Roscoe

A white slip caught Roscoe's eye. It was an unpaid parking ticket, abandoned and forgotten on the asphalt, begging to be disposed of. Hesitating for a moment,he glanced around. No one seemed to notice the abandoned piece of paper. Frowning, the officer sighed, and bent to pick it up.

"Ugh, should I?" he muttered to himself, his voice cracking as he stood up. "But what else c-can I do about it?" Roscoe glanced around again, eyes darting up and down the street. He noticed a trash can further down the sidewalk, near a stop sign.

Taking a step toward the trash can, Roscoe felt a sudden gust of wind. He startled as the paper rustled in his hand, then in a flash, the wind snatched it away. The ticket fluttered for a moment before it was gone, disappearing into the busy street, and out of reach.

"Oh, come on!" Roscoe muttered, his feathers puffing out. In the end, he threw his hands up in surrender and sighed.

The night shift was always grueling, and his luck atypically had not been on his side tonight. His stomach rumbled, a reminder that he had forgotten to eat during the chaos of the evening.

He buttoned up his jacket as he left the building and to the night air. With a sigh, it was only one foot in front of the other, shuffling down the sidewalk. New Gladystown stretched out before him, the tall buildings casting long shadows.

A screech of tires and the thud of something heavy hitting the ground drew his attention. Roscoe hesitated for a moment, his feathers ruffling in response. He wasn't on duty, but something told him he ought to investigate. Fidgeting with his baton, he stepped away from the shadows, walking towards the source of the noise.

The faint call of an alarm shattered the chaotic symphony of city life. Ahead of Roscoe, a group of onlookers had gathered around a broken storefront. Freshly broken glass was scattered across the pavement. His heart thumped in his chest, and he fumbled with his belt before breaking into a nervous jog, sweat gathering on his brow.

The sight that greeted him was not comforting. A rabbit, clad in a tattered coat, was racing away from the scene on unsteady paws, an armful of stolen goods. The panic-stricken creature tripped over his own feet, sending the contraband tumbling to the ground. The rabbit scrambled back to his feet, a look of terror in his eyes.

Roscoe's feathers puffed up in determination, but his voice remained soft as he ordered, "Freeze, mister!" His hand hovered over his holster, but he had no intention of using it.

Instead of stopping, the rabbit dashed into the street, narrowly avoiding the honking vehicles. Roscoe hesitated, glancing at the traffic, before chasing after the thief.

"Y-You'll have to turn yourself in, we can still work this out!" he called out. He risked a quick glance behind him, looking back just in time to see the rabbit veering into an alleyway.

Roscoe gave one last, deep breath before plunging into the shadows. The walls were cramped, the stench of garbage overpowering. The rabbit leaped over a pile of discarded crates, and Roscoe, in a moment of courage, lunged to tackle the suspect.

Their bodies collided with a thud, the wind knocked out of both of them. The thief struggled, kicking and clawing, sending a spray of filthy water and mud onto Roscoe's pristine uniform. The rooster's eyes widened, briefly horrified at the realization that his white feathers and uniform were now smeared with the grime.

Roscoe tried to cling to the suspect's coat, but the rabbit tore free, leaving the rooster to wallow in the muck. The manic sound of footsteps on pavement echoed in the alley before fading into silence. Roscoe lay there, panting, a sodden mess, his uniform ruined.

"Uh... Well, I guess I'll have to write that one down," he murmured, despairing at his failure. He tentatively tried to push himself up, his pants caked in mud.

The dimly lit precinct was eerily quiet, the hustle and bustle of the day now replaced by an unsettling silence. Roscoe sat alone at his desk, buried in a stack of paperwork. The rooster's eyes strained, blurring the words on the page. He had stayed late, determined to catch up on the mountain of work that had accumulated over the past few weeks.

A glance at the clock told him that it was well past his shift's end. The other officers had long gone, leaving Roscoe to his solitary task. A pang of loneliness gripped his chest, squeezing his heart. He had always been the odd one out, the pushover nobody took seriously. He choked down a bitter laugh, unable to shake the feeling of discontent that did more than weigh heavily on his shoulders.

His luck, as usual, seemed to hold. No one disturbed him in the precinct as he began to unzip his fly, his eyes darting furtively around the room. When he was satisfied that he was indeed alone, he freed his manhood and started to stroke it, his hand moving in a frantic pace. His breathing grew heavier, the soft strokes inducing a much-needed release from the tension that built up within him.

"Oh, no," Roscoe whispered, glancing again at the clock. "The chief will murder me if he finds out." He glanced around, paranoia making his heartbeat thunder in his ears. "Surely, nobody's coming in this late." His voice trembled. It was foolish, reckless, and borderline criminal, but his need was raging within. Roscoe's eyes squeezed shut, and he began his furtive endeavor, his soft feathers rustling as he pumped.