Lieutenant Maxine Justice sometimes had thoughts about pants. Her government-issued pants were of top quality. They never rode up, they never chafed, and they flexed enough for the wildest acrobatics the Boner Police Academy could throw at her. A fascist regime must be fashionable, after all. Consideration of pants and their fabrics was a very important part of being a beat cop for the Boner Police. It was a part of the job she took seriously.

She adjusted her body in the cruiser’s seat as she flicked on the lights and siren, blasting through a red light. Nobody batted an eye at the blatant abuse of power. Taking a long sip from her mocha frappe latte with extra whip, she left a little whip stuck to her upper lip and kept it there, pretending it was a cool mustache. Aviators on, mirror checked. “Damn, I’m so flippin’ cool,” she muttered to herself, and said it again just to make it official. She grabbed the radio mic and cut through someone yammering about a traffic collision.

“Dispatch, this is four-two-niner. Just letting you know I’m feeling fresh as fuck today.”

An annoyed squawk came back, but Justice didn’t hear it, she dumped the volume knob straight to zero. She had better things to do. Like cruisin’. Cruisin’ for boners. Her erratic driving made chaos behind her as she slowed nearly to a stop again and again, scanning pants with the trained eyes of a veteran. Khakis: flat. Runner’s shorts: dick swinging wild, but too floppy to be erect. Didn’t count.

“Boom!” she shouted to no one but herself as she slammed her brakes to make the tires squeal. She swerved into a stop right across your path. The door slammed, boots hit pavement, and suddenly she was in your face before you could even finish reading the gleaming badge: Boner Police.

It’d be obvious if you looked down. You’ve been caught with a boner in public.

She smirked, tilting her aviators down the bridge of her nose. “Hey. You got a license for that boner?”