Testicle Flats PD Case File #0U812:  

This is the city, Testicle Flats, Texas.  Not much is offered as far as cultural events here, unless you count the cow-chip throwing contest held at the state fair or perhaps the smelliest sneaker tournament held over at the high school each fall following basketball season.  Not exactly a modern Mecca of high society, but I proudly call it home.  I also work here.  I carry a badge (and occasionally unbearable foot odor). 

    It was Monday, February 18^th in Testicle Flats.  The weather gauge outside headquarters read a nipple-stiffening fourteen degrees.  We were working the day-watch out of M.E.S.T.G’s (make ‘em spill their guts) Division.  The boss is Captain Jon L. Picard.  My partner is Bill Melater.  My names Munday.   Sergeant Jake Munday.

8:45 AM: We had only been on the job officially for forty-five minutes, but it felt closer to a full week. To understate the obvious, the weekend had been a rough one.  Bill, myself and a few other regulars had participated in our bi-monthly Saturday night poker game. Since it had been my partner’s turn to host, he had previously, not to mention wisely, ‘bribed’ his wife and kids to skip town for the night. 

   As usual, despite some serious reservations from our genial host, the affair had turned into a beer-gulping, toilet-seat hugging barf-o-rama that always seems to be the norm.  Personally, I had engulfed approximately thirty-one Coors Lights (telling Bill before popping that initial tab that I ‘wanted to keep it light’), and found myself passed out next to the dog house in Bill’s back yard with his pet Doberman’s snout buried halfway up my rectum. Surprisingly, Bill had pretty much controlled himself, limiting his own intake to approximately twenty-three rum and cokes.  Wally ‘Cuffs’ Goober, a grizzled veteran from the street crimes unit, was found crashed in a downstairs bathroom with one of Bill’s wife’s bras strapped around his bosom (possibly it had been mistaken it for his holster) and his bare right foot half-submerged into an unflushed toilet. 

    Meanwhile Officer Bud ‘Seeds’ Wilkinson, member in long-standing of the drug task force, was found lying face down (not to mention as naked as the day he was hatched) in Bill’s empty back-yard ‘kiddie’ pool.  Fortunately for Bud, the four-foot wide, foot-deep wading pool had been empty upon his impromptu skinny dip, thus avoiding an accidental drowning. Unfortunately for Bud, his head-first dive had resulted in the loss of his two front teeth, both lodged permanently at the bottom of the cheap plastic pond.

   As for our congenial host, Bill had awakened inside the blinding darkness of his youngest daughter’s bedroom closet, clutching a puke-coated ‘Hello Kitty’ pillow to his chest.  For the record, no one had a single blessed clue if we’d even bothered to play poker before the boozing had ensued.  Regardless, even a full day later my head felt like an overused wrecking ball that no amount of aspirin consumption was going to soothe.  

8:47 AM: Captain J.L Picard called us into his office to discuss a highly confidential matter.  The captain is a veteran of over thirty years; a seasoned law enforcement officer whose gruff tone and leathery appearance speak to the difficulty of the job we’re tasked to complete on a day-to-day basis.  His worn, deeply-grooved face looks as though it had been dehydrated and preserved in some ancient Egyptian tomb.  The four to five packs of smokes he sucked down on a daily basis had shrunk a once hearty, muscular physique into something resembling a dried prune lying beneath a heating lamp.  He was completely bald save a trio of overlong graying hairs that layered the tip of his leathery scalp like strips of moldy linguini.   His spidery fingers curled towards the palms of his hands like the claws of some ancient, prehistoric sea-crab, and were stained a bright shade of yellow from the constant bombardment of nicotine.  His upper back bent slightly downward like a soggy pretzel, and his knees popped and cracked like aged timbers with even the slightest shift in weight. 

    Secretly, I long to be the man he is in twenty years, literally drawn and quartered by the profession I do so dearly love.  I see the same admiration in my partner’s eyes, though later Bill would confess it was merely a great rush of pity he felt in the Captain’s presence, much like several months previous, when he had been forced to have a beloved family dog put to sleep.

9:05 AM: The captain informed Bill and I that A.J ‘Junior’ Samples, a local sneak-thief of some repute, had been nabbed late the previous night by one of our crack patrol units. Samples, a white male (once you dug underneath several layers of dirt, grime, and dried bodily fluids) in his early thirties, stood approximately five feet six inches tall with a guesstimated weight of between three-hundred fifty to three-hundred seventy-five pounds of pure Jelly-Roll induced tubbiness, and was also known around town by the following list of alias:

 1 – B.J. ‘Senior’ Samples

2 – A.C. Samples, the Third

3 – C.D. ‘Tub-a-guts’ Samples

4 – J.B. ‘Stool’ Samples

5  - R.J. ‘Urine’ Samples and finally,

6 – AC/DC ‘Limp-wrist’ Samples

    Samples had been involved in numerous petty thefts through the years, and prided himself on being caught in just about every damn one.  He had over thirty-eight documented arrests on file in our city alone, and once told Bill and myself he was ‘going for the county record to fulfill a life-long dream.’  Strange goals, I must say, but goals nonetheless. 

   It seems A.J’s dad, Chuck ‘Pimple-butt’ Samples had been busted sixty-seven times in a less-than-illustrious fifty-eight year career of crime in and around the county, and his son felt it his duty to continue the family legacy.  The captain suspected Junior to be part of a local gang responsible for the theft of a truckload of fryers from the local Chicken Lickin’ fast food joint over on Toe-cheese Drive several months previous.  

   In perpetrating this diabolical offense, someone had forced the Kenworth semi, which was to offload at a Chicken Lickin’ that very day, off the highway to the outskirts of Testicle Flats, near the old Scrotum Canal, and had literally devoured the contents of said vehicle; a vehicle the company’s manifest had claimed held over twelve-hundred pounds of ‘fully-cooked, ready to eat’ yard-bird.  

   One of our street crimes units had run across the abandoned truck a few days after the theft, and had discovered a pile of gnawed chicken bones that measured almost six feet high and four wide stacked neatly at the back of the trailer. Lab results had identified several of the discarded bones as being human in origin, thereby possibly explaining the missing driver’s fate.

    A.J. Samples hung with the ‘Multiple Rolls’ gang, a local group of thugs whose unorthodox claim to fame was that each member weighed upwards of three-hundred pounds.  Thus, the captain wisely suspected them for this dastardly hit and munch offense.  Bill and I were elected to interrogate Samples.  As we prepared to enter the interview room, I was suddenly glad I’d decided to skip breakfast that particular morning. 

9:27 AM: As we entered, Samples belched loudly, spewing a large chunk of a well-chewed, red meat-like substance onto Bill’s left shoe.  Openly disgusted, Bill scooped up the throat-steak with the tip of a ballpoint pen and, with an irritated sigh, calmly placed it in his right front pocket to be bagged later as possible evidence.

   A wide crimson stain appeared almost immediately upon Bill’s shirt.  I now figured it might be days or possibly months before I could fully enjoy another meal.

9:31 AM: The interrogation began in earnest.  Bill and I hammered the rotund suspect with question after question, unrelenting in our tactics, never allowing Samples to ponder a response for very long (although he did pause to break wind occasionally). 

   Samples denied knowing anything about the truck or the missing driver, going as far as to state he was allergic to chicken meat, except, strangely, for the gizzard.  He claimed this alleged allergy began at the tender age of six, after he’d devoured six full buckets of discarded chicken from a dumpster behind ‘Wally’s Yard Bird’ café .

10:56 AM:  At 9:33 AM, Bill had made a tragic mistake, though at the time the gaffe had seemed innocent enough.  He had simply asked Samples what he had eaten for breakfast that morning.  An hour and twenty-three minutes later, Samples was just starting on what had been the ‘main course’.  Bill was fast asleep on the interrogation room floor, a thin line of spittle running down his left jaw.  After a short nap, I busied myself by removing my shoes and socks and shearing away several bothersome corns with the dull edge of a pocketknife. 

   It was around the time I’d decided to wax my kneecaps that Samples suddenly and unexpectedly halted his running narrative.  With a painful scowl, raised his massive left leg and gritted his teeth as if experiencing great discomfort before flashing a vicious smile.  

11:06 AM: I awoke in a dizzying fog, having slumped atop the interrogation room conference table.  Bill was laying half-in, half-out of the exit door, panting like a sow in heat.

 It took me a moment to re-organize myself to exactly where I was.  Then it hit me.  The sickeningly stale after-effects of Samples’ thermo-nuclear butt-blast had served as a combination teargas, nerve agent and misty sedative that put out our collective lights like a solid right hook to the jaw.

 It would take two weeks and at least three professional fumigations before that particular interrogation room could again be used.  Days later, I was forced to toss the suit and undergarments I’d been wearing, despite several futile attempts at odor-elimination. Bill sadly confessed of driving out to the local landfill and ‘torching’ his stinky ensemble by way of an old-fashioned kerosene soaking. Truth be told, my nostrils still occasionally reek of stale diarrhea.  Perhaps it’s merely psychosomatic…I truly pray so. 

11:34 AM: Needless to say, Samples had made his escape after that brain-numbing, nose-hair curling, sleep-inducing poot.  Captain Picard informed us that the state police would soon be on his trail.  I advised the captain to inform them to simply ‘use their noses’.

 2:45 PM: The captain interrupted my weekly anti-smoking/glue sniffing seminar at Dustbowl Elementary school, titled ‘cancer sticks and facial ticks’, to inform Bill and I that A.J. Samples had indeed been apprehended just outside Abilene while taking refuge inside a buffet-style eatery called The Gut-Buster.  It had reportedly taken four state troopers and three fry cooks to drag the chubby gangster from his assigned table, where he’d drawn instant suspicion by devouring sixteen baby-back ribs, three whole baked chickens, four bowls of ‘cheesy noodles’, nineteen pounds of mashed potatoes (sopped up by at least three dozen biscuits) and then bellowing ‘so much for the (expletive deleted) appetizers…bring on the (expletive deleted) main course!”  

  It is expected that Samples and his ''Multiple Rolls'' buddies will eventually confess to the chicken theft, as well as revealing the grisly fate of the delivery driver.  Bill and I spoke of filing personal assault charges against the man before deciding an explanation of said charges might be a tad embarrassing for ourselves as well as the department. 

 7:30 PM: While at home, I have a flashback to something I had forgotten just before Samples had brought us down with his mighty air-biscuit.  He had smiled at me, revealing a set of greenish, meat-packed, jagged-edged choppers any Killer Whale would’ve been proud to possess, and blurted something to the effect of  ‘Sorry, Flatfoot….it must''ve been those last twelve bologna and banana-skin omelets I had this morning.’   

   Needless to say, Bill and I are seriously considering the vegetarian lifestyle.

Case Closed.