The man who had introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Chester Cliffe stood behind the blindfolded and handcuffed Jimmy Black, looked at the man’s wife, and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs Black, but we have to take your husband in.”
“What’s he supposed to have done, Sergeant?” she asked, her chin leaning on her hand for support.
DS Cliffe was every inch the policeman. Dressed in a clean, freshly pressed white shirt and short tie; the end doubtless tucked into his shirt front; black trousers and the copper’s trademark buffed-up black shoes (clearly a hangover from his days in the army), he looked down his nose at the suspect and replied, “Isn’t it obvious, Madam? Look at him. That shirt and those trousers should never be worn together; and the shirt’s not even tucked in properly. And brown shoes? I ask you!”
“Listen,” Helen Black replied, “it’s probably my fault. I told him this wasn’t a dressing up do. It was supposed to be casual dress. Look at me. Do my clothes look posh?”
“Do you really want me to comment on your attire, Madam?”
“Perhaps not. But, okay, so he’s a bit too casual. Is that a crime?”
“Your husband’s mode of attire is, Madam, an offence against fashion, against good taste and, yes, against social norms and propriety, given the nature of the occasion.”
“Nature of the occasion? It’s a party, for goodness’ sake!”
“And is what your husband is wearing what he would normally wear to a party?”
“Depends on the party.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Mrs Black. No party I know of would support this mode of dress, not even the Green Party.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” she asked, leaning back and spreading her arms, “This isn’t a political party; this is a birthday party!”
“And you think it’s okay to dress like that for a birthday party? Where’s your respect for the person who’s celebrating their birthday?”
“Why don’t you ask him, Sergeant?”
“Point him out to me, Madam, and I will. Gladly.”
“He’s standing in front of you. You can’t miss him, he’s the one with the blindfold on. Oh yes, and your handcuffs.”
“Yes, Sergeant. It’s my husband’s birthday party, and you come in here—”
Chester looked at Helen, his face a colour that you wouldn’t want to wave in front of an angry bull.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” he said. Then, turning to his friend who was leaning on a speaker, he said, “Alan; negative on the music. I think they wanted a policewoman for the – ahem – entertainment. Phone them to get one out.”
“You sure?” Alan asked.
“Yes, Alan, I’m sure. Do it. Now!”
Alan called through, muttered into his phone, nodded, and gave a thumbs-up sign.
“So… you mean you’re not a real copper?” Jimmy Black asked.
Jimmy laughed “You’re the stripper?”
“Well; yeah,” Chester replied.
“Then get this blindfold off me and start getting your kit off.”
Chester removed the material from Jimmy’s eyes and signalled to Alan to start his music…
I wrote this in response to Kreative Kue 121, issued on this site earlier this week. Feel free to join in; just follow the link.