Dear diary,
I kinda wanna write a fake novel named Crimefighter Bryan, or Bryan the Cop; so I’ll just use this chapter to disabuse myself of this notion.
Alright, so I’m a billionaire playboy with insomnia. What should I do with all the extra time that I’ve freed up for myself by never sleeping?
I sew myself a costume: a blue suit. I make myself a badge, by melting a silver ingot in the shape of a sheriff’s star. I then head outside into the streets.
After locking my front door, I hail a cab. Once inside, I say to the driver:
“Thanks for picking me up. I was waving my hand for more than three hours, but nobody would stop, until you came along.”
“I’ll take anyone who needs a ride,” sez the cab driver; “I don’t care what their native language is; I don’t look at their ethnicity (I can’t: I’m blind) — I don’t even mind if they refuse to pay me. For I am addicted to kissing my passengers; I kiss every single person who gets into this vehicle. Not a soul has sat in the seat where you are currently sitting who has made it out of this predicament unkissed. So this knowledge of the smooch that is sure to take place mitigates the sadness that I might experience if you prefer not to pay for my services.”
Immediately I pull a few hundred billion dollars out of my cat-purse and toss it at the driver. “Here,” I say; “now keep your lips to yourself.” Then I punch the ceiling of the cab and climb out onto the roof. Just before escaping, I feel the man’s lips peck my shin. (The sensation is not too bad — I’m admittedly won over.) I then wait on the roof of this taxi until a train comes passing us on the right, and I jump into the —
Actually, first, before jumping, I count out how many coaches are attached to this train. It turns out that it has twenty-four: just as many hours as there are in a day.
So I wait until the coach draws nigh that is shaped like a bathtub filled with dry stalks of barley. Then I jump into that.
There is a Burning Tyger occupying this tub-coach which I didn’t notice before I jumped. “Hello,” sez this Tyger; “did you ever wonder why this dry barley does not combust, even tho my fur is fiery?”
“I am a crimefighter,” I say; “I just escaped from a most dangerous situation. Please do not bother me.”
“Did you catch the criminal?” asks the Tyger.
I blink. “Did I what?”
“You said that you are a fighter of crime, so I assumed that you work for the Minneapolis Police Department,” sez the Tyger; “look: you’re dressed just like a cop. So when you say that your previous transportation director tried to commit the Crime of the Century under your watch, I naturally began to wonder how this movie is going to end.”
“You try too hard to seem like a human,” I squint at this Tyger. “You talk funny. I don’t like that.”
“Sorry,” sez the Tyger; “I’m just trying to hold back from mauling you.”
“The cab driver was threatening to kiss me,” I explain. “That’s hardly ‘the Crime of Crimes’, or whatever you called it.”
“But it’s disgusting,” argues the Tyger, “wouldn’t you agree? To be kissed by a dirty old cab driver who you’ve only just met. His tongue is slimy, not at all like fine sandpaper.” (The Tyger licks my shin with his rough tongue and I kinda like it.) “I hope that you brought that cabbie to justice.”
“Har har,” I fake-laugh. “What is justice?” (I ask this rhetorically and ironically.)
“I mean, I hope that you got the fellow’s fingerprints, so that he cannot get his paws all over the next poor victim,” sez the Tyger.
My eyes grow wide, “My god, you’ve got a point.”
The Tyger lowers his vast head, signifying that he is bashfully repenting: “I’m sorry again.”
“No, it’s OK,” I assure my new friend; “don’t worry about it — it’s not the end of the world to remind a Law Enforcement Officer to wake up and smell the coffee.”
So I leap back out of the hay tub and land on top of a taxi.
“Mal,” I exclaim; “I thought I punched a hole in the roof. Could it be that the driver fixed his frame already?” (For this cab’s roof is in pristine shape, and I am forced to climb in thru the back window.)
The driver screams when she sees me. “What are you, some sort of a blue bat?”
“Hey,” I look sad, “you’re not that ugly old man who kept blowing me kisses.”
So this new cab driver who’s a lady takes me to a diner and we agree to go on a date. We shake hands, to seal the deal.
“This is fun,” I say; “I’m having a great time.”
“So am I,” the female cabbie’s eyes are glistening. “I feared that you were some sort of a billionaire crime fighter; but you’re actually a sweet young man, at heart.”
“I’m supposed to be a cop,” I explain, pointing to my sheriff’s badge; “but I’m not very good at metallurgy.
“I think you look fine,” sez the pretty lady. “Would you object to becoming my permanent passenger?”
I am taken aback by this business proposal. “Would that mean that I must never ride in any other taxi cab but yours?”
Now the waiter who is serving our table emerges from the darkness: “Should I split the bill?”
“No, no,” I say. “Why don’t you, instead, postpone the bill indefinitely and bring us more finger-foods.”
So we eat crabs, living starfish, hotdogs, and tartar sauce. Then I use the handgun that I issued myself when I joined my own police force to pistol whip a robot who has been beeping throughout this romantic evening. This stops him from beeping.
“Shall we leave without settling the bill?” I extend my arm to my dinner date, expecting her to grab it and waltz away with me.
“I’d love to,” sez the female cabbie. So we leave without paying.
No more than twenty-five minutes after we’ve been lurking around the alleyways and shadows of the neighborhood, looking for a place to sit down and chat, we are affronted by some crooks.
“Freeze, copper!” the main crook sez.
So we open the door to the shop that is at our left and browse their selection of houseplants, until the crook’s demand evaporates.
“I like this one,” I hold up a philodendron.
“I don’t,” sez my date.
So I put that plant down and pick up the one right next to it.
“How about this one?” I hold up a rubber fig.
Now the owner of the plant store steps out from where he was crouching, and we notice that he’s entirely unclad.
“What are you doing, sir?” I pull my gun and aim it at his chest.
“I’m naked. I’m affronting you. I’m committing a crime. Come and arrest me, if you can,” sez the large, nude, houseplant shop’s owner.
So I read him his rights and put the handcuffs on him. “Is that too tight?” I ask.
“No, that’s fine,” he replies.
Then I bring this big old naked man down to the station.
“Caught another flasher,” I shout to the staff at the police station. My female cabbie date is standing faithfully at my side, a little confused but mostly proud.
“Who are you?” sez the most attractive policewoman on the force.
“I’m Bryan the Cop,” I announce, “and this is my date for the evening — she’s billed as ‘Female Cabbie’ in the screenplay. Now, dear ‘Attractive Female Cop #1’, are you trying to tell me that, even tho I’ve worked here at the police station for a quarter of a decade, you still don’t recognize me?”
At this point, the second-most attractive policewoman on the force climbs out from a hole in the ceiling and sez: “What’s all the racket about? Is some gal earning back her virginity?”
So we explain the situation to this second-most attractive female cop (who, to me, is the MOST attractive cop, despite the official text of the credits), and everything gets straightened out. I book the naked man in a nice, warm, well-furnished cell, on the charge of ‘truth in advertising’; and I deign to press his meaty fingers into the ink pad when smearing his prints.
“Egad, that was lewd!” I say, while cab-lady and I are walking down the concrete stairway of the precinct.
“You really are an important Crime Fighter in this city, aren’t you?” my soon-to-be long-distance girlfriend is awestruck by my secret life as a daytime officer.
“Yes,” I smile, punctuating my answer with a coughing fit.
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