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NSW Police Commissioner Andrew ‘Skipper’ Scipione is the man in charge of the Cockroach Coppers, the best police force that money can buy, and he’s a crackerjack Commissioner with his finger fair on the policing pulse too, as he proved by his brilliant handling of the Martin Place siege.

The whole bloody lot of those hostages in that Lindt Cafe could have been killed you know. Skip saved their lives, all but two of them anyway, and their deaths were obviously someone else’s fault because Gods are omnipotent and don’t make mistakes, and don’t you dare forget it because when it comes to the congregation of the Church of Constable Plod of Latter Day Faints, Skip IS God: all powerful, all seeing, and all knowing.

He’s also a God of great vengeance and furious anger, and boy is he bloody angry right now because some unidentified invisible yet clearly evil bastard or bunch of bastards – or something like that anyway – has been running around shooting Sydney up into pieces in what is clearly a criminal conspiracy to turn the Emerald City into Melbourne.

Melbourne!

Who the hell do whoever they are think they are! Skip’s not putting up with that sort of nonsense, no bloody way in the world, and he’s got a plan to put them out of business once and for all as soon he works out who they are, and if he doesn’t then oh well, he’s retiring soon anyway so it’ll be someone else’s problem to deal with.

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But for now he’s still the hare in the big chair, and his incredibly clever plan to solve this heinous crime is so stunningly simple yet ineffective that he might find himself able to go fishing in Foxton, New Zealand early yet.It’s a single step strategy sportfans that involves invoking all of the detective skills that Skip’s learnt over his years of hard work planting his arse in a leather chair, uprooting it to walk hourly to the free coffee machine, and then planting it on the leather again.

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This is it punters, and I strongly advise that you hold your breath because you’re going to be goddamn shocked and amazed: Skip’s issued a press release! That’s right crime watchers, a carefully crafted statement has been emailed to Murdoch and Fairfax’s people to publish so they can let all the good folk sitting in traffic jams all across the city know that Skip’s going to nail the bastard responsible for Monday night’s busting open of the brain Mr Pasquale ‘Pineapple Lump’ Barbaro with a bunch of bullets.

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He’s going to nail the bastard to the wall Sydneysiders.

Of course that’s only provisional advice, pending his plodding plods working out exactly whodunnit and letting him know, but if turns out not to be the unknown bastard that Skip’s promised to nail to the wall fear not, for its just a simple matter of editing the press release and sending it out again, this time declaring that he going to crucify the gang of bastards, or the bitch or coven of bitches, or kid or group of kids,or goose or gaggle of geese, or dog or pack of dogs, or kangaroo or mob of kangaroos, or seagull or flock of seagulls, or crow or murder of crows or anyone or thing else who was responsible for creating all that ruckus outside Gorgeous George’s Mum’s place the other night.and making such a mess of Mrs Alex’s footpath.

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Skip working where Skip works best – behind his desk with his arse planted in a leather chair

Okay, Skip’s had his say and now it’s my turn, so bear with me for a minute and listen while I set you you straight about something, and correct a bit of misinformation that’s being floating around about the locus in quo of the Lump’s reluctant departure from this earth the other evening (that’s the scene of the crime for you dills who don’t speak ancient wog).

Both Skip and the muddlers of the mainstream media have all week been telling the punters that the Lump got bumped outside Gorgeous George’s place as if it’s gospel truth, and the hapless head of the NSW Police force is clearly of the belief that this information he’s been citing and spreading is correct. I say that because it was on this basis that Skip sent his battering ram boys in to raid the joint on Tuesday night replete with warrants authorising them to rifle through Mrs Alex’s lingerie draw looking for clues to the crime.

It goes without saying that you’re confused about why the clues weren’t hiding like they were meant to inside one of the racey bone-colored Playtex Cross Your Heart bras favored by the attractive mature-aged Mrs Alex, who by the way isn’t at all elderly as the Daily Telegraph defamatorily describe her, but in fact looks ten years younger than she really is and sends Kevvie’s head spinning like a top every time she pops up the Bunger for a natter with the Bead Twirler and a couple of games of Keno.

To clear the matter up Ladies and Gentleman, it is my melancholy duty to inform you that as usual both the fakirs of the fourth estate and the top cop in the Steak and Kidney shop have got it totally and utterly arse up, and I’ll tell you why for free too.

You see I stay at the wog’s joint whenever I’m down in the old Steak and Kidney, and unless my names Goldilocks and I’ve been sleeping in the wrong bed for the past few years, that house at Earlwood in the pictures in the paper showing a hump on the footpath that’s actually the Lump’s bumped rump ain’t Gorgeous George’s. It’s his bloody mother’s house, and Mrs Alex lives there with her daughter The Goddess and her son-in-law Pete – who every bugger calls The Heat because hanging around the goddess all day a fella’s gotta be feeling hot 24/7, unless of course his name’s Liberace, and Pete can’t play the piano- and the couple’s tin lids, who for Skip’s benefit are also Mrs Alex’s grandkids, they live there too..

Gorgeous doesn’t live in the joint and isn’t allowed to  – Mrs Alex is nobody’s fool and knows if she lets the bludger kip there even for one night he’ll be there forever, and that’d mean another 40 years of baking him Baklava and Eggs for brekky and washing his gangster gear, and knowing how lazy George is he’d probably want her to wipe his arse as well and Mrs Alex isn’t having any of that  nonsense – so he has to resort to sneaking around every day for a free feed on the pretext that he just wants to check up on the old girl, and if he just so happens to be carrying a trust withdrawal slip in one paw, and a basket of shirts for the Goddess to iron for him in the other, well that’s simply because he studied a paper on productivity while he was in the nut house and he’s simply putting theory into practice by killing two birds with one stone, although it’s probably not the most appropriate phrase to use at the moment, and I’ll tell you why.

When Gorgeous has a big win on the ponies on a weekend – it happens about once every Super Moon – he’ll always take his freshly padded bankroll down to the pub at opening time on a Monday morning and shout drinks all day for the first dodgy looking customer who’s so far down on his luck that he’ll talk to him. But before he buys the first round George always strikes a handshake deal with the thirsty punter that the price of the day’s free piss-up is they have to come to dinner at his Mum’s place with him that night, and the thirsty fellas dying for a devils brew but devoid of dough never say no.

What he doesn’t tell them of course is that they’re being hauled along so that he can maintain the fiction be spins the family that he actually does have mates, because it stops his  Mum worrying all the time about whose going to look after him when she hauls off to the Bahamas with Rusty Crowe after he gives Slammin’ Sam’s old girl the flick, and it prevents the Goddess from taking the piss out of him and calling him friendless Freddy at the same time.

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Now in the usual course of events the worst thing that Gorgeous’s bribed dinner date suffers the next morning is a sore ear from George bashing it the whole of the day before during their elbow-exercising session at the pub, and a bad case of technicolor yawnitis from all the libations that they imbibed. Butt poor old Pineapple Lump must have been an unlucky sort of chap – his jail record certainly suggests so – because instead of developing the usual tinnitus coupled with several spews in the dunny without a top drawer, the Lump instead copped a couple of hollow points in the head and guts, and rather than feeling like death warmed up the next day, Lump actually feels like death, or would if could anyway, because that’s what he in fact is. Dead, that is.

Naturally Gorgeous George has nothing to with that particular matter, because he’s afraid of guns and blood; the wog wimp dead set puts his hands over his ears when they pass the duck shooting game in Sideshow Alley at the Ekka, and he cries like the mummy’s boy he is every time that he gets a paper cut on his finger from the form guide. You can rule him out as a suspect straight away.

A case of mistaken identity can be ruled too, not just because the Lump was a fit-looking specimen liked by a certain type of lady and Gorgeous is not, but simply because as annoying as can be after 743 schooners there isn’t a soul on this earth who’d bother making the effort to knock George, because he never leaves the house except on the above-mentioned rare occasion he has a win on the punt, so he actually doesn’t know anyone except the blokes he buys booze, and no broke bampot is going to cut off their Campari and Coke supply are they?

And besides, even if George did annoy the poor buggers enough that they wanted to shoot him to shut him up – don’t hold the thought against them, most of us feel that way at one time or another – these pisspot mates of his couldn’t afford the price of the bullet even if they wanted to because they need every cent they have to spend on drink.

So in these circumstances I think it’s fair to say that it’s a bigger certainty than me pulling a shag tonight that unbeknownst to him, the Lump was carrying the Ace of Spades in his pocket and had been for a while, and Monday was simply the night that the banker came to collect what the Devil was owed from the deal he had made with the dead man decades before – Lump’s soul.

 

Skip knows that of course, or at least he does now after his boys found Mrs Alex’s letters to George telling him to harden up and be a man in her undies drawer on Tuesday night – thus spilling his blood and guns secret and ruining his tough guy image forever more – and read them out loud to their boss so that he could understand  the words, there being no pictures present in the letters to help him with the task.

In fact Skip knows a lot of things, just ask him and I guarantee he’ll tell you.

Things like the fact that he’s gunna stop the brutal gang war, just like Nancy Reagan stopped the war on Drugs. Or started it. Or did something Skip thinks. He’ll Google it up later and let us know, his media spokesperson tells us, but for the moment he’s too busy defending NSW’s borders from this damn criminal plague that’s already destroyed Melbourne and is marching north faster than a copper who’s slipped on a piece of string lying on the police station floor can fill out a Workcover compo claim.

Don’t worry about the crims though Sportsfans of Steak and Kidney, cos old Skip’s got the whole gang war thing covered. Well he does if it turns out to actually be a gang that bumped off the Lump. Skip’ll have a look later when he finds a spare 5 minutes to sit down and examine the evidence and work it our (What’s that Inspector? There is no evidence? Get the f*ck out of here, and shut the door as you go).

For the moment though he wants to assure the public that they’re absolutely safe from any harm as long as they stay indoors, fasten the deadbolt, don’t answer the door and keep their bloody heads down, because he’s on the job and working the full 7 1/4 hours a day less of course the mandated 30 minute rest breaks per hour required under Health and Safety regulations applying to the boss and written by him. A policeman can’t be seen breaking the rules you know, as Detective Gray from BrisVegas I’m sure will tell you.

And Skips got a loud and clear message for the unidentified someone or something who so sneakily drove down the middle of an inner-west Suburban street the wrong way, parked in the middle of the road, got out with a gun in their hand and popped the Pineapple while not wearing a mask to disguise their identity.

The message is that whoever he/she/they/it are, you are now officially on notice that you’re walking the streets on borrowed time suckhole or holes. Whoever or whatever you are be under no illusion whatsoever that as sure as retirement follows a Coroners finding that your force f*cked up, this criminal or criminals or whatever’ arse is bloody grass. and you can call the skipper the Mower Man’cos he’s the hotshot who’s going to chase the surreptitious snakes pit of the grass.

This is his town, not the Invisible Man’s, and and as soon as Skip works out who that prick or bunch of prick’s are that popped the Pineappple, they’re going down big time. He’s not going to let this whatchmacallit turn Sydney into a Melbourne. Or he doesn’t think is anyway, he’s really only guessing.

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But he’s not guessing about the guns. He wants those guns, real bad. He doesn’t know where they are but that doesn’t matter, because he’s going to serve firearm prevention orders on every single suspect in Sydney, all four million of them, and even scumbags like that Hamzy from the Brothers 4 Life – the one in Supermax will all the mobile phones, not the dead one – will stand up and take notice.

And before you know it every patched up pillion passenger from Parramatta to Penrith will be laying down their illegal firearms on the Western Distributor and we can all sleep safe in our beds once more. Well everyone except Mrs Alex , the Heat, the Goddess and the kids anyway, cos it’ll naturally take them a while to get over 20 police bashing in their door and rifling through their stuff. But at least they won’t have to worry about being shot, because the guns will be all gone.

So forget about your fears of being caught up in the carnage boys and girls, cos as long Skip has a highly paid media adviser on board to keep pumping out the press releases there ain’t going to be any. Or none that you’ll find out about anyway.

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And as for the enormous number of dead people littering the streets?

Skip says that it doesn’t matter and you shouldn’t worry about it, because if you’re unlucky enough to cop six shotgun shells in the head you’ll be cactus quicker than you can say 1,2, Pasquale anyway.

He just wants to know where the guns are.

Not running the NSW Police Force, that’s for sure.

I’m off down to the Tote. See you there.

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