“So to summarise, I’m looking to get some fresh DNA intosenior positions. I want my D.I.s to be younger and fitter,” he explained,looking directly at Kent when he used the word ‘fitter’.
“I want them to be ethnically representative of the population.I want more women and I want more minorities in key positions. I will not have discriminationin this force.”
The man was totally contradicting himself with thesestatements, thought Kent. He didn’t have an issue with what Summerfield wassaying in his second point. Of course the best people for the job should beappointed, regardless of their colour or gender. What he objected to was thatin the previous sentence he had blatantly stated that he wanted younger people.Surely that was just as big a form of discrimination as the others?
“So in the months ahead I am going to be reviewing everystation in turn and you are all going to have to reapply for your jobs. If youthink you’ve got what it takes to be effective in my brave new world then you aregoing to have to prove it to me. Otherwise, it will be time for you to move onand make way for the next generation.”
The delegates were looking increasingly unhappy, especiallythe older ones. Kent could have stood up and challenged Summerfield there andthen, but he decided to wait for the final devastating blow.
“Finally we move on to the subject of finances,” saidSummerfield, changing the slide to one that read ‘Streamlining’.
“This police force is wasting far too much money,” heproclaimed. “And you are the primary cause of it. I will not have seniorofficers falsifying expenses to feather their own nests. I heard enough lastnight to convince myself that you are all on the fiddle. As a consequence, thereare to be no annual bonuses this year.”
At last the audience found its voice. “What?” said Dan Bradley.
“You must be joking,” said another D.I. from the Witneybranch.
“I am not joking,” said Summerfield. “I know all about theboozy lunches, the fake mileage claims and all the rest of it. There will be nobonus this year and that’s that. It’s not up for debate.”
The bonus was not an inconsequential sum. Kent’s normally amountedto about one and a half times a month’s salary, enough to pay for a decentholiday. The others would be similarly affected and a murmuring of discontentwas spreading around the room. The mood of the audience was turning ugly and itwas time to make a stand.
Kent stood up, and simply said, “No.”
“I beg your pardon,” replied Summerfield, astounded thatanyone would have the audacity to challenge his authority.
“I said no,” repeated Kent. “We’ve sat here listening toyour bullshit for the last hour and we’ve heard enough. You’ve belittled us,insulted us and accused us of all sorts. If that wasn’t bad enough, now you’rehitting us in the pocket, while you stand there in your flash suit with your expensivelaptop telling us there’s no money.”
“Sit down, Kent,” said Summerfield, angrily. “Or you’ll bethe first one out of the door.”
“I will not sit down!” retorted Kent. “You know what? Youcan stick your job. In fact you can stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.”
He grabbed his Brontosaurus from the desk and rushed acrossthe room directly towards Summerfield. The man was completely taken by surpriseand when Kent cannoned into him, he went down like a sack of spuds. The man mayhave been younger and fitter than Kent but you could never underestimate theelement of surprise or the sheer power of eighteen stone of good, old-fashionedBritish beef.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” yelled Summerfield,followed by “Get this lunatic off me” directed squarely towards the delegates.
But none of the other D.I.s moved. They just watched on, transfixedby the unfolding scene. They had no intention of helping this insidious littleman. One or two even began to cheer Kent on, thinking he was about to beat thefellow up.
“Go on, my son,” he heard Dan Bradley shout. “The bastard deservesit.”
Kent had no intention of beating him up; he had somethingfar better in mind. As Summerfield attempted to wriggle away from under him, Kentgrabbed his trousers and to his delight they slid off easily, revealing a pairof pink Calvin Klein boxer shorts.
Kent reached for those, too. As Summerfield began to realisewhat was happening he screamed out, “For fuck’s sake, help! This nutter’strying to rape me.”
One or two of the audience made some reluctant and tentativesteps towards them whilst others started to laugh in disbelief at the bizarrespectacle in front of them. With his boxers now round his knees and his privateparts dangling for all to see, Summerfield was well and truly exposed. Kent wasdelighted to see that the man had an extremely small penis, but it was theother side he was interested in.
He flipped the still protesting Summerfield over, spread hischeeks, grabbed his Brontosaurus and inserted the head straight into the commissioner’srectum, provoking a howl of anguish.
At last, two of the audience members decided that things hadgone far enough, grabbed hold of Kent and dragged him away. But they were toolate. He had done what he had set out to do.
Summerfield pulled the offending article out of himself,jumped up and pulled up his boxers. He was sweating profusely, red in the face,and extremely angry. His glasses had come off in the melee and he couldn’t seehis trousers.
“You fucking wanker!” he screamed at Kent. “I’ll see you neverwork in the police again! What’s more, you’ll go to prison for this!” Then hestormed out of the room, still minus his trousers. As he left, the audience,still bemused and shocked by what they had witnessed, burst into a spontaneousround of applause. Kent looked round at their faces and saw respect andadmiration. Whatever happened for the rest of the day, to be able to see that, aswell as the look on Summerfield’s face, was absolutely awesome.
“That was absolutely amazing,” said Dan Bradley, slappinghim on the back. “I can’t believe you actually had the guts to
