How Random Babbling Becomes Corporate Policy (t3knomanser) wrote,
How Random Babbling Becomes Corporate Policy

Bad Day

It had been a bad day all around for John. Of course, any day that ends in jail is bad, this was probably a bit worse than usual.

He had been walking down the street, minding his own business, when he passed a restauarant. And on the railing, outside of this restaurant was parked a _sweet_ mountain bike. Brand new. Dark blue with nice nubby tires. Chain freshly greased. And there was no security chain. John's morals were questionable at most times, and when given temptation like this, well, there was no question or hesitation.

He grabbed the bike, swung his legs over, and was away from the scene before anyone could react. He vaguley heard someone shouting after him, but didn't pay it any attention. Instead, he started dodging around the block, down an alley or two, and halfway across town when he slowed down, and started riding casually.

He was filled with relief that he had made his daring escape. John had pinched stuff before, but never a nice shiny mountain bike, though he did steal a ferret from a pet store once. Shoplifting living creatures in one's pants is not a reccomended activity- but he got away with it.

Just like he got away with this. He was so clean, and so away, when a cop car pulled up alongside of him, he didn't panic. He was riding along, minding his own business, and a cop car pulled up. The window rolled down. "Hey kid, nice bike, where'd you get it?"

John said, "What, this old thing?" As he spoke, he glanced down at his prize. And then noticed that what he took to be just detailing on the bike, was actually spelling out words. The first word was A-L-B-A-N-Y- the city he was currently in. Much like the side of the police car next to him read A-L-B-A-N-Y. Even more depressingly, the second word written on the bike looked exactly like one of the other words on the cop car.

P-O-L-I-C-E. John was too stunned to try and pedal off for a moment; by the time his wits regathered, he felt the weight of a car door flying open, pushed by an overweight cop hitting his leg, throwing him off balance and onto the ground.

As they cuffed him, John cursed, screaming, "Why the fuck didn't a cop lock the smegging bike!"

So that was how John landed in jail for the first time. Normally, bike theft doesn't land you in jail, but apparently the bike-cop he stole the bike from was getting divorced, and the cop that had arrested him was quitting smoking (and the nearby Dunkin' Donuts was closed), so they were feeling pretty viscious.

John had been booked, Danno.

The holding cell was exactly what holding cells were supposed to be. Cement walls. Tiny window with bars on it. Sliding jail cell door. A collection of drunks, vagabonds, petty criminals and father-rapers sat around with him, sprawling on the floor or bench as they saw fit. John's only experience with prisons thus far had been movies and television. So he leaned over to one guy, huge arms with spider-web tattoos all over them, and said, "So, whaddarayainfor?"

Bigarms looked at John and growled. Again, since John's only experience with jails were TVs and movies, he shrunk back, and in his own mind began panicking that he was about to experience buttsex in all the worst ways.

He glanced around, looking for someone who appeared harmless. There was an old guy, white hair, white beard down to his knees, long grey robes. Obviously some street-preaching nut-job. Probably crazy as hell, but fairly unlikely to butt-rape him. "How about you buddy?" He said to the nut-job.

In a declamatory voice, the man said, "I am Galstaff the Grey!"

"Sure you are. If you're Galstaff, where the fuck's your magick staff? You could bust your way out in a second?"

Bigarms decided this was a good time to growl at me, and round it off with words. "Hey, asshole. Don't fuck with Galstaff. He's my man, right G'?"

Still declaiming each word, "That is right, Sir Dirthog."

"Fuck yeah," Dirthog said. "I mean, assdrizzle, you think they're gonna throw someone in lockup with a fucking magick staff? Fuck no. That's where his staff is."

There was the sound of boots and some sort of clanking sounds coming down the hallway. 'Galstaff' brightened considerably. "Here they come now! The Fellowship!"

A woman cop appeared at the cell door, followed by a motley band of freaks. There were four midgets, a midget bearded lady, probably what had to be the Gayest-Man-On-Earth, and some unwashed, unshaven skank. Most of them were in armor. In short, they were the much fabled Fellowship.

John gaped at them.

"Fuck Galstaff," one of the midgets said. "This is the third time this week we've had to drop bail on you."

"And we're not going anywhere near that fucking cave where Balrog spanks your ass until you pay us back neither," Aragorn spat.

"Fuckin-a," said the bearded lady.

The cop unlocked the door. "The Grey, Galstaff, you're free to go. Bail has been paid, and your court date is set."

And they left, leaving John alone with Dirthog and the other assorted miscreants. "Fuckin' a," John said in awe. "What sort of jail is this?"

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