Q: Is it a crime to collect rainwater?

A: Getting the water the way you did is within your legal rights. Doesn't matter that you used a rusty bucket. Doesn't matter that you plan to use it to fill up water balloons. Doesn't even matter that what you collected isn't even technically rain water. It's flood water. The law doesn't differentiate.

What the law does have a problem with is your illegal streaming of the latest Hollywood movies and UFC events. That's why the cops are here and that's why you're going to prison. Has nothing to do with the rain water.

I admit, the timing is suspiciously coincidental. If I were a betting man, I would wager that someone tipped them off to your criminal activities while you were off collecting the water. Probably someone with his own bookmaking related legal troubles looking to make a deal and also settle a personal grudge.

As you know, I am a betting man. And a cinephile. Maybe you'll remember that the next time you invite half the neighborhood over to watch Magic Mike.

Q: Is throwing an object by a minor at another minor and hitting them considered assault?

A: Throwing the object is assault. As soon as it hits someone, you've entered the magical land of battery. Put them together and you have assault and battery, two great crimes that go great together, like breaking and entering, false imprisonment and kidnapping, and my personal favorite, loitering and mopery.

You're probably too young to remember, but back in '86 we had a rash of loiter/moperies back.  The foot shacks on Bowery sat dormant, the tourists dried up, the myopic were too scared to leave the house. We were a city under siege,  until some hot shot detective figured out the pattern, posed as a blind street flutist and put down roots on 3rd and 3rd, waiting for that sick bastard to show himself. The cop waited for sixteen days, and on the seventeenth, just as he was about to quit, who should come walking up to him but a cheesy vacuum salesman, whistling some made up tune and holding a handful of his dirty junk.

The detective, having found his loitering moperer, took off his sunglasses to reveal he was not blind, took out his badge and his service revolver to reveal that he was a cop, and revealed that the gun was loaded by emptying its contents -  bullets - into the stomach, head, neck and groin of the vacuum salesman.

Time stood still in the park that day, all you could here was the sound of justice, followed by the sound of screams - the moping son of a bitch was still hanging on - followed by more justice in the form of bullets, followed by the tepid applause of innocent citizens saved from a diabolical rampage that many did not know existed.

The word "hero," gets used a lot these days, but on that day, no one said it. No one even thought it,  despite the officer's pleas, not even when he passed out the commemorative t-shirts featuring a cartoon rendering of the detective standing in the 'O' of the word hero.

You might be shocked to hear that I am that police officer. I'll pause now to allow you to take in this new information and compose yourselves.

Take your time. There's no need to feign apathy. It's only natural to feel shocked and begin to doubt the very nature of your existence. If you feel the need to hyperventilate, no one will judge you.

Okay, it looks like, due to the reality-shattering nature of my admission, it may take some time for the shock to kick in. I'll just keep going and hopefully be able to finish before you succumb to the shock.

For the past few months you have all known me as Dennis, the new kid, the one with the mismatched socks, and the divorced parents, and the love of Strat-O-Matic Baseball.  I'm sure you all thought the same thing, "Sure, Dennis might smells a little and run funny and spend too much time talking to that Racquel Welch poster in his locker, but he's basically just like us, a 13-year old kid trying to figure out his way in this crazy world."

You all thought wrong. I'm nothing like you. I've been  undercover this whole time. And I know all your secrets.

You might have thought that by throwing a rock at fellow minor you'd be safe from criminal prosecution, but again you'd be wrong. You didn't throw that rock at any kid, you threw it at a cop. And not just any cop, a highly decorated 51 year old cop only three years from a pension and assigned to our new Jump Street division due to budget cutbacks. You picked the wrong day to pick on Dennis.

Dennis isn't my real name by the way. It's Detective Peter Milligan.

Anyone feeling any shock yet?

Q: Does a cap gun shoot?

A: I know what you're wondering - in addition to your question about a cap gun, a question I will address in a moment -  you're wondering, "Did he fire all 6 shots or just 5?" Well, in all the excitement, I kind of lost track.

You have to admit, that was pretty exciting. As a hardened criminal you might have done this sort of thing before and find it old hat, but this is my first week on the force and I've never chased anyone through the streets yelling and shooting and pushing people out of the way. That was awesome. I jumped over a baby carriage. Sure, I didn't totally clear it - kind of clipped it with my shoe - but I landed on my feet, unlike the baby. I'm sure he'll be fine. He only bounced a couple of times. His mother didn't seem to mind. As I ran away I saw her pumping her fist and cheering. I assume she was cheering. I couldn't make out much of what she said over all that gunfire, and the sound of heart pumping. I've never fired my gun at someone before. It's exhilarating.

I'm realizing I probably shouldn't have told you that it's my first week on the force, or that I've never fired a gun before, Please don't say anything. I'm still in a probationary period with the department. I'm not "officially" a cop, so I don't really have the authority to arrest anyone or shoot anyone or even carry a real gun. This is just a cap gun.

That answers your first question. A cap gun can shoot. It won't hit anything, but it can shoot. I made the bullets myself. Again, please don't tell anyone; strictly against department policy.

Now, to answer your second question, "Did I fire 5 shots or all 6?" Like I said, in all the excitement - I rolled across the hood of a cab! - anyway, I kind of lost track. So I have a question for you. Do feel lucky?

Well do you, punk?

You should, because I hear sirens and if they see me holding someone at gunpoint, I'll never get to be a real cop. Get the hell out of here. And please, never speak of this to anyone.

Q: What dog breeds suit police dogs?

A: If you need a dog to maintain public order, scaring crowds and keeping mobs at bay - you know, the fun stuff -  use a rottweiler. German shepherd in a pinch.

If you need a dog to sniff out some drugs - say you've pulled over a van of dirty hippies and you need a reason to toss their peace-loving asses in jail to prevent them from corrupting the youth of the community  - you're gonna want a Labrador. If there's drugs to be found, they will find them. Works best if they know where you planted them. Otherwise you'll be out there all night, listening to some long-hairs bitch about the Fourth Amendment, when you could be out busting up high school keggers, exchanging get out of jail free cards for sexual favors. Take my advice: don't actually hand out cards. You don't want a paper trail.

If you're tracking someone, either a fugitive, a suspect, or a pimpled teenager hiding in the woods with an iPhone - did you know those things have cameras on them? - you're gonna want a bloodhound.

At the end of the day, once your police work is over, once you find your fugitive, or suspect, or teenager, and you break his phone, and put the fear of God in him, and swear him to secrecy, and pull your pants up, and beat him some about the jaw with your night stick to guarantee his silence only to accidentally kill him because kids today aren't as tough as they used to be, you're gonna want a dog waiting at home for you, a dog who won't judge you, who won't look at you sideways when you pick up a six pack of beer and thirty feet of plastic sheeting at Walmart, who'll sit in your lap and lick your face and fill that gaping whole in your being where most folks have a soul. That dog should be a corgi.

Isn't that right, Mr. Mocha? Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?

Q: Do lovebirds need to be kept inside?

A: Most of the men out here haven't seen a woman in years, let alone smelled one. Decades for some. If we let them near those lovebirds, they'd tear them apart. These are awful men. Bad. Violent. Evil. So evil. So evil, not even their mothers could love them - Lord knows some of them have tried.

The men, I mean. To love the mothers. In the physical sense.

I'm talking about men who try to make love to their own mothers. By "make love" I mean sex, good, old-fashioned fucking, in the procreational sense. Sodomy, too. To their own mothers.

Pretty awful, isn't it.

Yessir, these men are animals. No other way to put it. If we let the conjugal visitors outside of the restricted area, let them out into the yard, those no telling what these beasts would do. It wouldn't be pretty, I can assure you of that. These beasts, these things, they think like filth. They are filth. Do you have any idea what they'd do to a woman, a woman as beautiful as that?

Here, let me show you.

I've seized these drawings over the years, each one made by a prisoner inside these walls. Look at this smut.  Look at the details. They've put a lot of thought into it. I can hardly stand to look at them. No more than an hour or so. Two tops.

No, there's no way we can let these monsters, these horrible, brutal monsters - with their filthy minds, and their strong sinewy arms, and their rock-hard, bulging neck muscles, and their total disregard for common decency - anywhere near those sweet, young marrieds, expressing their love in the missionary position, as God intended. Those lovebirds must stay inside, for their own good. As long as they stay on that side of the room, under the light, where the camera can see them. It does me no good if they roll to the floor or make love in the shadows. None of the lifers will pay a penny for that.

Q: What does the h mean on an ATV tire?

A: The H doesn't stand for anything. It's just that, an H. It stands for H, the letter H.

Take a step back and look to your right. You'll see another letter. To the right of that, another letter. And then one more on the end there. If you look closely, or at all, you'll notice these four letters make a word. A word that has been written, again and again, all over your ATV. A pretty nasty word.

Folks round here are pretty conservative. Well, let's be fair -  they're bigots. Hateful bigots. Some of the meanest, hateful, fear-mongers you can imagine. God Bless them, but they don't know any better.

Guess they heard about what goes on in your cabin when the Mayor visits. Guess they don't approve. At least, now that they understand what happens when the Mayor visits. They really didn't get it at first.

They're simple folks. They don't understand much. You can't imagine how many times I had to explain it. At first they thought you were wrestling. Then I explained it. Then I explained again. And again. Finally I drew some pictures. Then they got it. And, man alive, did they get angry.

I have to admit, it was kind of fun seeing that moment of realization, watching them get all angry, quoting the bible and using all those slurs. They sure do get worked up. You have no idea what they wanted to do to you. Good thing I was here to talk them out of the murderous rage I had recently incited them to. Things like that make me a good sheriff.  Thankfully, I was able to stop them in time. Luckily, only your 4-wheeler was damaged.

Speaking of ... Now that your ATV is all defaced, have you reconsidered my offer to buy? The Sheriff's Department could really use one.

Q: What is the following limit on twitter?

A: You can follow as many people as you like, for as long as you care, with any computer, smartphone, tablet or wireless device you choose.

As long as you only follow them on the internet, from the comfort of your own home.

Once you start following people in person - in groceries stores, shopping malls, comic-book conventions, at youth-league soccer games, up the stairs of their home as they flee, as they throw lamps and vases and tables and pets behind them to slow your pursuit - you are no longer engaging in a "free wheeling exchange of ideas," you are engaging in stalking.

We have laws against that. Not pretend, internet laws that result in "Unfollows" and "Defriending," but real, enforceable laws that result in arrest and incarceration.

So I'm going to need you to step away from the door, drop your iPad, put your hands behind your head and face the wall.

Yes, I do have a twitter feed. You can follow me at @ItchyTriggerFinger. Would you like to guess why I use that name? I'll give you a hint: it's not rash related.

Q: What would happen to the license of a driver who has involved in an accident and did not stop to help persons who got injured?

A: Is this a hypothetical question?

Or, is there something you want to tell me? I ask because you seem to be upset; you're shaking, you're sweating and you've been hysterically crying since you walked in the door. That's not like you.

It's also not like you to park in the yard. Usually, you park in the garage. So, that's odd.

I also find it odd that you tracked all that blood and broken glass into the house. You know how I feel about broken glass in the house. It makes it hard for me to walk around barefoot. You know that. I assumed you knew how I felt about blood in the house. But, since I never sat down and told you, I can't hold it against you.

For the record, I am against it.

Based on the blood, and the broken glass, and your hysterical crying, and the child stuck to your bumper, I'm going to assume that the driver in question is you. If that's the case, if my assumption is correct, your license will be revoked.

Not that you'll need a license where you're going.

You're going to the basement, to hide for a few years until this whole thing blows over. It will be just like when you were a kid, except we won't have to worry about your mother badgering me with all those questions about where you are. I hated having to lie to her.

Now, get down in the basement. Your cage is exactly how you left it. I didn't touch a thing. Not even your cat. She's probably dead now. But, at least you'll have something to eat.

Q: What is the best way to flush THC out of your body?

A: I really can't say. I'm not the THC expert you take me as. You're probably confused. 

You probably think you're still talking to your friend Will, still pulling over to the side of the road, freaking out, trying to hide the weed before the cop gets to the car. 

I want you to do something for me: Take a look to your right and tell me who you see. Who's sitting right there next to you?

That's right, it's your friend Will. Now, take a moment, think this over - who does that make me? I'm not Will, so I must be the ...?

Nope, not Smokey Bear. You're just saying that because of the hat.

Take another guess. Look lower. You'll notice I have a badge, as well as a gun. Who does that make me?

That's right! I'm the cop who pulled you over. Good job! Now, do you know why I pulled you over?

No, it wasn't to say hi. I pulled you over because you drove through that farmer's market - that's right, the one that smelled like cookies - and ran over 4 people. You would have hit more, but you were only driving 6 miles per hour. Most people saw you coming. 

I'm going to go out on a limb and say you might have been driving impaired. You're in some trouble. I'm gonna need to draw some blood, to determine just how much trouble we're talking about.

Calm down now. Don't try to drive away. That's not going to work. I want you to do me another favor: Take a look beneath you, behind you. What do you see?

That's right! A bench and a room full of criminals. Did you have those in your car? 

No, you didn't. Which means you're not in your car, but in the  ... ? 

That's right! Police station. You're in the police station. So it's probably a little too late to worry about flushing those drugs out of your system. It's probably time to get a lawyer.

That's not your lawyer. That's a plate of chocolate chip cookies. My wife made them. They're for everyone. Please stop eating them. 

Q: Where can you find a voodoo specialist in your area?

A: Why would you assume there's a voodoo specialist in my area?

Lots of neighborhoods are littered with chicken bones. Mine is not the only one. I'm sure if you drove around town and opened your eyes, I mean really opened them, and looked around, you would see chicken bones everywhere, and streets covered with bizarre symbols drawn in chalk, and stupefied people with ashen skin shuffling through the streets like zombies. Those sites are not exclusive to my front door.

Those? Those are my collection of pin cushions. I'm a bit obsessed, I must admit. I love pin cushions. It just so happens that many of the pin cushions in my collection are human shaped, and appear to resemble some of my neighbors - certain thoughtless people who throw loud parties during the weekday, block my driveway with their luxury SUVs, listen to modern popular music at deafening levels or subscribe to The New Yorker - some of whom have recently suffered spontaneous broken legs or arms, or become overwhelmed with a sudden bring sensation, as if they have been placed in an oven. I can assure you any similarities between the pin cushions are my neighbors are purely coincidental.

I'm sorry I can't be more help, Officer. I hope you find this voodoo specialist who has been, as you put it, "terrorizing" the neighborhood. I'll keep my eyes open and let you know if I see anything.

Could you leave me a business card, so I can contact you if I have any information?

Great.

And could I trouble you for a lock of your beautiful hair?

Q: How long does it take wine to get out of your blood?

A: Depending on how much you consumed, anywhere from 30 minutes to a full day. In your case, I'm going to say about 14 hours.

You can't bleed it out of your system. That's absurd. Even if you could, you don't have time. The cop's getting out of his car right now.

I told you to take a cab.

Look, you'll be fine. Refuse the breathalyzer, get a lawyer, and  -

- Oh, dear God.

You must have hit a vein! It's all over me. Make it stop! Make it stop!

I can't wait to see how you explain this one. You, drunk as a skunk. Me, covered in blood. I hope the cop has a sense of humor. I don't think pretending to be asleep is going to help, Dan.

Dan?

Dan!

Oh boy.

What seems to be the problem, Officer?

Q: Could you shoot a gun from a jet ski?

A:  I have shot a gun in the following situations:

 - While on a jet ski.
 - While making love to a beautiful woman in a hammock suspended between two Black Hawk helicopters
 - While falling backward down a mine shaft.
 - While running down the stairs of the Statue of Liberty, a rare bird in a rare cage in one hand, an antique musket in the other.
 - While ski-diving. From a Space Shuttle.
 - While leaping out of the way of an exploding limousine of the international criminal mastermind who ordered the execution of my wife and family.
 - While soaring across the Snake River Canyon in a homemade rocket.
 - While crawling out of the fiery pits of hell.

As you can see, in my career as an international super cop, I have fired a gun in every conceivable scenario, which more than qualifies for a role in your Burn Notice fan film.

I look forward to your reply, and I thank you in advance for your consideration.

Q: Is it bad to lift weights and then run?

A: Don't play dumb with me. You knew full well what you were doing.

Do you really expect this court to believe that  you broke into the vault under cover of night, slit the throats of two guards, disabled the security cameras, loaded all the gold you could carry into a heavy duty duffel bag, then took off running into the darkness, all for the exercise?

That you coveted the gold, not for it's value, but for it's weight?

That you did not commit theft, but only a violent and bizarre act of fitness?

Really?

I don't understand you kids today. Maybe it's time I retired from the bench.

Okay, new rule: whoever can rip this gavel from my hands gets to be the judge for the rest of the day.

However, if you try and fail, you will be sentenced to death.

Any takers?

No one?

You're all a bunch of cowards.

Q: How do you remove the dashboard of a Jeep Liberty?

A: I don't have the slightest idea. As far as I know, that thing never comes off.

No sir, there's no way there are any drugs hidden under there.

That powder is flour. I like to make cakes while I drive. It soothes me.

Is there some law about making cakes while driving?

Don't taste it! I don't use edible flour. I make show cakes. The flour contains poison. Poison, which I am told, that tastes almost exactly like cocaine. I wouldn't know myself. I don't do drugs. Users are losers, sir. I am not a loser.

No, I can't show you any cakes. My last one flew out the window.

Trust me, I'm as disappointed as you are.

Can I go now, Officer? I think you've wasted enough of my time with your ridiculous questions.

Q: Why is it illegal to stalk?

A: Stalking, while technically legal, shows poor character and a lack of courage. If you like a girl, walk up to her, stand up straight, look her in the eye and ask her out. If she says no, she says no. Move on with your life.

You won't make the situation any better by stalking. You can follow her around from a safe distance all day, stand outside her window all night, break into her home while she's gone, try on all her clothes to get a sense of how she thinks, murder her friends and loved ones, one by one, until she has no one else to turn to, but if the chemistry's not there, it's not there. You can't force these things. Trust me, I know.

If I had a nickel for every girl I stalked, I'd be a goddamn millionaire.

I've just been handed a note by my bailiff. Hmmmm. Apparently stalking is illegal. Highly illegal.

You'll have to excuse me, this is my first day as a judge.

Probably my last day, too.

But, before they throw me out, let's schedule some hangings!

Q: How much does the worlds cheapest car cost?

A: This car right here costs $85. You'll never find a car cheaper than that.

We saved money by making the car out of cardboard, and we passed the savings on to you!

Those tires aren't drawn on with crayon. They're real tires.

No, you can't touch them. You'll have to trust me.

You'll also have to trust me that the car runs. I can't let you see the other side of the cardboard, I mean get behind the wheel until I have cash in hand. With a car this cheap, I can't afford a test drive.

$85, take it or leave it. This is a one time offer.

I suggest you take it. The police seem to have found your abandoned getaway car. Now they're pointing over here.

Should I wave to them, or will you be taking this fake car and running away?

Q: When would you need a forensic scientists?

A: When the work becomes too technical for us regular detectives. When we need to find some DNA on a piece of chew bubblegum we find on the nightstand of a dead gigalo. When we need to determine what blood belongs to which corpse after a chainsaw party. When we need to identify a kidnapper based on nothing more than a boot print and a Pez dispenser.

Sometimes we need a forensic scientist to solve one of the more important case, like WHO KEEPS EATING MY SANDWICHES?

Seriously, guys, it's not funny anymore. That's the ninth one this month. I swear to God, once Dr. Goodwin tells me who did this, I will shoot the culprit in the face. I'm not kidding. They can suspend me, fire me, send me to jail for life. Hell, put me in the chair. I don't care, I have nothing left. 

That sandwich was all I had. I've never loved a human being as much as I loved that sandwich. If it were legal for a man to marry a sandwich, I would have done it. Judge me all you want. I just want to be happy.

Hold on, Doc Goodwin's calling. I can't wait to see what he says.

Hey, Doc.

What's that.

I see.

Well, thanks for the work. Uh, if you don't mind keeping this under your hat, I'd really appreciate it.

It seems I owe some of you folks an apology. According to the DNA results, I am the one who ate that sandwich.

I guess this solves the riddle of who's been drinking all my scotch.

Q: Why did the colonists move west?

A: They wanted to find a little peace, maybe a little prosperity. They wanted some land of there own, a little piece of heaven where they could build a house, start a farm, raise a family. They wanted to stop running, stop waking up every night in a cold sweat, stop looking over their shoulder all the time.

They thought if they got far enough away from the big cities, far enough away from civilization, they could understand what it really means to be a man, to live off the land, to be one with nature.

They thought if they built a deep enough well, surrounded it with thick enough stone, placed it far enough away from town, they could carry on their experiments to their hearts content, all day and all night, never having to worry about judgment or discovery or arrest.

That was the dream at least.

But I guess every dream has to die someday.

Like those prostitutes.

Honestly, I never thought anyone would miss them. Maybe I should I stick to Chinamen. No one seemed to miss them. Well, hindsight is 20/20.

Q: Can you claim gas and mileage for driving to jury duty?

A: We will reimburse reasonable expenses pertaining to jury service. Gas and mileage usually fall under the "reasonable expenses" umbrella.

Usually.

However, money spent on gas and mileage involving travel, not to and from your home to the courthouse, but rather, to the far corners of the state in search of clues in an effort to solve the case on your own, does not fall under said umbrella.

Furthermore, the court will not reimburse any sums paid out to witnesses to "get their story straight," nor any monies paid for procurement of brass knuckles needed to "give (witnesses) some help with their memory."

Additionally, wagering on the outcome of the case, especially by members of the jury, is expressly forbidden.

Consider this your final warning, Juror Seven. One more slip up and I will consider having you replaced by an alternate, or, at the very least, given a very uncomfortable chair for the remainder of the trial.

Q: How is blood related to ice cream?

A: Ummm ... It's not.

It's really not.

In fact, I can't think of any two things more different than blood and ice cream. When bleeding, the last thought on my mind is "Gee, I could go for some ice cream. That would be swell."

When eating ice cream, the last thing I think about is blood. That would sort of ruin the enjoyment of my delicious treat.

Why would you even ask that question?

Yes, I see, there is a lot of blood on that ice cream cone. Yup, that is pretty unusual.

Where did you get it?

Don't remember, huh? Some nice man handed it right to you.

Stan, I know that you're new to Homicide, but you do realize that we're in this park as part of a stake-out, right? That we're looking for a serial killer the press have dubbed the Double Dipper? That he's called that because he kills his victims in an ice cream truck and then uses their blood as a topping for soft serve cones that he leaves behind as his calling card, as a way to taunt the police?

I doubt he's ever handed a cone directly to a cop before.

But, then again, we've never made anyone detective because they won a raffle.

I guess it's not your fault. These kind of things are to be expected when you allow a novice on the force solely to cover budgetary - For God's sakes, Stan, stop eating the cone!