Constable Johnson scoops out a generous handful of vaseline, positions one leg on his bathroom sink, reaches around and speed-wanks while maintaining a fierce stare at his own reflection, “I am the law, motherfucker”. Years of tasering Joondalup drunks and Rockingham crackheads has left Constable Johnson with a far-from-sunny disposition. He slides on a pair of white Bonds jocks and douses his body in prescription-deodorant. Perhaps a looser pair of underwear would release the pressure and reduce his simmering self-loathing down to a warm pot of inner peace.
Johnson heads to his favourite hand-held speed camera location: the base of the large hill on Canning Highway in Bicton. He holds the hair-dryer up with perfect posture. His form is impeccable. He doesn’t even flinch as cars cruise past him. A singlet wearing hoon in a Monster energy drink hat foolishly forgets to apply his brake down the hill. Johnson licks his lips and walks to the middle of the lane. “Got ya, you fucking cunt”, he mutters while gesturing to the Dickies short wearing lead-foot to pull over. Johnson approaches the car and notices that the suburban-swerving terrorist still has the sticker on the brim of his hat. Much like his tight grundies, Johnson will deliver a suffocating brand of swift justice that will leave the dickhead motorist sloshing around in the ball-sweat of criminal sanction.
“What’s the speed limit, son?” The man is distracted by Johnson’s personality and is secretly fretting about the ounce of choof he has in his glove-box. “Um, 60”. Johnson removes his fake-bans and locks eyes with the hoon, “how fast were you going, son?” The hoon shrugs his shoulders, “dunno mate”. Jesus, son, does Johnson look like your mate? Before he can re-evaluate his nonchalant attitude, Johnson has a breathalyser ready to go. while the hoon donates a sample of his breath you can make out Johnson slightly mouthing the words “blow it cunt, blow it”. Johnson is in a pickle: the kid was only doing 5kph over, and his breath reading was 0. The motorists forecast just changed from inconvenient to rainy with a chance of a hailstorm of yellow-sticker fuckery.
The hoon can see Johnson’s visible tight-jock panty line while he contorts his body like a cat: checking every nook and cranny of the hoon’s SS ute. Johnson takes out his police-issue tape measure and checks the height. He almost creams himself when he discovers the car has been illegally lowered. The vicious memories of not being invited to his school classes 2001 Leavers floods back, and his Lean Cuisine-dinner-for-one mentality hits critical levels. He stares into the motorists soul, “I’m giving you a yellow sticker, son”. Although, his eye contact sends another, more sinister message to the motorist, “… and you’re lucky I don’t put your hooning head through the fucking windscreen, dicklicker”.
The deeply satisfied Johnson heads to Maccas for a discounted feed while he pesters hot singles on Oasis Active. He spots a couple of lads with top-knots scoffing McChickens and bantering about lasts nights party. If Johnson had a dollar for every punk he wanted to taser, he’d have enough money to afford a new 5 pack of tight jocks. Alas, he will have to wait for his mums annual Christmas gift.