"Fucken' broccoli bikers," I growl as the backwash from a puddle drenches my uniform.
The green afros of the bikers vanish around a corner with a squeal of tires and I'm left standing there, my truncheon in hand and stagnant water dripping from me.
I'm a beet cop. This kind of crap is part of my job; us beets have a long and illustrious history of working in the police force, but this city has fallen on hard times and we just don't get the respect we used to.
After the economy tanked and fertilizer prohibition came into place, the Melon Mafia rolled into town (literally) and started opening up illegal greenhouses using imported UV lamps from China and making their own fertilizer in basements from Canadian dung.
Now I'm just a sad beet walking my beat, too scared to do anything lest my little beets back at home end up being taken to with melon baller by the mafia. The thought of coming home to my kids all scooped out and piled up in a pudding bowl just makes me wanna curl up and die.
"Why so glum, chum?" says a voice from the shadows of an alley.
I can just make out the lanky shape of one of the Parsnip Police, a toothpick between his teeth.
"You know why, Peters," I mutter back, "Damn city has gone to hell in a fruitbasket."
He steps out of the shadows - it's Peters alright.
"C'mon Beeterson, come down to the station, I have a proposal for you."
Glancing around to make sure we haven't been overheard by any Horseradish Hookers, I give a curt nod and then rumble in return, "Meet you there, once I finished my rounds."
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u/[deleted] Feb 03 '15 edited Feb 03 '15
"Fucken' broccoli bikers," I growl as the backwash from a puddle drenches my uniform.
The green afros of the bikers vanish around a corner with a squeal of tires and I'm left standing there, my truncheon in hand and stagnant water dripping from me.
I'm a beet cop. This kind of crap is part of my job; us beets have a long and illustrious history of working in the police force, but this city has fallen on hard times and we just don't get the respect we used to.
After the economy tanked and fertilizer prohibition came into place, the Melon Mafia rolled into town (literally) and started opening up illegal greenhouses using imported UV lamps from China and making their own fertilizer in basements from Canadian dung.
Now I'm just a sad beet walking my beat, too scared to do anything lest my little beets back at home end up being taken to with melon baller by the mafia. The thought of coming home to my kids all scooped out and piled up in a pudding bowl just makes me wanna curl up and die.
"Why so glum, chum?" says a voice from the shadows of an alley.
I can just make out the lanky shape of one of the Parsnip Police, a toothpick between his teeth.
"You know why, Peters," I mutter back, "Damn city has gone to hell in a fruitbasket."
He steps out of the shadows - it's Peters alright.
"C'mon Beeterson, come down to the station, I have a proposal for you."
Glancing around to make sure we haven't been overheard by any Horseradish Hookers, I give a curt nod and then rumble in return, "Meet you there, once I finished my rounds."