The night before the morning...

...a theme Thursday post.

It was a dark and stormy night.

But it cleared up soon enough.

Perry Doughnut just began a hum drum night walking the beat,
his beat through the powdered avenues of San Brancisco, the city that never sleeps.
Night, in the city; it seemed to go on and on. Anyway, that's the way it seemed
to Perry, as he slogged his way down alleys and over glazed intersections.
He wasn't looking for trouble, good biscuits and gravy, no; but trouble came looking,
like it always did.

Doughnut was swinging his heavy crumbudgeon in swirlys when is happened,
when a sweet little danish lady stumbled around the corner, nearly running into Perry;
her mini wheats bouncing as she rolled to a stop. They were small, but perky.

“Say sweets, what the rush?” Perry inquired, steadying the panting sweet goodie with
a calm spatula.

“They're after me, the Baker boys!”
The Baker boys! They were from over the Goldengriddle Bridge, over in Lake Taco, where the morning never ended. Bagels!

“Butter! Are you sure, lady? The Baker boys haven't been seen in these parts for, well, nights.”
Not since they absconded with the cow that jumped over the moon.
The cow never really jumped over the moon, but was the mascot of Jimmy Dean High,
and had bellowed “tricks are for kids” then vaulted the rival team's overzealous toucan, Sam, who had dropped his pants to the home team.
Presumably they needed the cow for its milk, the Baker boys were cereal offenders.

“Get behind me, dish,” I said, and not too soon, as the Baker boys appeared from the dark shadows and pulled up short when they saw me. I clunked my roll on my badge. They sizzled.

The biggest guy waffled, then stepped forward, like a slab of meat, like a juicy steak. He took his chances coming to the city that never slept. The city of appetizers and sweet dinner wines. The city who's citizens party hard all night and have a hearty appetite for a big, juicy main course. Guys like this never learn.

“Hey guys, look what we gots here; it's a slab of bacon. Whatcha think you're gonna do, bacon?” The boys mooed.

Now I'd been a beat bacon, er cop, for twenty years, and no $19.99 cut of gristle was gonna flip me
like a flapjack. They all came at me and, being no Froot Loop, I reached for my belt, pulling out my serrated utensils and salt and pepper.

“Bloomin' onions! You ain't seen the last of us, bacon!” And they scattered, like shrimp on a barbie; I phoned in an order for a side of backup, just to be safe.

“Come on, my little sweet roll,” I took her arm. “You could do with a drink;” aperitifs we do, we do 'em good here in our dusky city. The city that never gets as far as the next morning. Yeah, she was a hot cake, and I would've invited her over for breakfast (wink)...but that never happens here in the frosted streets of San Bransisco, the city that never sleeps.