth grade twice, thus her advanced years). Lori Petticoats is described as five feet one inches tall, approximately one-hundred ten pounds, with long, silky blonde hair; piercing blue eyes; tender, budding breasts; thick, ruby lips; shapely, slender thighs and a perfectly toned midriff. After pulling Bill from her trembling body after he’d insisted on a thorough, ‘by-the-book’ strip search, I asked Lori if she’d enjoy a piece of cinnamon candy from our cruiser. After receiving only a fearful glare in response, I began to question her concerning the aforementioned brawl, to which she’d been labeled a prime suspect. Despite my intense determination in forcing answers from the young woman, Lori refused to cooperate, and sprinted from the scene mumbling something to the effect of ‘old pervert’, which I took to mean that possibly an unknown adult subject might have been involved in this incident. I quickly dismissed the implications of an alternate meaning to such a remark.

8:42 AM
– Bill pulled me to the side with an intense look drawn onto his haggard visage. Moments later, I realized the true origin of his pained grimace. He’d released the mother of all ‘air biscuits’. Bill then confessed to waking up to a hearty breakfast consisting of Great Northern Beans (‘shaded purple’ from age, he’d said) and a four-day old Burrito Supreme. We fast-walked from the contaminated area, with Bill frantically shaking his right pants leg as if to discard a loose particle of unknown origin.
Once breathable air was again obtained, Bill informed me that he wished to interrogate the final involved party, listed as Larry Beltway, age ten. Bill said he had a strategy that was foolproof in obtaining the answers we required to solve this rather perplex case. I agreed, though reluctantly. Bill had been my partner for just over eleven years, and I trusted the man with my life. We had shared many a tense moment on the job and many a case of cold Milwaukee’s Best off it. Bill and I held no secrets from one another (with the possible exception of that brief affair I’d once enjoyed with his loving spouse of twenty-some years, Lorriane, though I considered that nothing more than a temporary hiccup in our trusting, faithful relationship…simply ‘water under the bridge’ as it were). The man was, after all, the Godfather of my oldest son, Gibby, as well as my youngest, Gabby.
In all truth, young Gibby bares a striking resemblance to my long-time partner. Same pointy nose; thick, slug-like lips, and a frighteningly similar beaver-like overbite. Come to think of it, as years go by, young Gibby is even developing Bill’s slightly hunched, bow-legged physique. All sentiment aside, Bill’s interrogation techniques had been, through the years, highly questionable.
Bill had the rather sadistic tendency to punch first and ask questions once the sedation had worn off. I’d have to watch him carefully. With that in mind, I performed a quick ‘frisking’ of my partner and quickly disarmed him of a pair of brass knuckles (complete with razor-sharp ‘knuckle’ tacks), a serrated bone-knife (pulled from his left sock, which was caked in dried blood) and a garrote wire he’d wound around the base of his penis like a coiled blacksnake (this was immediately placed in a ‘detox’ baggie and placed in the trunk of the cruiser for safekeeping and/or disposal by fire).
Moments later, and much to my horrid astonishment and chagrin, Bill had lodged his left knee against the youngster’s throat, and pressed the barrel of his snub-nosed thirty-eight snugly against the boy’s right temple. Despite this amiable (if not somewhat deranged) effort, the boy simply wouldn’t spill (except in his jeans). The youngster then half-walked, half-crawled back to the school building, a pronounced urine stain clearly visible on the underside of his blue jeans.

8:56 AM
– After a short briefing, Bill and I were about to bust everyone on scene (including Misses Hops) out of sheer frustration, when Misses Hops introduced us to an eye-witness to the entire, rather ugly incident. The witness was introduced as Ward ‘Pigpen’ Sewermeyer, age six, a first grader at Dustbowl elementary. Due to his age, we doubted the validity of his testimony. Due to his body odor, we barely avoided up-chucking on our own shoes. Simply put, the kid reeked. He smelled of decayed feces, stale urine and Gouda cheese, and that was merely his bare feet. There were large, tumor-like substances hanging from the kid’s nostrils like meteorites hung in spider webbing. Bill later described them in his written report as ‘booger stones’. Aptly put, I must say. I saw my partner’s eyes begin to water…heavily.

Needless to say, our interview with ‘Pigpen’ Sewermeyer was conducted from a distance, and downwind. ‘Pigpen’, while constantly and consistently digging at his own backside with both hands, informed us that it was actually Pete ‘Boogers’ Pickman who had instigated the brawl by calling Lori Petticoats, the opposing pitcher at the time, a ‘flat-chested, crab-infested female impersonator who smelled like rotten fish and threw like a girl’. ‘Pigpen’ further stated it was the ‘throws like a girl’ remark that had sent Lori over the edge.
Thus moments later, he stated that Pickman was rolling about on the playground, screeching in a very high-pitched, feminine voice while cupping his badly injured groin. As young Ward Sewermeyer concluded his statement (while sniffing his fingers), Bill thanked him for his cooperation (actually, Bill screamed thanks to the boy from approximately forty-five to fifty paces away while holding a hanky over his nose).

9:12 AM
– We rounded up our suspect, Pete ‘Boogers’ Pickman, in the boy’s bathroom, performing what he referred to as his ‘daily facial pastry’. In laymen’s terms, the boy was popping zits on the bathroom mirrors, followed by his own warped, borderline demented take on ‘finger painting’. As we had entered the boy’s john with our guns drawn and our butt-holes sufficiently puckered, Pickman had already spelled out ‘Flat-foots suck’ on three adjoining mirrors. Though I easily shrugged off this obvious insult to my lifelong profession, I was forced to mace and then cuff Bill to a bathroom stall in order to save young ‘Boogers’ Pickman’s life.

9:17 AM
- After ordering Bill to remove the leg irons and body chains from the suspect (I decided they simply weren’t necessary for the ninety-one pound perpetrator), we placed Pickman into the cruiser, thanked Miss Hops for her cooperation (Bill again attempting sign language but only managing to accidentally shoot her the ‘finger’ instead), and departed Dustbowl Elementary School for the station.

9:29 AM
– The boy’s from juvenile were given custody of ‘Boogers’ Pickman, and Bill and I spent the rest of the morning prying and scraping slimy, green-colored ‘gifts’ the little delinquent had left in the backseat of the patrol unit, some of which had actually been molded and shaped into miniature sculptures resembling disembodied sex organs. Despite the depravity of the boy’s work, there was no denying his artistic flare. With a tint of awe in his tone, Bill had labled Pete Pickman 'a true prodigy of grossness.’

5:11 PM
– Following another productive day of serving the fine people of Testicle Flats, I dropped Bill off at his house. As usual, Bill invited me in for a ‘cold one’, to which I gave my usual ‘I’ll take a rain check’ response. As inviting as a cold brew sounded after such a trying day on the force, I had my reasons for declining my partner's kind offer.
As I pulled away, watching Bill stroll through the front door to his modest, ranch style home, I saw Lorraine Melater standing naked behind the open blinds of their bedroom window. Her prematurely graying hair was a mutated bird’s nest. Her cottage-cheese coated arms flapped about like twin circus tents caught in a sudden monsoon. Her predatory grin (minus several front teeth) was hideous, as were her enormous, vein-infested breasts, which literally hang down past her (hairy) knee caps. She attempted to woo me with a ‘come hither’ gesture, and I immediately drove off with tires squealing. As was normally the case after viewing Lorriane in the buff, I was forced to pull over and toss my cookies. After all, our affair, however passionate, was a mistake. A potentially fatal error that might have cost me a life-long friendship with a man I respect and trust with my very life every day in the concrete jungle known as Testicle Flats. Besides, it’s hardly easy to accept that I was once desparate and/or horny enough for a ‘roll in the hay’ with a woman who resembles a bloated, dimply, freckled, pasty-colored Krispy Kreme donut gone horribly to seed. In a word: Yeeeech. END OF REPORT       

Web Site: Graven Imagery  

Reader Reviews for "Duped-Net, Episode I -'The Big Brawl'"

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Reviewed by Doug Boren
Once again, Terry has impressed me with the versatility of his writing. Comedy is indeed hard to write, but he has certainly shown that he has the knack for it. This cracked me up, big time. I hope he contiues his little foray into the comedic genre. ZOUNDS!!! A horror writer who also does comedy? Can the world take it? Oh, heck yes... if its Terry Vinson!
Reviewed by Chrissy McVay
Made me chuckle...
Reviewed by Robert Montesino
This was refreshingly witty, cleverly composed and very different from what you normally do, Humour is one of the hardest genre's to write & you have shown here not only your versatality but a great sense of humor as well.
Reviewed by Nickolaus Pacione
Dragnet from hell. I like it.
Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado
Excellent; I loved this! Very well done! :)

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