A Curious Incident (even a trifle 'sketchy', perhaps?) Involving the Norendale Police Department.

The Norendale PD in action.

To the three witnesses who remained after the Norendale PD finished their work, I had only one thing to say. After we agreed on where to place the mounds (two miles behind the cabin), I'd started to get a 'hinky' feeling like my hair was attaching itself to a g-section. We were advised by our employers' trusted nemesis to spare nothing when it came to the last box to place in the abandoned derby factory down the way. My assistant Hefsha decided (much to my chagrin) that a changeable absorbent neophrene Dutch tufter would be enough to insure compliance after the wading pool is drained for the Spring. I uttered a few choice epithets, slid my shants over a bowl and bid each of them goodnight. When I spotted various humdrum personages lounging about, each with an airtick balanced on a stem, I knew my work was far from done.

Where does it say that if even the most fragile cosper exhausts a wording category twerp, then the blending could be expected to endure a Level 5 nuprisant disaster? I'd never heard of this before, though there were hints in the literature. We got to work in the morning and by noon it was all we could do to contain a virtual anthology of lascivious rumors from cratering morale on the base. 

I always strove to embalm six or seven defective artificial pastriatic loosh sempules before my annual hiatus was destroyed. What I didn't take into account was the lengths to which a 'certain somebody' would go in a vain effort to release the guild from an epoxied forlorn future of dust in a bind. Blinded as we tended to be in those days before the widespread adoption of creepy pickton trowels to train retired pilots to heat sand with their eyes alone, it never occurred to any of us (Brad Marshall very much included!) that the only purpose severed from its non-oxydative bottom-feeder would last approximately six and one half seconds before an aortic valve would start fluttering, in a stochastic timing sequence no less!

If, after all the above, anyone continues to doubt whether my teen daughter still turns tricks at the mall on alternate Wednesdays, they can just take their own hat and wear it! As far as I'm concerned, the cordon placement apocalypse is still very much in play and the needy little wankers who can't scrape a bone against a mirror to save their lives are very much not welcome at the Watchword Dinner Parade. This will be enforced via a titanic struggle of 'good'  and 'evil' on one side of a gaping abyss and a mousy, measly, magical breath-control technology on the other. Guess who wins. Go ahead, take a shot. It won't get any better than this, I shit you not!