File this one under “shit they don’t prepare you for at the academy”.
So it’s one in the morning and it’s been an unusually quiet night. It’s a nice change of pace from the summer, where it seems as if everyone wants to kill each other as the weather warms up.
The call comes in for a noise complaint. It’s in a nicer part of the town, at a home that’s known for being rented out as an AirBNB.
It’s not unusual. We get calls like this for that house a couple of times per month.
My partner and I roll up and we can see pulsating lights through the front windows. In retrospect, he and I were probably the wrong ones to take this call.
Let me give some context. My partner and I have been lifting together for a couple of years. We started before we become partners, right around the time that violence started getting real bad on cops. We figured we couldn’t control idiots, but we could control our ability to protect ourselves. Last year, we entered into a bodybuilding competition together. We placed in the top 10 – not bad for a couple of dads in their late 30’s.
So my partner and I (for the sake of this article, we’ll just call him Chocolate Thunder) head up to the front door and ring the bell. We wait. We ring. We wait. We ring. We… the door swings open.
“They’re HEREEEEEEEE!” shouts a clearly hammered 20-something brunette.
“And they’re earrrllllyyyy,” stammers another intoxicated girl.
Uh oh. Houston, we have a problem.
“Ladies, we received a call about a noise complaint,” my partner began. “I understand you’re probably…”
He didn’t make it much further. The bride rushed at us and jumped onto him, throwing her legs around his waist.”
“I can’t believe you girls!” she screamed. “I told you no strippers! None of you had better be putting this on SnapChat, Johnny will be PISSED!”
Chocolate Thunder here was struggling. Not because she was a big girl – she was maybe 100 pounds soaking wet – but because he was having a hard time controlling his laughter.
“Girls,” he said in his booming voice. “I promise you we’re not strippers. We’re just here to ask you to turn down the noise.”
“We can’t turn anything off… because you’re here to turn us ON, baby!” shouted the girl with the Maid of Honor tank top.
Why in the name of God was she not wearing pants? What kind of bachelorette party was this? Part of me wanted to stay and find out… the other part of me wanted to get the hell out of there before we found ourselves in hot water.
“We’re gonna need backup,” I called in. Nothing bad… but perhaps you could send a… female… officers I said.”
I looked over to my side and I saw a girl wearing a “Sister of the Bride” shirt desperately trying to pour a shot into my partners mouth.
“Mam,” I began. But before I could finish that thought, another girl tried sticking a joint in my mouth. Jesus, these girls were out of control.
I’d be lying if I said part of me didn’t love it.
Five minutes later, backup rolled in. One of our female officers who, with all due respect to her, clearly doesn’t look like a male stripper, straightening things out in about 15 seconds.
“Wait – you’re really POLICE?” one of the bridesmaids said. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God we are SO sorry.”
*Knock at the door*
Chocolate Thunder reached behind him and opened it up. Standing there were two “officers” who had clearly arrived to party.
Suffice it to say they weren’t with us.
It’s also worth noting, Thunder and I had these boys beat by a mile.
I got back to the station about 20 minutes later, smelling like weed and tequila. As I took off my vest, a dollar bill floated out of it. The looks I got in the locker room were priceless.
Thunder took off his vest. Out floated two $5 bills.
“Looks like at least one of us has still got it,” he said.
It was a night we’ll never forget… and I’m sure the bride won’t, either.