SalR323 (salr323) wrote,
SalR323
salr323

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21 Jump Street! Oh yeah.

A couple of weekends ago fried_flamingo and I mainlined the first two seasons of Johnny Depp's cops-in-high-school 80s extravaganza 21 Jump Street.

I'm still trying to peel off my drainpipe jeans and de-perm my hair, so I accept no responsibility for the following. I blame it on the alcohol.

Remember kids – alcohol’s bad. Just Say No.

Crack!fic at Crack High


It was another cold and rainy morning in Los Angeles, and Officer Tom Hanson stood gazing out over the forested islands of the northwest pacific coast. He couldn’t help feeling that something was wrong…

It was a feeling that lingered as he made his way into the Chapel and took his customary seat on his desk. Teenagers sit on desks, not chairs; that was one of the first lessons he’d learned as an undercover high school cop. That and the fact that teenagers only eat potato chips for breakfast. Being twenty three, he was glad he had middle aged police captains like Fuller to remind him of these details or he’d risk standing out like a sore thumb.

Just then the door to Fuller’s office opened and the man himself appeared. “Hanson, Penhall,” he shouted. "Get in here." Sometimes Hanson wished the other guys scurrying around the office actually did some work too. But he didn’t know who the hell they were, what they did, or why they were there – he wasn’t even sure they could speak.

As they stepped into the captain’s office Tom cast a glance at his fellow cop – mostly to avoid the retinal damage caused by looking directly at the pattern on Fuller’s sweater. “Don’t you think it’s kinda cold for LA?” he asked Penhall. “And why are there fjords and no beach?”

No one answered.

Inside the office, Fuller looked stern. Hoff was already there, cross-legged on the desk. Penhall took a chair and swung it around to sit on it backward (in extremis, an acceptable way for a teenager to use a chair), and there was no sign of Ioki. That was no surprise; it was too early in the plot for him to show up.

“Hanson, Penhall…” Fuller fixed them with a fierce stare. “We’ve had reports of tight jeans being worn at Crack High. Go check it out.”

“Tight jeans, sir?” Hanson was confused. “I don’t get it…”

“You don’t get it?” Fuller wagged a finger at him. “You think it’s okay to wear tight jeans?”

“I just thought there might be something more important we could be investigating…”

Fuller glared. “More important than tight jeans? What the hell could be more important, Hanson?”

“Well…” He glanced again at his friends. Penhall looked amped and Hoff was struggling to keep the weight of her one huge earring from pinning her head to the desk. Ioki still wasn’t there. “Don’t you think it’s kinda weird that all the kids in high school look at least twenty-five?” He cast a pointed look at Penhall. “Or even older. I mean… Where are the real kids?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hanson. If kids in high school looked sixteen, you – and especially Penhall here – would be busted as perverts!”

Hanson pouted prettily and said nothing; it was a fair point.

“Now let me tell you about tight jeans, Hanson. You start out thinking they look groovy but pretty soon they start chafing, the chafing causes pain, and the pain makes you …”

“Get wasted off your head on alcohol,” Hoff patronised. “Alcohol’s bad, Tom.”

“That’s right,” Fuller agreed. “Damn it, Hanson, I knew a guy who wore tight jeans once.”

Hanson lifted a bored eyebrow and said, “What happened to him?”

Leaning over his desk Fuller indulged in a moment of melodrama. “He died,” he said. “Do you want to die, Hanson?”

Tom was saved from an incriminating answer by the arrival of Ioki, their Asian (Japanese/Vietnamese – what’s the difference?) friend. “Hi,” Ioki said. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty good,” Penhall grinned, dabbing at his nose and trying to focus. “What’s up?”

“Ah nothing.” Ioki laughed good naturedly. “Just making a token appearance in this episode to show off my new silver suit – check out these shoulder pads.”

“Groovy.”

“Way cool,” Hoff agreed.

Hanson said nothing and Ioki was hustled out the door before his agent could demand a stronger story line. Meanwhile, Tom’s attention was caught by the pair of jeans Fuller was waving in his direction.

“Put these on, Tom,” the captain said huskily. “And make sure you show me before you leave so I can check out your…appearance.”

“They’re very tight, sir,” Hanson noted.

Fuller cleared his throat. “You can use my office to change,” he offered, generously. “Mano-a-mano.”

Hoff scratched her head, then took a moment to unstick her hand from the hairspray before she said, “I don’t get it, sir. Why Hanson? Surely Penhall’s body would be best suited to skin tight jeans?”

“That’s the point,” Fuller said, casting a coquettish look at Hanson. “We all know Penhall’s the stud around here – why else would he have been cast in that movie, and chosen as a model instead of Hanson? But we don’t want that to get in the way of the plot, do we?”

Hoff sighed. “I guess not. But I’d much rather see his penis outlined in tight denim than Hanson’s.”

Fuller laughed. “Get outa here, you kids!” He threw the jeans at Hanson and in a low voice added, “Tom – I’ll need to check you out before you head off to Crack High. And no socks this time.”

Hanson rolled his eyes; only nine in the morning and already he needed a joint. It was going to be another long day...

***

To be continued… (Next time I’m pissed wasted off my head on alcohol)
Tags: crack
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