I discovered the scene on a cold, wet Tuesday morning on the streets, at first I couldn’t believe my eyes, but that was likely due to the drizzling rain fogging up my glasses. I wiped my glasses on my trousers to clear them up and blinked in disbelief. A vibrant red sports car was parked on the dull double yellow lines.

A blatant disregard to justice.

The quiet scene was disrupted by a sudden voice,

“Should probably write them a ticket,” it was my partner, Erikson; he was tall and dark, but not very handsome.

“I’m going to,” I replied quietly, concentrating on writing the ticket. To my dismay my ball-point pen wasn’t working, making faint imprints on the paper. “Do you have a pen?” I asked.

“Uh,” Erikson began to pat himself down, “I’m sure I did have one,” he checked his pockets – twice. “If I did have one, I don’t know. It might have fallen out of my pocket.” He checked his left pocket a third time. “Uh-huh, it definitely fell out, there’s a hole in this pocket.”

I cursed under my breath, at this rate the Double Yellow Offender would get off scot-free. On any other day he, or she for that matter, would, but this isn’t any other day. This is my day on the streets, and no violator of the law gets by on my watch.

To my left stood a newsagent, the sign said ‘w ne’, but that was because most of the letters had fallen off. I observed the sign for a short few seconds and deducted that it must have once read ‘New News’.

“Where are you going?” Erikson asked, with a single eyebrow raised.

“To get a pen,” I replied, lifting up my broken biro.

“Forget about it, man. It’s cold, let’s just finish our patrol,” he looked up into the drizzle to emphasize his point, but I was having none of it. Justice doesn’t stop for rain, justice doesn’t stop for cold. A serious look swept over my face.

“I’m going to get a pen,” I will get you, Double Yellow Offender, I thought to myself.

Once I was inside the narrow, but surprisingly long, store I was hit with a harrowing thought; what if the owner of the car is still here? I glanced to the left, no one; I glanced to the right and surprised myself with my own reflection in the Coca Cola brand fridge. Resisting the temptation to fix my hair, I moved onwards, wary of who I might find ahead.

Just play it cool, if they’re here you don’t want them to know you’re onto them, I said to myself, before saying to myself, talking to yourself is a sign of madness, you know. The thought mildly concerned me, but did not deter me from the task at hand. It did deter me from watching where I was going, however.

“Oh!” A young woman exclaimed, dropping her magazine and vibrant red bottle of Coca Cola.

“Uh, sorry ma’am,” I muttered, a bit flustered over the whole ordeal. I picked up her items from the floor,

“Here’s, uh, here’s your stuff.” I looked up at her – she was quite tall – to see the police chief’s daughter stood before me.

Her name was Sigourney, an elegant woman for this day and age. Tall, bright blonde hair – as if she had somehow stolen a piece of the sun without being horribly burnt, and long legs that went all the way up to her hips, as that is how human anatomy works. She wore vibrant red lipstick with a matching dress. She must be heading to a date.

“Oh, don’t apologize, I am such a clutz,” She smiled and took back her stuff.

“I should’ve, uh, should have watched where I was going, I didn’t, uh, I didn’t see you there,” we briefly made eye contact, but then I realised I had a task at hand. “I really must be going, uh, bye”

“Bye,” she gave a small wave and walked away, I watched her as she went in that vibrant red dress.
Sigourney opened the door and stepped out into the rain before opening a vibrant red umbrella. She sure likes the colour red, I thought to myself. She sure likes the colour red. Vibrant red lipstick, vibrant red dress, vibrant red bottle of Coca Cola, though admittedly that must be a coincidence, and a vibrant red umbrella. It’s very likely that she’d own a vibrant red car. Almost like a metaphor for my sudden realization, a bolt of lightning cracked in the sky outside and rain began to pour.

“Hey! Look, can we just forget about the car?” It was Erikson; he must have missed the young woman entering her car as he headed towards the newsagent.

“You should have stopped her!” I yelled, startling both my partner and the short cashier at the other end of the long store.

“What?”

“She owned the car!” To think, the police chief’s daughter playing on the wrong side of the law.

“Oh, I think she just drove–“Erikson’s voice cut off as I ran out the door, having it slam behind me, but it was too late. As Erikson said, she had already left. I was too late. The Yellow Line Offender had escaped without a lick of condemning evidence.

Crime won a battle today, but it had not won the war.