Sesame Place Drug Consent: Fill & Download for Free

While working as a Detective, in Shetland (don’t mention that bloody TV show, I’m warning you now, unless a sharp slap to the back of your head appeals to you!), we received a call from Grampian Police.It seemed that they had received an anonymous call from a mysterious benefactor, who - out of the goodness of their eternal soul - wished to report a person travelling under false name and address to Shetland, on the overnight ferry (indeed, we are so far beyond the edge of the known world, here in Hyperborea, that it takes a full 12 to 14 hours for a modern large roll-on, roll-off car ferry to reach these mystical isles, hence the overnight sailing).This mysterious benefactor - “Mysterio”, for short - had evidently even been so concerned about the hallowed and untarnished state of his eternal soul that he had provided a fairly detailed description of this deuced scallywag, thusly (as near as one can recall); Short, skinny, scruffy, sniffs a lot, smells strongly of sweat and other bodily functions… & Scouse. The letter S was much abused, in that call, it had seemed, and I was forgiven for considering that perhaps The Count from Sesame Street had been Mysterio, calling to inform us all what the letter of the day was to be.However, upon viewing the CCTV images, which had been obtained from the ferry operators’ security men, we all agreed that old Mysterio was if anything, surprisingly sympathetic in his susurrous little speech, as the slimy little scallywag was, if anything significantly more seedy than suave (Ed.: Okay, enough with the alliteration, get on with it!)So, we had an image, and the ship’s manifest, showing the list of passengers, still over 8 hours away, as the albatross flies, from our magical shoreline.Upon viewing the image, I checked the manifest, once again. I knew the scruffy little bugger - a Scouse mule for an organised crime gang, then running a pipeline of Heroin and other Class A drugs into Shetland. Only two weeks previously, colleagues had stopped him, coming off the same ferry - under his own name that time - and detained him, under legislative powers for drugs search, having received credible intelligence that he was carrying Heroin. And he was. Packed with it, throughout his lower colon - around £40,000 worth, in street value. He had been arrested, appeared in Court and bailed to his home address, on Merseyside, awaiting trial, as his solicitor had informed the court he had a sickly child and needed to be with her… and they had believed him.And yet, here he was, returning to these shores? As the saying goes, “shite aye floats tae the top”, and as we are further north than most (parts of Canada, Alaska & Russia not included), we get our fair share of them, drifting up “on the tide”.I checked the manifest and there was definitely no trace of him. Either he had slipped past Security, or else he was travelling under false details (photographic identification being required to travel via the ferry). Now, Mysterio had given no name, and we had to operate on the chance that there was more than one seedy, scruffy, slimy, skinny and smelly Scouse scallywag, set on arrival in Lerwick on the morrow. So I arranged for several uniformed officers and a drugs dog to attend at the ferry terminal, to greet the foot passengers, as they disembarked the next morning, at 0715hrs (vehicle drivers got a free pass, as the ferry company wouldn’t let us stop all vehicles and search them with the dog, unless a valid sanctioned operation was in place). Having done so, I silently warned Mysterio, via psychic emanations, that he had best not be on a wind-up, or else I’d have the Pope excommunicate his immortal soul, and to Hell with him. I then set course for home, and a few hours kip, before the morning’s brave adventures and - inevitably - more thrilling tales of derring-do.Come 0715hrs, the following morning, I was wide-eyed and alert, waiting on My Boy, coming off the ferry on foot (the mules don’t use vehicles, as they can more easily hide themselves in a crowd, and stand more chance of running and escaping on foot - or at least they would if we weren’t on a bloody island, with only two ways on or off!). Stationed on the footbridge, linking the vessel to the ferry terminal, and then in my prime (almost 6’4” in my bare feet, and of proportionate build), I was playing Eagle-Eye Scout, steadily searching the sea of significantly smaller people (Ed: I said STOP IT! I see what you’re doing, again!) Tsk.Anyway, there I was, searching their faces, when I saw the ratty little scally chap, henceforth known as My Boy. “On your 3 o’ clock”, I announced, to the drugs dog handler, who was standing at 90 degrees to the crowd, his hardworking hound ignoring the cooing tourists, who were blissfully unaware that the diligent canine’s amazing olfactory system was deciding if they were worthy to come for a free visit to the Big Hoose (cells) or not.Sure enough, My Boy passed the dog, whereupon the dog sat down. Straight away, as if someone had pushed it - HARD. Tail wagging and woofing, once, the pooch told me all I needed to know (canine translation for “I’ve done my bit. That’s the horrible bugger, now get him! Where’s my bloody ball??”). I stepped up, intercepting the puckish little scamp, who was now turning a ghastly green, as he recognised me for what I was - a Police detective, of course, and not a perfect specimen of mean and moody manly machismo (although you might be forgiven for confusing the two….unless you have worked in Glasgow, that is! ;) ).I asked My Boy for his name and he mumbled something unintelligible. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr Huffurduhurrluurrrnurrr.” I responded, meeting with a mystified stare (and they say nuns have no sense of humour? Sheesh. Try strung-out and seasick rattling junkies! A harder crowd, by far!). I asked for his identification and he produced an Aberdeen University student ID card, complete with photograph, which might have satisfied me, if I had the visual abilities of Helen Keller (with none of the other sensory abilities, which that amazing lady had been possessed of and developed).The photograph was recent - as in the day before (same clothes worn, with same stains) - badly cropped and stuck on with some Sellotape, while the image of the University logo was out of focus and evidently pulled off “Google Images”, before being printed onto this appallingly dodgy card, which, upon reflection, even Ms Keller would have found hilariously awful. So I detained him, under the aforementioned drugs legislative powers, watching that green hue deepen, as the unseeing, uncaring crowd passed us by.Job done, I handed him off to the uniform officers to secure, cursorily search and place in a vehicle to convey back to the station, for a little chinwag, while I sharpened my gutting knives, to remove the drugs (of course, I’m only kidding. They were filleting knives).And here it is. That moment. The one the OP asked about, and which you have had to wade through all the bus tickets and navel lint, which pass for rational thought & recall, in my mind, to read about.The “Something Is Wrong With This Picture” moment.As I turned to leave, I noticed a well dressed, tall and robustly built male, suited and booted, in his 40s, clean-shaven and wearing wire-rimmed glasses, pulling a large wheeled suitcase. Something struck my subconscious - I knew not what, at that point - and that small patch of skin between my shoulder blades gave a small crawling sensation. My “Sooty Sense” (apologies to Stan The Man for that one - I am geek, what can I say?) was at work… So I stared at him, fixedly, while wondering what it was that had set me off. Big Fella glanced up at me, and as he did so, his eyes widened and he made a small “stutter step” motion, as if consciously changing his direction of motion - or trying to - having already committed to another. He almost fell over his own feet, and looked straight up at me again, as he caught himself, face bright red. I wondered why he felt so suddenly nervous about being watched by a stranger - I was in plainclothes, fleece jacket, scruffy jeans and unshaven (I never saw any point in advertising myself as a detective, if I was meant to be plainclothes) - although, as I might have previously mentioned, I am a most fetching specimen of masculinity, and perhaps it was this, which rendered his limbs inoperative in his awe? I determined to find out. I approached Big Fella (truthfully he was no bigger than I am, but I like to afford my “clients” the benefit of my Pratchett-tinged imagination) showing him my Police Warrant Card and identifying myself as a Police Officer (“The name is Vimes. Sam Vimes.” Not one bugger ever got it. Not a single one. sigh). Big Fella attempted to carry on walking, having grunted a small “hello”, in a tight and rather high-pitched voice. I forged on, “Can I ask where you are travelling from, sir, and if you have any identification? You fit the description of someone who may have witnessed a serious incident, which took place upon the ferry, last night, in the bar. Were you in the bar area, last night, sir?” I glibly schmoozed, smiling gently and speaking softly, while using a variation on a tried and trusted theme. You’re not looking for them as accused, you’re looking for them as witnesses to a non-existent “serious incident” - you’d be surprised how many times it puts people at their ease, when it really shouldn’t. “Talk softly and carry a big stick.” I know Teddy didn’t say that. But he really should have done. ;)Big Fella visibly relaxed and his facial reddening lightened somewhat, in his evident relief. “No, sorry, I wasn’t,” he replied, in mellifluous, yet unmistakably Scouse tones. I went on, “Do you have ID, sir, so I can say I have spoken to you and rule you out? That way the uniformed officers waiting in the terminal will know not to bother you.” He smiled now, looking confident, and produced his billfold wallet, removing an identification card.He really should have thought that one through.Once again, Helen Keller sprang to mind. Identical out of focus Aberdeen University identification, although this time the photograph was scanned on (stretching & skewing his features, so that he resembled E.T.’s older brother) and the legend read - “University of Aberdeen Staff : Lecturer”, alongside his ‘name’. “Are you by any chance related to Mr Huffurduhurrluurrrnurrr, or is he in your class, sir?” I quipped wittily. A good line wasted, as he stared blankly, then went surprisingly grim, altering his features from soft city gent to hard man, in one split second. Outraged at this waste of my valuable wit, I therefore opted to detain him, on suspicion of being involved in the supply of controlled drugs and he too, returned to the Police Station, with the uniforms, as I attempted to contact the university and check his credentials (even though I knew them to be bogus). Eventually, this was confirmed - he was not on their staff - and Big Fella steadfastly refused to say who he really was.My Boy had, by this time, opted for the commode and passed several packages of faeces-encrusted powder (the joys!), vacuum-packed, condensed into hard balls and lightly lubricated before he had abused his nether passage by forcing them up, in there, for the duration. I asked My Boy about Big Fella, but he simply shrugged and wouldn’t speak of him.I asked Big Fella to submit to an external examination and stomach palpations by a Police surgeon. He declined, somewhat less than politely. I asked if he would consent to visit a hospital to allow a scan of his body for concealed packages. He refused, in the same impolite terms.The local Fiscal authorised Big Fella’s remand into our custody, for as long as it took to pass his next few bowel motions, which would also be in the commode, and these would then be subjected to inspection by myself, or other CID officers - oh, the unmitigated glamour, you have no idea, dear reader! Nor does Jimmy flippin’ Perez, I guarantee you!To cut a long story short, at the end of another 20-something hour day, in the pursuit of justice for all, I stomped down to the cells in a jolly bad mood. Big Fella still had not passed anything and, still, I knew not his name - and I do so hate not knowing. Tired, grumpy and feeling even larger than I actually was, I threw his cell door open, marching inside and up to him, where he leapt, surprised and defensive, to his feet, protecting his ribs in a manner that told me all I needed to know (i.e. he had been in cells - likely prison - before, enough to learn such an instinctive response). With this knowledge, I whipped out my phone and took a snap of his startled face. I then stomped back out, slamming his cell door in my wake, while ignoring his urgent questioning, then back up to my office, where I uploaded the photograph. I then sent it to a friendly intelligence officer in Merseyside Police. The reply came back within the half hour, Big Fella was a just-below-Mid-Level enforcer type, and their information suggested he had been sent to remove the last conduit (My Boy) and oversee his replacement. Interesting….I suggested this to My Boy, during his own taped interview, and other than looking startled, he declined to comment.Finally, Big Fella was gripped by an urgent call of nature, and the commode was filled and removed.Where My Boy had around £12,000 street value heroin in him, this time round, Big Fella had evidently swallowed his packets, as he had well over ten times that much packing his innards. It took a further three episodes with the commode before a hospital scan showed him clear (this took 3 days, as he “backed up” somewhat, and talks had been held between legal authorities and local surgeons, who were on the verge of forcibly sedating him and cutting the packages out, given the significant risk they posed to his health, if any of those lodged in his lower intestines and colon, burst, or were insecure in any form).It turned out My Boy was given up by Big Fella - a “throwaway” meant to distract us, losing only £12k worth, to make it convincing. My Boy had been caught, and badly, so had outlived his usefulness to them, and could now be shipped off to jail by the helpful Police, there to do his time. Meanwhile, Big Fella - himself not an addict, but a hale and hearty weightlifter type - would slip off, looking respectable, filled with the good gear, while laughing up his sleeve at Police, and then setting up and selecting a suitable local replacement for My Boy. Yup, in case you hadn’t worked it out yet, Big Fella likely was Mysterio, or else was working alongside him. Drugs gangs using Police to remove and punish ineffective members? Who’d have thunk they’d be so disgustipatingly devious, the darkhearted bams.And the “Something Is Wrong With This Picture” moment, which my subconscious had picked up on, straight away, even in peripheral vision and wouldn’t let him pass me by…? A stud, in his left earlobe, in the shape of the Germanic runes used by Neo-Nazis, such as the American ‘White Wolves’ movement, to denote their fidelity to the One Perfect Race ideal. It was only when he went to put it back into his ear, after the radiographer had finished with his scan, that I finally picked up on it and remembered it flashing in the morning sunlight, on the ferry walkway. The custody sergeant had missed it altogether, as had the officer searching him, when he was brought in (it should have been removed). I knew it well, as we had had briefings on paramilitary and domestic terrorist groups, as well as proscribed political groups, of which this was a commonly used symbol. NOT the sort of thing a smartly suited businessman/lecturer type sports - not outside of Drumpf’s idea of ‘MuriKKKa, anyway.For want of a single ear stud, this bigoted buffoon “shone out” and painted a target on his forehead, which my annoying subconscious willingly sighted upon and fired.Bullseye.Here endeth the lesson.