Ahhh, hello. New recruits, eh? Sit down, make yourself comfortable. I won't lie, it's a tough job, but someone has to do it.
It's dangerous too; the Pussy Patrol has seen injuries and attacks on the brave officers who keep the streets safe for the men and women of this fair land. We get trained in self-defence; we get protection, but it's no match for the violence we face on a regular basis.
Be prepared for it. Sure, most days it's fine. The people respect and admire us, we get nods of appreciation as I request to see the papers of the women in the street; we're for everyone's safety.
Sometimes, well, it doesn't quite go to plan.
Like last weekend.
You may recall it was a warm summer night and there were dozens of young ladies milling about in short clubbing dresses outside the hottest nightclubs. It had been a busy shift, but I hadn't found any rule-breakers until I reached the Ozone nightclub. "Papers please," I asked politely at a couple of drunken women standing outside the electric blue neon sign. One showed me her pink card immediately, while the other girl squealed in horror.
"I've left it at home. Oh ... shit. Shit! Shit! Shit!"
A familiar excuse; you'll hear this feeble defence lots.
I glanced around me, gestured at her friend to move on, while taking the errant lady into the doorway of a closed supermarket. This was between the anxious brunette and myself. "How do I know that's not an unlicensed pussy?"
"It isn't, it isn't," she implored, scrabbling around in her handbag pointlessly.
"Unless you have a license for it, you are in possession of unlicensed genitalia. I have to take action." We had a few sniffles and cries; the woman stroking around her bag for another time while barely accepting the trouble she was in.
But I had to use my judgement. We don't want to arrest and detain forgetful ladies, just the dangerous ones and so used my experience to assess her. Do I call for back-up, drag her to the Pussy Patrol Station, strip her, interview her, check her details on the computer and then issue her with a fine, wasting everybody's evening. Or do I simply slap a chastity belt on her, take her details and she can collect the key within a week when she displays her license to the duty clerk at the station? Obviously, the second option is more preferable to everyone, but it does come with a cost: to me and the duty clerk.
She groans as she realises her futile bag searches are in vain. "Can I have a seven day wonder?" I ponder her expression briefly; a mixture of frustration and nervousness. I would imagine she's been in this position before so she knows the process well.
"Ummm ... maybe." I'm not showing all my cards at once; her chosen solution is possible, it depends on her.
