Our ''strictly by the book'' tale begins:

This is the city, Testicle Flats, Texas. I live here. I shower here. I get my prostate gland checked here on at least a semi-annual basis. I put my life on the line here. I also carry a badge (and occasionally unbearable foot odor). 

It was Monday, July 21st. It was warm and muggy in Testicle Flats, with the thermostat reading a less-than-frigid eighty-two degrees at seven AM, with an expected high around the one-hundred six mark. Translation: Hot enough to transform cow paddies into Cocoa Crispy treats on the nearest sidewalk. 

We were working the day watch out of S.L.O.O.C.L (Stolen Laundry Off Of Clothes Lines) Division. The boss is Captain William Kidd. My partner’s Bill Melater. My names Munday. Sergeant Jake Munday.

8:13 AM: Captain Kidd, fresh off a snorkeling trip in the Bahamas, called us into his office for an urgent pow-wow. There had been reports filtered to the vice squad that drug payoffs were being made to local bands hired to play a downtown club dubbed ‘The HORNEY’S NEST’. 

The captain, while constantly readjusting the blackened eye patch covering his left orb, explained that he wanted Bill and I to go undercover as veteran rock musicians in order to confirm such rumors. Not to be insubordinate, I felt it necessary to immediately remind the captain of the woeful lack of experience Bill and I brought to the assignment in terms of musical knowledge.

In my own case, the only instrument I’d ever tried to master was the piano at around the tender age of eight or nine, an attempt that had ended tragically when the town’s only qualified teacher had lost several fingers via a rabid gerbil’s gnashing teeth just days into my initial lessons.

As for Bill, he informed the captain that his lone musical experience consisted of ‘blowing a kazoo’ at one of his children’s birthday parties several years earlier. While casually whittling away at his peg-leg with a wooden-handled machete, Captain Kidd informed us that actual musical talent was not a requirement of the assignment, just simple infiltration of the club and subsequent interviews with management and employees. Bill and I departed the office equally relieved as the captain used a large steel file to sharpen the tip of his hooked hand. I’ve always respected that man for persevering despite obvious physical handicaps, not to mention a strange, sometimes unintelligible ‘Islander’ accent.

10:22 AM: While waiting to be made over by the department’s crack team of disguise specialists, Bill and I attempted to create a name for our fictitious rock band. Bill leaned towards ‘The Trouser Snakes’, while I fancied ‘The Powdered Nostrils’. Captain Kidd listened to our suggestions, inexplicably laughing until tears spewed forth from his one good eye, before informing us that an appointment had already been made for us to speak with the club manager using the name ‘The Old Farts’. According to the captain, our cover was that we were the only survivors from a late sixties/early seventies rock band in the mode of The Byrds or The Monkeys called the ‘Yellow Bellied Pecker-heads’. It seems the management of the HORNEY’S NEST, despite the overtly crude name and all the modern trappings associated with today’s club scene, were big into booking nostalgia acts. Needless to say, Bill and I headed to the undercover unit for our makeovers with a black cloud of uncertainty shadowing our every move.

3:34 PM: Following nearly four hours spent in make-up and wardrobe, Bill and I were ready to rock ‘n roll, in a manner of speaking. Bill resembled an eighty year old version of Mick Jagger, with a set of four-inch thick, blood-red rubber lips super-glued onto his mouth to top off an otherwise brilliant disguise. Our department’s undercover preparation specialist, Joanna ‘Fiberglass Boobs’ Pantywaist, had assured Bill that the lips would come off easily by applying either battery acid or by utilizing a serrated bone knife or similarly sharp-edged utensil. I could have sworn I’d spotted a tiny tear run down Bill’s artificial jaw at that particular bit of info.

I saw myself as a senior citizen version of Buddy Holly, or perhaps what Holly had resembled following the ill-fated plane crash. For one, I had enough plastic flesh welded onto my body to create hundreds of G.I. Joe dolls with Kung Fu grip. Secondly, a six-inch high, eighteen inch long multi-colored wig hung from my noggin like a mutated dish sponge. Third, and easily most embarrassing of all, Bill and I were forced to don (with a little help from Joanna and her handy crowbar) knee-high silver boots with eight-inch heels. Personally, my rear end was perched so high I felt as if I was being set up to be mounted by ‘Secretariat’.

In giving myself a quick once-over in a full length mirror before departing the station, it took every fiber of my being to resist sobbing aloud. Unfortunately, Bill wasn’t so strong. It took the undercover specialists an additional twenty minutes to re-fit his foot long red and gray wig.

5:45 PM: I drove us to the HORNEY’S NEST club to meet with the manager, one Delbert ‘Gums’ Owens. Actually, we both drove. With the disco boots from hell we were forced to wear, I found it impossible to work both the gas and brake pedals. Thus, Bill assisted with the acceleration pedal. Hopefully, the ambulance we ran off that steep embankment wasn’t carrying anyone in critical condition.

6:12 PM: We finally managed to enter the club. It had taken me seven full minutes and a Herculean effort to free Bill’s rear end from the car seat of our undercover vehicle, a nineteen eighty-six model Yugo.

With the culprit no doubt being a breakfast consisting of chili dogs and extra-spicy fries, it seems Bill had ‘leaked a hot one’ which had essentially melted his imitation leather pants to the cheap plastic upholstery. The tiny, circular hole on his left butt-cheek is hardly noticeable, save several protruding (and slightly scorched) butt hairs.

The inside of the club was pitch-black, and Bill accidentally tripped upon entry, spiraling downward and striking his mouth on a solid oak podium used to check ID’s. Upon descent to the hardwood flooring, several of Bill’s fake teeth had spilled free. I barely had time to staple them back into his gums before we were greeted by Delbert Owens, the club manager.

6:17 PM: Owens, a balding, slightly-hunchbacked white male whose approximate age I gauged roughly between eighty-five and one-hundred six, led us into his office at the back of the club.

6:34 PM: With ‘Gums’ Owens blazing the trail, it took us a full seventeen minutes to cover the relatively short seventy-foot distance. Once inside, we took a seat inside the well-lit office and got our first good look at the subject. Both Bill and I could hardly contain our shock and disgust at the man’s overall appearance.

He stood perhaps five-seven, with the pronounced back-growth intact, and weighed approximately sixty-five to seventy pounds. To be blunt, the old man resembled dental floss with feet. Or perhaps I should say ‘badly stained dentures’ with feet. His sharp-tipped nose was as long as the man was tall, and three to four inch whitish hairs snaked from each constantly flaring nostril like a insect’s probing antennae.

The elderly Mister Owens possessed small, beady eyes, and a set of ears only Dumbo’s mother could truly appreciate. He spoke in a nasal whine, as if he had oversized cucumbers stuck up his Klinger-sized beak. Owens asked us to sit as he wormed his way behind a garbage-littered desk overflowing with various filth magazines. I spotted recent issues of such vile male entertainment as ‘Penthouse’, ‘Playboy’, ‘Hustler’, ‘Foot Action’, ‘Leather & Chains Monthly’, and ‘Boy Scout Journal’. I had to elbow Bill several times as he attempted to stash the latest issue of ‘Big Hairy German Beauties’ into his massive right boot.

6:38 PM: As we listened (and itched profusely), Owens informed us that he wasn’t sure the twenty to twenty-five year old demographic would ‘rage’ to our ‘scene’. He told us that our ‘vibes’ were outdated, and that our overall look was ‘simply destructive’. At this point, Bill leaned over as to inquire whether or not we’d just been complimented or insulted. Sensing our cover’s demise (not to mention an on-coming bowel movement) I told Owens we would work cheap, and that we were simply searching for a comeback venue. Owens leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling as if in deep thought (all the while submerging his right arm up to the elbow into his massive left nostril). After flicking a greenish booger the size of a small toaster onto a nearby wall, the man leaned forward and informed Bill and I that we would be given a ‘one night stand’ in order to impress before a final decision would be made in terms of our long term status.

6:45 PM: As Bill leaned up to ask Owens about an agreed upon payment, my eyes widened in terror as I noticed that two of my partner’s fake front teeth (the same pair that had earlier been jarred loose by the club’s podium) had fallen into his lap just as his lips had parted to speak. I nonchalantly kicked Bill’s ankle to get his attention, and got more than I’d ever bargained for. As he’d turned about to address my aggressive action, a large chunk of Bill’s fake lower lip had flown free and nested inside my wig. 

Point of order: professionalism is a vital part of our job description as sworn police officers. In fact, I’ve always prided myself in being able to control my emotions, no matter the situation. That said, once Bill realized that a large majority of his mouth was now deposited inside my synthetic scalp, the comic shock on his face…the widened, fright-filled eyes….the warped, horrific grin…the missing teeth…caused me to double over onto the thick, carpeted floor in uncontrollable hysterics. As warm snot ran from my nose in a sticky torrent and both my jaws and ribcage ached from howling laughter, I felt Bill tugging in desperation on the back of my shirt. When I finally was able to regain a semblance of self-control, I leapt up a bit too abruptly, causing my ‘Bozo’ wig to sail free and land atop a nearby potted plant. This sent Bill into a non-voluntary grin, which subsequently caused his caramel-covered nose to shoot off his face with a wet, ‘plopping’ sound, somehow landing in my still-opened mouth. Bill was then forced to hoist me upside down by the ankles and shake vigorously in order to prevent the fake honker from possibly choking me to death.

To say the very least, our cover was blown. In all frankness, we both resembled victims of a nuclear holocaust. Sometime during our impromptu meltdown, Delbert ‘Gums’ Owens had keeled over in his leather chair from a massive coronary, no doubt from the shock of watching Bill and I ‘fall apart’ like marionettes with severed strings.

8:12 PM: We informed Captain Kidd of the tragic events, with a bit of creative editing on my part, of course. We informed him that Delbert ‘Gums’ Owen’s ticker had gone out while listening to Bill sing a rock-a-billy version of ‘Shake Your Booty’. The captain had then spoken via phone to Owen’s younger brother, Jonah ‘Dusty’ Owens, a white male, age seventy-nine, who had informed the captain that the club would immediately be closed down and transformed into a bakery that specialized in ‘pornographic pastries’. ‘Dusty’ Owens stated he knew nothing of drug payments to hired bands, and promised the new triple-XXX bakery would install a fresh, ‘family friendly’ atmosphere.

10:16 PM: Bill called me at home. He asked if I had a can of paint remover handy, as a portion of ‘elastic ear’ had somehow gotten permanently lodged between his butt-cheeks. Substituting a small acetylene torch, I told him I’d be right over.

Case Closed.