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Soldier discovers just how kind the South can be.
But before he could challenge my purity any further, he was brought up short by a crushing blow.
Trish had just kicked him in the nuts. From behind.
"Who did you call a slut?" she demanded of him - somewhat slow on the uptake, but devastatingly effective nonetheless.
We all had a good laugh as Thompson crumpled comically to the ground, folding in half against the crippling groinal agony.
"Arrest her..." I heard him groan. "Assault on an officer... Arrest that bitch now!"
"I didn't see it," I told him. "Did anyone here see an assault on an officer?"
Ten of my twelve colleagues all immediately chorused a grinning "no"; the other two, obviously hoping to one day give me the round dozen - so to speak - chimed in shortly thereafter. Whether they failed to see the assault, or see an officer, was a happy ambiguity that worked either way.
I nodded my thanks. "Right then - we shall be off. See ya, Harvey."
I'm sure Thompson would dearly have loved to come back with something pithy, scornful or damning, but he was too busy throwing up from the pain so we left him to it.
Trish caught up with me as we headed for the two far-off coppers who had just finished reading Mick his rights in front of a paddy wagon; she was giggling, her bosom jiggling all over the place as she did so, bless her heart.
"You see how we deal with bastards in the force, Trish?" I told her.
"I love it!" she squealed delightedly. "Maybe I ought to sign up at the Academy."
"I'd gladly sponsor you all the way through, babe," I assured her, with a possessive pat on her gorgeous little rump. "We could do with a bit more eye-candy in uniform. Speaking of which: mind if I catch a lift into town, officers?" I asked of the pair who were loading Mick into the wagon.
The elder of the officers I'd addressed - old Sergeant Ramkin, gruff and rotund, a career flat-foot and the first superior I'd ever blown in uniform - sized me up in a very short second. "No room in front, love," he rasped with his whiskey-and-cigarettes voice. "You'll have to hitch along in back with the perp'."
"Fine by me, Ramky," I assured him; I stepped in close for a minute to issue some quiet instructions, to which he nodded happily, before I turned back to my lovely little lady. "Trish: follow us in, will you?"
"In which car?" she asked - having the enviable choice of a little red Elfin or a little red Ferrari.
"The red one!" I suggested, just before Ramkin bolted us in.
And as the paddy-wagon's engine started and I turned on Mick, I found he was sharing the exact same grin as me. "Detective," he greeted, with a nod.
"Michael Allan Worhurst," I returned, with a similar nod. "They read you your rights?"
"Good," I said - and I took an advancing step toward him. "Now forget all of that shit. That sweet little arse of yours... is... all... MINE."
Mick actually showed a little concern. The look on my face must have been absolutely ravenous.
"Uhh," he half-chuckled. "All that stuff we talked about, over the web-cams..."
"Uh huh," I prompted, as I took another step forward.
"You know: how, if you ever caught me, you wanted to dole out a bit of 'police brutality'?"
"Uh huh," I said again, taking yet another step.
"You... umm... can't actually get away with that." He paused. "Can you?"
I took the final step towards him. "Honey," I told him, and paused to show him my most hungry, wanton grin: "I just had my new little lesbo bitch kick my colleague in the balls, and I got twelve police-witnesses to deny police-witnessing it. There's not much I can't get away with."
"Yeah, I saw that," Mick allowed. He must have ignored his rights in favour of our little show with Thompson. "But still..." and to my surprise, he turned his most charming, dazzling, heart-stoppingly cute and cheeky grin on me: "you wouldn't want to mess up this face, would you?"
I stopped to consider that. "No," I allowed. And I swung a boot deep into his stomach, causing him to gasp in shock and double over in pain.
"I'll leave the face alone."
Mick was gulping and panting, folding over