PoD 160303

Pigsty substation #53-14

Petunia Tant, Point Moot and D-rags were, frankly, doing nothing,
unless when asked then they would be occupied with something that
would take too long to explain to a layman for its complicated nature,
even they only remotely understood.
Petunia Tant, Point Moot and D-rags were busy doing nothing,
unless it was the observation of the heater that should keep their office
warm, in which case it partially succeeded slightly over 25C,
perfect for D-rags to consider it time to take a nap Petunia Tant and
Point Moot however were not so sure. And in this particular case
mostly Petunia Tant, since Point Moot was half buried in a magazine
involved in an advanced study of human insemination.
They were all so-called Officers of the Law, with Tant being a
member of the famous Tant family, a small fact this family wasnt
that much aware about, Moot being just Moot, and D-rags a dog,
specialised in drugs traffic, what explained his tendency to take a nap
for the better part of the day. And despite his age he was only three
years old gave the impression of being fifteen years, just like any
human junky would leave the impression of aging a decade a year and
graveyard-ready at twenty-five.
As a police dog he was a complete failure, when it came to his job
description protect & serve as a police officer he was a complete
success when it came to the confiscation of everybody elses prized
possessions without a statement of confiscation (in his defence, his
verbal powers were limited to a rasping bark) under the threat of some
oversized yet putrid teeth, and the occasional rape of a stray collie, by
means of his worm-riddled penis, his other menacing tool of
persuasion. When asked about his plans for the near future, or where
he would project himself being in five years time, he could be
regarded as unimaginative, as mostly napping on his blanket and
raping stray collies. What was more than enough to land him a secure

job in law enforcement, since that was all that was asked for besides
his lack of restraint when it came to gun shots he would then
respond like a complete arsehead, first running around in a bewildered
fashion, then aggressively attacking the source of his napless
discomfort without regard for his own safety, a disregard that might
very well be the reason for a, be it fulfilling life, yet not very long one.
His name was given by his trainer, who was probably the only one
to recognise his true potential, and was supposed to be a joke one
that almost everybody missed but one he wore with pride and tried
to emulate to its fullest potential, since he resembled most of the time
a moulding cluster of stinking rags, and in case of the occasional rape,
indeed, a clusterfuck.
In short, he was a complete and utter arsehead, besides his not yet
mentioned breath, which so often stank of dog shit, since he had a
predilection for eating almost nothing but excrement, a delicacy to
him, yet so revolting to others. Others who sometimes wished he
refrained from bringing them a nice present in the shape of a worm
riddled plate of diarrhea under their desk without the plate.
If the material appearance of animal life can be seen as a distillation
of shit, an emanation if you like, the process that had resulted in Drags could be seen as a failed concoction, an emanation that had
missed a few steps in an otherwise well understood process. In short,
he was just a sleeping, sometimes walking bag of shit.
Moot, being Moot, was what he himself called, a ladies man, selfstyled and well mannered, and hoped to find through his job the love
of his life, if only assisted by the Stockholm-syndrome, which so far
had failed to pan out, something that was not to be held against him
for lack of diligence on his behalf, with so far 87 unsuccessful
attempts, but he remained hopeful that one day soon, hopefully
there would be a human female willing to open up to his charming
personality, and stop to writhe epileptically upon penetration while
conscious.
Special point of attention were his worries about the cost of raising a
family, since he was already obliged to pay for about 6 little bastards,
bastards he was refused access to by their mothers, also on account of
them being in protected custody the little snag in his masterplan of

raising a family and a free fuck or blowjob upon arrival at home. An

obligation he failed to live up to, yet something he didnt worry about
that much, since most of his income consisted of the profitable trade
of confiscation of prized possessions such as money (I am the one
who puts funny into money, he used to joke, a joke that failed to be
regarded as such by so many), while the rest of his legal income was
directly siphoned off in the support of his offspring.
He was also the main caretaker of D-rags, his indispensable assistant
in his quest for true love, if not completely out of his skull after a raid
on the weak and defenceless exempt from any service or protection on
account of being also poor while being poor, unless the service came
down to the one of physical penetration, or protection from a lifestyle
of riches they would probably be unable to handle in a proper fashion
with lavish parties and loads of confiscated prized possessions.
Petunia Tant sat shivering in front of the heater, stumped by the
complexities of an orange, missing the competence of peeling it, and
ended up butchering it instead. This, after he had made a difficult
decision in the selection process, where he had rejected the smaller
ones the clementines as immature and not worth the while
exploring in depth. When oranges were failed, clearly underdeveloped
products, clementines were even more so due to their size or lack
thereof. He also didnt recall how they ended up at his desk. First he
thought they were some sort of explosive, so he threw a few out of the
window, and fired his gun at them, until he finally hit one, and when it
didnt explode, he thought it to be safe to try to dissect one with a
hammer, and concluded it must be some sort of novelty meat he had
read something about, recently. Upon tasting the pulped meat, he
decided it must be the kind that was only just palpable for those who
had developed, acquired a taste for it he wouldnt be the one who
would investing his time in familiarizing with this kind of shit. It
surely must have been the result of too much inbreeding, degeneration
(had he known the meaning of that word), it would however not
become a part of his daily nutritional intake.
The trouble with the heater was not so much its inability to warm the
place, as well as a problem with insulation, that had started a few days
before, when something odd happened.

While Petunia, Point and D-rags were doing nothing, with the
exception of staring out of the window, these same windows with a
depressing view of a regular part of the Ringcity slowly started to
turn opaque seemen colored, by lack of a better word, as it ended up
in their report about the strange phenomenon. They also started to feel
warm to the touch. So much so, that Petunia actually burned his
fingers on one of them when he touched it. It left them (Petunia and
Point) wondering for the better part of their shift, until the windows
apparently seemed to cool off, and turned icy cold. It was as if their
office had become haunted but how and with what, they had no idea.
What didnt contribute to their sense of comfort was that it appeared
to turn dark on the other size of the now opaque windows, whilst it
should still be the middle of the day. This lasted until the moment they
could feel a vibration travelling through their office, and the windows
pulverised in a fine dust, that hang for a moment still in the air, before
it started to dissipate, and as an avalanche in slow motion descended
into the interior, creating a fine layer of dust on top of the other layers
of dust in the office, as well as on the not so dusty places. A fine layer,
that smelled acrid, and tasted after burned plastic.
To prevent toxic effects, they were informed to take large quantities
of vitamin C, although these never materialised, and so Petunia and
Point concluded that it couldnt be that nefarious after all, and did the
only sensible thing they could come up with, which was turning up the
heater, since it could be days before the windows would be replaced
if ever.

Petunia Tant, Point Moot and D-rags were busy doing nothing when
the door opened, a man in a blue overall poked his head around the
corner, said sorry, tossed a hand grenade inside, and closed the door
again without a word.
Here the story starts to unravel into two rather important directions. In
this case for the cops, the most important was not what the guy in blue
was about, but what they were about to do about the hand grenade.
What the guy in blue was about would take too much time to con...

con... half the section in the dictionary about c, and they had about 3
seconds to read about it, draw conclusions about it, and, well, frankly,
duck.
They had an infinite amount of time to think, but it was the kind of
infinity that could fit in a nutshell.
D-rags was lucky. He woke up with a bang, and started jumping
around like an idiot, as he was used to do. He was a bit of maniac, and
liked to stay that way.
Point Moot wondered what to do, when half a million pieces of
pointy metal things hit his face while facing an exploding grenade, a
thought that got him blinded while staring at a loaded object bouncing
through the office.
Petunia Tant got slumped over the precipice by the blast, while
professionally doing nothing. He didnt even feel guilt.
The guy in the blue suit was more than happy, since it didnt really
matter who he would blow up, it was more of an outing than that he
was on a mission, since he would already know the outcome: they
would all be dead soon anyway. So killing cops wasnt just more than
entertainment. He was making a fine point. A crude sort of arabesque.
It would work out nice. With a smoking plume.
The cops wouldnt have a clue about what their purpose was in this
game none but the story continued happily. And ended as such as
well without any cops.

tbc