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Action Squad! (Updated 4/16)
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<blockquote data-quote="Pierce" data-source="post: 1441331" data-attributes="member: 12161"><p>The man on the green Harley roared up in the visitors parking outside the LAPD headquarters. He was definitely <em>not</em> from California. The dusty, well-worn camouflage jacket worn over rugged overalls and a henley that used to be white would have tipped off all the locals who weren't blind. The hunter's orange ball cap he wore snug on his head would have done it for the blind ones.</p><p></p><p>"Hoo-ee! Cho, I'm a right Saleau, for true! Ain't dat right, Caimon?" Anyone startled enough to actually stop and consider the man might have though he was talking to his bike. Those a bit more observant would have seen the alligator head mounted on the front. The ones with the sharpest eyes may have noticed that the custom paint job was patterned into reptilian scales and that the shadow of the rear leg camouflaged the Mossburg in a shotgun holster quite nicely.</p><p></p><p>He sniffed his armpits. "Ech, Caimon, I gotta Pouponer 'fore I head in to my meetin' else I be all a' hont! You stay ri' chere an watch my chose, bebette."</p><p></p><p>Pulling off his cap just long enough to run a comb through his graying, greased hair, the Cajun headed for the front entrance. He checked his appearance one last time in the reflection of the plate glass door, grimaced, and entered. The bustle inside was about what he was used to on a busy Saturday night back home in Louisiana. Of course, it was 10AM on a Monday here in LA. He sidestepped past a trio of hookers being hauled away by a uniformed officer and presented himself to the desk sergeant.</p><p></p><p>"Hunting licenses are in room 240. Upstairs and to the left. NEXT!"</p><p></p><p>"No, podna! I ain't here for no license. You see, I have an appointment with your Capitan - a Mr. Osbourne - for true."</p><p></p><p>"You have an appointment? With Captain Osbourne?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yessiree, saa-gent. 'Course, 'fore I go on I'd be most happy if you'd point out where the cahbin might be."</p><p></p><p>Nonplussed, the sergeant stammered, "Uh, I'm sorry - what?"</p><p></p><p>"Yawr leetle boys room? Mais, I gotsa wash up 'fore I go to that meetin'. I been on the road for a day and a half and hadn't got even near a hosepipe! If'n I go in dere like this, yawr boss end up fremeers, for <em>true</em>!"</p><p></p><p>"Oh, uh - the restroom's right down that hall," the officer waved towards the right of the large entry room. He hoped desperately that his shift would end before this bumpkin came back. There was definitely enough dirt on the hick to keep him washing for a day at least. <em>We don't normally get the crazy homeless guys this early. Geez, he smells like - what the hell <strong>is</strong> that?</em></p><p></p><p>"Merci beaucoup, mon ami. I shall be on back presently. You let Captain Osbourne know that Del Boudreaux is arrived!"</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Pierce, post: 1441331, member: 12161"] The man on the green Harley roared up in the visitors parking outside the LAPD headquarters. He was definitely [i]not[/i] from California. The dusty, well-worn camouflage jacket worn over rugged overalls and a henley that used to be white would have tipped off all the locals who weren't blind. The hunter's orange ball cap he wore snug on his head would have done it for the blind ones. "Hoo-ee! Cho, I'm a right Saleau, for true! Ain't dat right, Caimon?" Anyone startled enough to actually stop and consider the man might have though he was talking to his bike. Those a bit more observant would have seen the alligator head mounted on the front. The ones with the sharpest eyes may have noticed that the custom paint job was patterned into reptilian scales and that the shadow of the rear leg camouflaged the Mossburg in a shotgun holster quite nicely. He sniffed his armpits. "Ech, Caimon, I gotta Pouponer 'fore I head in to my meetin' else I be all a' hont! You stay ri' chere an watch my chose, bebette." Pulling off his cap just long enough to run a comb through his graying, greased hair, the Cajun headed for the front entrance. He checked his appearance one last time in the reflection of the plate glass door, grimaced, and entered. The bustle inside was about what he was used to on a busy Saturday night back home in Louisiana. Of course, it was 10AM on a Monday here in LA. He sidestepped past a trio of hookers being hauled away by a uniformed officer and presented himself to the desk sergeant. "Hunting licenses are in room 240. Upstairs and to the left. NEXT!" "No, podna! I ain't here for no license. You see, I have an appointment with your Capitan - a Mr. Osbourne - for true." "You have an appointment? With Captain Osbourne?" "Yessiree, saa-gent. 'Course, 'fore I go on I'd be most happy if you'd point out where the cahbin might be." Nonplussed, the sergeant stammered, "Uh, I'm sorry - what?" "Yawr leetle boys room? Mais, I gotsa wash up 'fore I go to that meetin'. I been on the road for a day and a half and hadn't got even near a hosepipe! If'n I go in dere like this, yawr boss end up fremeers, for [i]true[/i]!" "Oh, uh - the restroom's right down that hall," the officer waved towards the right of the large entry room. He hoped desperately that his shift would end before this bumpkin came back. There was definitely enough dirt on the hick to keep him washing for a day at least. [I]We don't normally get the crazy homeless guys this early. Geez, he smells like - what the hell [B]is[/B] that?[/I] "Merci beaucoup, mon ami. I shall be on back presently. You let Captain Osbourne know that Del Boudreaux is arrived!" [/QUOTE]
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