As we browsed the virtual corridors of social media for some interesting content to bring to our readers, we found this little gem.
It was written by one of the many nameless cops who float around on the Twittersphere.
This story made us smile, so we thought that you, our beloved readers, might also enjoy it:
‘Once upon a time, some colleagues were planning to raid a brothel.
Part of the cunning plan was to have a decoy to get the team access into the property.
I was that decoy.
Apparently, friends, I don’t look like a cop when out of uniform.
And so it came to pass that an appointment was made in a fake name & the sergeant deployed to the den of iniquity.
I knocked on the door & was surprised when an older man answered.
The pimp perhaps?
No readers, a disgusted neighbour who informed me “the girls are the ground floor flat on the other side of the building” before slamming the door in my face.
Note to self: speak to the jackass who planned this job.
Off I go to the other flat. The door is opened by a more welcoming and attractive resident who invites me in.
That’s it folks door is open, the element of surprise is ours. Or not, as there was no sudden arrival of the team. Never fear I will continue my charade.
I get introduced to a charming young Brazilian lady dressed in rather fetching stockings & heels (just describing the scene).
Any moment now my colleagues will burst through the door, won’t they?
No, they bloody didn’t.
The madam offers me a glass of wine. How civilised. But I politely decline.
Drinking on duty? Perish the thought. I’m offered a tour of the premises.
Georgian mansion converted to flats and tastefully decorated for those with a desire for detail.
Pleased to report there is no sign of hired muscle so at least I don’t have to worry about that while waiting for the team. Who still aren’t here.
Well, my delaying tactics can last only so long. Will I have to take one for the team bravely? Commitment to the job and all that.
Probably not necessary. No hired muscle and I’m unlikely to be overpowered by two size eight girls in their 20s.
Or who knows maybe the team will come to my rescue. They don’t. Time for the truth, sorry ladies I’m not a customer I’m a cop, and you are being served a closure notice.
The look of disappointment at being so cruelly deceived.
Which is closely followed by the young lady in stockings asking if I mind if she changes back into jeans since the deed is not to be done.
Gentlemen that I am, I tell her to carry on before making a somewhat angry phone call.
“Which bit of don’t worry Sarge we will be right behind you means I will be in here chit-chatting for 15 minutes and not even over a glass of wine?”
The cavalry arrives.
Well, some shame-faced apologetic donkeys may be more accurate.
While they do the paperwork, I take the opportunity to return to the first door I knocked.
But this time I get rid of the jacket I’d been wearing so that the neighbour sees me in body armour.
Whoever thinks they will utter the words “I wasn’t paying your neighbours for sex Sir, we’re the police and we are closing their brothel”?
At least my real identity is safe as even if the geniuses who planned the job follow me, they have a vested interest in keeping quiet’.
Credit: ResponsePS / Twitter.