"bak3donh1gh, come out with your hands up," the police captain shouted, his bullhorn glinting in the morning sun. Christ, he thought, I'm buff. I can feel my pecs straining to break out of this fucking shirt. My nipples could cut glass right now.
"We know you are a masturbator," he added, "and if you don't come out in the next thirty seconds we will open fire."

"There there," said the Mayor, slowly winding his arm around Mrs. bak3donh1gh's shoulder, "it's all for the best, you know."
"But a bazooka," she gestured towards the SWAT team setting up from behind the safety of her SUV, "I don't understand!"

The police captain scowled. He imagined rebuking the weeping idiot -Jesus fucking Christ, woman. A bazooka. That is not a 'bazooka'. It is a a high-precision pervert-seeking rocket-propelled hunter-killer flechette-cloud, and it cost the city seven-hundred fifty-thousand dollars and firing it just once to kill your pervert son will cost us another seventy-five thousand. God. Roids. They were right. This is roid rage. I am going to snap the fuck out. They'll bust me down to traffic duty. My pension is fucked. Fucked anyway.

"Of course, even if he cooperates we'll have to excise them," said the Mayor, his hand continuing its journey round towards Mrs. bak3donh1gh's mystic pyramidal breasts, "the offending hand, that is. Or hands, plural, if he's ambidextrous. Excise the hands."
"Oh God," Mrs. bak3donh1gh wept, "oh God, he'll never play the piano again!"

"But Mrs. bak3donh1gh," said the Mayor, "dear, dear Mrs. bak3donh1gh... who would ever want to go see a masturbator play piano?"

And at this she folded, racked with sobs, her body shaking.

His tongue slipping between clenched teeth, the Mayor leaned forward to catch her, to catch a handful of her breasts. If the SWAT team had been looking in the right direction, they would have seen his pants tent, eyes the color of sour milk rolling up into his head.

But already they had opened fire-