The morning's part of my day's excursion on board Starship Purple Penis had been fucking perfect, glorious blue skies, an absence of road clowns in cars and on bikes, 200 odd trauma free kilometres in a looping jaunt through Brisbane, Beaudesert and back into a hinterland town called Canungra . . . . grab a steak and mushroom pie and choccy milk for lunch and then strike out for the Tumbulgum pub, just over the border, via the potentially deadly but fun, 'Hinze Speedway', great roads and sweeping bends rising up through the mountains for nearly 100 klms.
About forty klicks in, smiling that shiteater grin you that comes upon you for no reason other than 'oh boy is this great' I spot the wallopers up in front on the right side of the road, instantly let the throttle roll off, swap down a gear but there is no chance of washing off twenty k of over the limit speed in time to avoid the radar gun pointing at me . . . . I pull over, dismount, remove my lid and watch as John and Panch steam up to greet me, good times ahead, fuck yeah !!! I have fuck all points left on my license and I'm a wine rep, on the scoot or in the car . . . . no license, no job . . . . such is life . . . . the 'thrill' of confrontation rises in my belly, I've always relished this game, thanks to a Naval Officer father . . . . from years of much prior history, this shit can go one of several ways, generally, I get lucky, honesty confuses the fuck outta cops.
Officer Goodbloke walks over and shows me the 'gun' reading my speed at 87 kph, in a 70 zone, any excuse, no, license, yes, any outstanding warrants, no, nice bike, thanks, blah blah blah, meanwhile Senior Cuntstable Hitler is giving himself a tour of the Purple Penis and is clearly not of the same opinion as Senior Connie Goodbloke . . . . where's your left hand mirror, never run one in thirty years, where's your belt guard, in the bin, where's your primary pulley cover, [time to lie with this one] being repaired mate, what's the FTWCO sticker mean, Forever Two Wheels Company cuntstable, honestly . . . .
By this stage of this curious double act old mate Goodbloke intercedes seemingly on my behalf and hands me the completed ticket, goes through the usual, your speed was, the fine is, loss of three points, what to do, where to pay and 'if you choose to contest this charge' stuff while darling little Cuntstable Hitler, hearing an approaching swarm of hyper bikes, sprints back to his cop issue Yammy [FJR I think] and starts waving his radar gun in their general direction . . . . Goodbloke looks across at Hitler, looks back at me and says, "take it easy mate, have a nice arvo".
Good old Hitler pulls over three of Hyper Bike Squadron and I watch the Dynamic Duo doing their stuff while I finish a ciggy, Goodbloke is affable, approachable and just a guy doing his job, Cuntstable Adolf is all angst, tension and conspiracy theorist, two totally different people, the classic 'Good Cop, Bad Cop' caper . . . . maybe they are paired with each other deliberately, maybe it's opposites attract, but whatever it is, it seems to be the way, I reckon chances are that if Hitler hadn't been there I would've ended up having a nice little yarn about bikes, the weather, the old days and kooks on Hyper Bikes, either way, I can't bitch about it . . . . do the crime, stand in line . . . . happy trails kiddies, look out for Cuntstable Hitler, he's got Doppelgangers all over the world . . . . invasion of the Robocops continues.