StarDestroyer.Net BBS

His boots made a rythmic tapping sound across the pavement. His long, wheezing cough could be heard for miles. The stink of his niccotine infused uniform mixed with his unwashed skin to form the distinct scent of unfiltered grumpiness. The chattering noises in the neon-clad building up ahead died suddenly, as he came to a halt at its threshold. There was a click of a lock from across the now curtained door. The police officer spat. This was the only place in town that he hadn't tried, and already he wasn't allowed in. He spat in the general direction of an old couple crossing the street, who abruptly changed direction and hurried off as if avoiding a sleeping bear. One of his huge hairy hands reached into his holster while the other tried rattling the handle, which didn't yield. From inside the bar, he could hear the suspenseful breathing of the terrified patrons. The sawn-off safety of the pistol in his hand naturally didn't need adjusting as he fired three different clips of metal into the door handle. Strictly speaking policemen were not allowed to saw the safety off of their weapons, which the chief had reminded him of almost every day, but as the officer had reason to believe Chief was a Democrat, so from a legal perspective (or at least McGruff's perspective), he didn't have a case against him.

The windows of the bar door was a criss-cross of cracks, and the handle resembled something akin to a sextoy designed by a modern artist than anyone else. He rattled the handle roughly and it fell off. Nevertheless, thought Grumps, he never opened doors in the first place whether they were locked or not. He emptied another five bullets into the hinges. He had stolen the clips from his co-worker Mickey, who at this time was attempting to resolve a hostage situation without any bullets. Because Mickey sounded like some hippy name to McGruff, he was rooting for the hostage-keeper. The door moaned and fell back inside of the bar, its already mutilated windows now devoid of any glass. Grumps strode past it, making sure to make a dramatic crunching sound over each and every shard of glass.

"Y-.... You're paying for that!" bellowed the manager from across the beer-bench.

"Son, do you have any goddamn idea how much time you can get for barring a policeman's entry?", McGruff replied, his voice shaking quite deliberately.

"Uh, um, a few months?"

McGruff gave the small man the same rigid expression he gave his wife when she asked him if she could get a job on the force.

"Five... Hundred... Years" he provided stonily.

"Bullshit!"

"Aaand..." Grumps proceeded, ignoring the manager's defiance "...combined with the fact that you are endangering your customers with all this sharp glass around, I'm afraid you might be behind bars for a very long time."

"What, for more than half a millenium!??" the manager spluttered back, shaking slightly.

"Oh yes. Not to mention the fact that as advertised that there wall that this is a family inherited alchohol dispensing faw-sility..." he drawled with an evil smile "...it seems only fitting that your punishment will be inherited also, down the family line for generations."

This much talk was beggining to irritate Grumps McGruff, and when the manager screamed in a sissy voice that he was not the Judge, he simply responded with "We'll see", and sat down at the bench. In fact it didn't matter if Grumps was a Judge or not, as all the judges in the state were currently tied and gagged in the foam-pit of Seven Oaks Elementary.

The manager apparently had the sense to quiet down after that, and the rest of the night went pretty camly for the officer, much to his dissapointement. So that when a youth darted past him, he siezed the opportunity to yank him back by his shirt and press his eye right up to his captive in a disturbing fashion.

"You mind explainin' yoself boyah?" he spat. The youth whimpered and shook his head.

"I don't have to put up with this shit" he muttered into the empty space behind McGruff's head.

"Well, maybe not, kid. Naw, I think you're gonna have to put up with something else entirely."

He stood up from his bench, pulled something out of his pocket that resembled something blatantly phallic, withdrew his baton from his belt, and began to screw the end of the suggestive bar slowly onto it. The genitally inclined piece of plastic in his pocket had given him some trouble in the past, although anyone who suggested its uses falsely were soon shown what it was really for.

Grumps waved his phallustick at the teenager, who by now was trembling.

"Ah am gonna give you to the count of ten to lick my shoes clean before I give you a much needed visit to the bathroom..." he said, glancing at the youth's jeans with a smirk "...and get you and this thing intimately equanted."

That night, McGruff's shoecleaner liquid would gather yet more dust as it sat idley upon the pile of red clothing that he had confiscated from people he suspected were communists. It was a sad fact that McGruff never truely forgot any national conflict, and so although he desperately wished to join the military, he couldn't decide whether he wanted to go fight in Iraq, Vietnam, Germany, or against the hated English so that the Americanas could finally obtain independance.


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Zablorg wrote:"Son, do you have any goddamn idea how much time you can get for barring a policeman's entry?", McGruff replied, his voice shaking quite deliberately.

I don't think Grumps is quite as Southern as he comes across at points here.

That said, this line sold me on the whole production.

The mandatory hospital visit towards officer Mickey did not go well. As Grumps entered the disturbingly sterile room, he was met with screams of terror from a mummified corpse in a bed. Upon closer inspection he realized that the bandaged carcass was not a mummy but was in fact Mickey. As to how Mickey had manage to recieve injuries during the hostage situation that warranted full body bandages Grumps was eager to find out, but he wasn't able to ask even a friendly remark about his mother over the earth-cracking screaming and gibbering that was coming from Mickey's mouth. The pulse-measuring machine was ticking to the hight of its screen, beeping almost just as loudly, until it finally relaxed and both the machine and Grumps' coworker became a great deal quieter.

Seriously, what the fuck? though McGruff. Upon consideration, he supposed Mickey had a small reason to feel a bit resentful. Grumps had, after all, taken all of Mick's ammunition before his hostage confrontation. But it was just a little game of theirs! Why, just last week, Mick had filed at least five work-place harrassement documents against him! He had known that young Mickey was a little buisable, but maybe he was softer than he thought. Grumps needed to be harder on him in the future, he decided. That would toughen him up.

Just then a maid rushed into the room with various instruments, shoved Grumps aside and began to apply them feverishly to Mick.

"What do you think you're doing? Get a doctor, woman!" No wonder Mickey was in such an unstable mood! The maid staff must be rubbing off on him. Maid uniforms had places in bedrooms, it was true, but not in such an important place as a hospital!

The maid gave Grumps a look of utter disgust, quickly turned around and faced him again, this time holding a small cardboard box.

"Are you his friend? Make yourself useful and take this in to the Kitty Daycare. We don't have the resources to take care of it." She then scrawled a couple of lines of address onto the side of the box, shoved it into his hands, and pushed him roughly out the door. Women.

"If you don't take good care of him I will burn this whole motherfucker down!" he called back. The prompt reply came in the slamming of a door.

Because the chief had been so gracious as take him off duty for a few weeks after he had thrown some rocks at a Portugese university student who was trying to assassinate his fellows, he decided he had not much more to do than drive it to the Daycare. Once he was outside the hospital, he threw the package into the boot of his car, which gave a fierce meow in response. As he drove down the highway, it became apparent that he was being followed. The car behind him had not made a single turn away from him during his five kilometer drive down the road. To be fair there wasn't anywhere for him to turn to, but a cop didn't get where McGruff was today through taking chances.

He activated his sirens and fiddled with his glove compartement until he found his favourite cassette. Sliding it into his car player roughly, he jabbed the play button and his favourite car chase music piped up.

BRAOWN bum bum bum dum bum DIDDLY DUM dum bum bum

It wasn't as dramatic as it could be, given that he was already in front of his target. Despite this, car chase music meant driving REALLY FAST, so in his mind he felt obligated to accelerate to two-hundred miles per hour, bumping into several cars as he did so. The fact that the highway was at this point traveling over a large body of water resulted in around three cars being sent over the railing and suffering a slow horrifiying death as the water pressure cracked through the windows and drowned the familes inside. All in the name of justice.

He arrived at the kitten care building soon after, his siren still blaring. His boots made their usual tapping sound as he entered the bright yellow building. Immediately next to it he saw a fenced off grassy yard that had seven or so feeble kittens pawing at each other. One kitten was attempting to snatch a butterfly out of the air. The butterly was emmiting magical sparkles of love and friendship, and it made him sick.

He slammed the box upon the counter as the receptionist smiled at him sweetly. The box wailed.

"I need you to throw a steak into that box every week until another officer comes to pick him up!" he shouted, attempting to wipe her disturbing smile off her unblemished face.

"Would you like us to let him walk in the yard with the other little ones?" She inquired with a voice that sounded like fairy bells.

"Will it cost me extra?"

"No sir"

"Do that then, I guess. But don't let it socialize with 'em. Wanna turn it into a fighter, don't we?"

As he turned on his heel and entered the disgustingly radient daycare center, he growled menacingly

"This is a real nice preschool for kittens you got here. Shame if something happened to it."

And with that, he left the doors crafted from sunshine, and swore to avenge the death of the soil's honor.

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Help me Uraniun I'm losing the character give me something to work with!

By Fleet Admiral JD

McGruff climbed back into his patrol car outside of the Kitty Daycare. Settling into the well-worn driver’s seat he started the old Crown-Vic’s V8 and squealed the tires as he backed out of the spot. As he pulled out of the lot he heard a woman’s scream as he mowed over a litter of kittens that she had just bought for her daughter, who was now bawling her eyes out in the lot.

“Goddamned Luxembourgians” he muttered to himself. “Can’t even take care of some Goddamned kittens.” He shoved his head out of the window and yelled at the girl and her mother, “GET OUT OF THE ROAD, YOU’RE OBSTRUCTING TRAFFIC!” Without further ado, he closed his window and pulled out onto the highway.

After a few minutes of uninterrupted driving his radio crackled to life and he heard a report of a car chase in progress—three officers were on the tail of a red Toyota and they were headed this way. “A Toyota? Those can’t go more than forty, can they?” he wondered.

Thinking quickly, McGruff spun his car into the opposite lane, plowing right through the wide, grassy median, and ramming into not a few cars as he finished thinking his plan through. One of them, a truck carrying a load of chickens, let its entire cargo loose and the highway was soon covered in red chicken guts and millions of white feathers. Going nearly one hundred and fifty miles per hour down the highway, he found a runaway truck ramp and pulled up it.

Grumps killed the engine and popped the trunk. He pulled out the M60, part of the large arsenal he kept in his cruiser—ostensibly to fight off the Communist invasion when it came. With the weapon in one arm and several belts of ammo wrapped around him he set himself up in a prone position facing down the highway from the truck ramp. Seconds later, he heard the shrill sirens of other police cars. McGruff grinned as he felt the familiar surge of justice pulse through his veins. Vehicle in sight, he thought to himself. His M60 was permanently set to full-auto—why waste time with anything else? He took aim and fired at the engine block of the Toyota.

The tiny little car—more like a fucking go-kart, Grumps thought—immediately veered into the median and flipped end-over-end a few times before winding up on its roof in the other lane, where several cars had to swerve to avoid it. The event caused a several-hundred-car pileup that stretched for almost three miles of highway and backed up traffic into the next state. It would take days for crews to remove all of the debris and get traffic moving again.

McGruff stowed his M60 back in his trunk and ran down to the highway where his fellow officers had gotten out of their cars. All of them were younger, greener officers—Grumps had noted to the Chief that they all should have remedial training in withstanding torture, to toughen them up. One of them, Officer Hunt, glared at Grumps.

“What the fuck were you thinking, you crazy old bastard?! Not only did you probably kill the driver of that car we were chasing, but you hit two of our cruisers with several rounds—were you using a machine gun!? It’s bad enough that we were only chasing the guy for a traffic violation, but you—“

McGruff cut the little prick off with a hand to the throat. “"You want to fuck with me, rookie, you just feel free to jump up my ass. If you don’t stop sputtering this treasonous language now, mister, I’ma gonna have to shoot you as a traitor against this great nation. You look Latvian enough to me that anyone would believe it. Now none of us would want that, would we?” Hunt noticed the gun barrel shoved into his gut and tried to sputter something out past the hand that clamped down his windpipe. He wound up simply nodding, as best he could, in agreement with McGruff.

“Good.” Grumps dropped the lad to his knees, feeling as though he had instilled a valuable lesson in the youngster. “Now go check on that damned clown car across the road, see if the perp is still breathing or not. If he is, shoot him again.”

“For a traffic violation?“ Hunt spluttered.

“Yes for a fucking traffic violation! Traffic violations are always indicative of something deeper—I’ll bet that the fucking Belgian driving that Matchbox car killed someone. Now GO!”

As Grumps had been gently chastising Hunt, the road crews had arrived to clean up his mess. He saw one of them starting to scrape the hundreds of dead chickens up and put them into garbage bags. He ran towards the men doing that, screaming.

“What in the name of Dirty Harry are you motherfuckers doing?” Grumps screamed. “Don’t throw those things away, I’m confiscating them!”

The crew looked at McGruff as though he was crazy. He slapped one of them across the face. “Don’t ever look at me like I’m some kind of nutjob, you goddamned Norwegian. I’m confiscating those chickens as evidence.”

Delicious, delicious evidence, thought Grumps, remembering his wife’s excellent recipe for fried chicken, with the secret 11 herbs and spices that he’d gotten out of Colonel Sanders after seven long days of interrogation. The man had been tough, but he had eventually broken under McGruff’s careful interrogation techniques.

250 Views and 3 replies, 2 of them being story additions?

Holy crap, SAY something!

This is horrid and you're terrible human beings for attempting to write it?

I jest. You're not terrible human beings.

This isn't as awesome as I thought it was going to be. May be a case of too much hype.

I'm sorry, boys.