Thursday, August 13, 2009

Did you answer the prompt. . .What made him?

I did!

Tuseday's writing prompt was: What made him. . .

What made him think that becoming the Chief of Police of a small town would be simple, easy? He must have been nuts. At least if he had been in a big city, like New York, Boston, or Minneapolis, he might not have felt so ridiculous. He would have fit in with any number of transgenders who walked the street. But here, in Salem, New Hampshire, he would stick out like a wolf in a pack of cats.

Shit, shit, shit. He would never ever bet against the Patriots again. He lived in New England now, time to forget his Vikings. “Never bet against the house,” he mumbled as a mental reminder to not be so stupid again.

“Who the hell wears fishnet stockings to walk the street in the middle of freakin’ winter?”

“All the boys. . .” Chuckling outside his door. “All the ladies of the night.”

“Yeah, right.” Only the ones that wanted to catch pneumonia.

Garrett held the very large, white, and stretchy bra in his hands, tugging at the material. His ex-wife had never worn anything so ugly. Nor had any woman he ever dated. “Just get it over with,” he encouraged himself then tugged the wide band around his chest. At least he did not have to worry about getting chest hair caught in the hook things. Three hooks? There were three hooks. He had never seen one with three hooks before. Did only big women wear these contraptions?

With a few twists, Garrett had the bra shifted the right direction, and the straps slipped over his shoulders. One quick glance in the mirror told him he looked utterly ridiculous. He rolled his eyes heavenward and silently asked, “Why me?”

When he checked his reflection again, his shoulders slumped and he poked a finger at the bra’s cup. It dimpled and stayed there. Like that looks real! What if some pervert tried to cop a feel and came up with air? Then his cover would be blown and the perp beating up on the local hookers would know they had set a trap for him and get away, move on.

Garrett sifted through the stuff his men had handed him and found two, four to five inch discs that appeared to be made of jelly. He lifted one and squeezed it in his hand. “Hm. Are they real or fake?” Garrett laughed as he stuffed the squishy discs into the cup of his bra. Then he gave one the finger touch test again. This time the bra did not dimple and yeah, he thought they could pass muster with any freehanded groper.

Sliding on a fuzzy, long-sleeved, scoop-necked pink sweater topped off his wardrobe for this ridiculous stakeout. He should have stayed in Minneapolis working on cyber crimes. At least then, he did not have to test his masculinity. With a great deal of effort, Garrett worked the black, wavy wig onto his head, tucking every stray strand of his own up and under.

He paused as he twisted open the cherry lipstick. It was too quiet out there. His men had stopped laughing, cracking jokes. What were they up to? “Focus. The sooner you finish getting dressed, the sooner this will be over.”

Garrett shuffled over in the tight black leather skirt to stand closer to the mirror on the back of his door. He glided the lipstick across his lips. The first attempt made him look like a seriously psychotic clown. He reached over onto his desk, pulled a tissue from the box, and wiped off the disaster.

“How the hell did women do this?”

This time he drew the lipstick across his lips as if coloring inside the lines of a coloring book. He took a step back and eyed his work. “Not bad,” he muttered and pursed his lips.

Now the shoes. Garrett slid his feet into a pair of very large, black stilettos. He wobbled, fell face forward and caught himself before his did a face plant into his desk. Then he got his legs under him and managed to do something between a swagger and a stroll. He tried to turn on the damn pointed heels and he landed on his ankle. “Shit!” Why the hell did women wear these contraptions?

Women were insane.

Garrett grabbed his black handbag with his sidearm inside it then tucked a peashooter, otherwise known as a Lady Derringer inside his thigh-highs and tugged the skirt back down. He straightened, blew out a breath, and with his purse slung over his shoulder, opened his door and strode out on wobbly feet.

The minute he stepped out of his office camera flashes snapped off in a flurry, hoots and hollers, whistles, and jeers sounded. Ah, damn! Then, Garrett paused, waited for the room full of police officers and clerks to quiet. When he had their full attention, he did what he knew none of them would expect.

He vogued.

This time the cheering that went up around him lifted the roof off the station house. Yeah, this is what he had asked for. To be a part of a team, a family, and not sit behind a desk every day catching some damn hacker who built the next virus to bring a business to its knees.

He wanted action, he got it. Even if it had cost him his marriage, or what was left of it.

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