Dyke is as a dyke does.

Juan Stabone was simply stuck with a worthless dyke partner, the first flaming rug muncher on the Seattle force, for too long. Rather than tough it out for the pension—for he was no pension jockey—at thirty-eight years of age in the autumn of 2001, Juan Stabone hired onto the Portland Police department. His darling daughter and beautiful wife liked it all well enough. Juan’s stellar performance as a Seattle officer, a man from a bigger city, leant a certain kind of credential to his “transfer,” when it was really a “mansfer.” He just couldn’t deal with that posing dyke bullshit.

There was just something about being forced to be a partner, in a constant possible combat situation, with a human that was supposedly in every way his moral superior due to her ability to bear children, who yet refused to bear those children and took another womb off the shelf to lick in an anti-maternity exercise of the first order, who furthermore pretended to masculine attribution yet utterly failed in all ways and in every situation to ever materialize as a masculine presence when the rubber hit the road, the wrists failed to willingly embrace the bracelets or the pedal hit the metal.

Cuddle-ho, please!

The estrogen well just had to be more shallow down in Portland!

Well, not exactly. You see, rather than being assigned to an anti-skinhead taskforce, Juan was seen as the perfect candidate to bring friendly, gay-tolerant policing to Portland!

Imagine Juan Stabone’s consternation when he was assigned as head instructor for sensitivity training!

“T.O. Stabone,” constantly requesting action in the field over the 19 years of his service with the Portland Police department, an entity actually devoted to community service, had the honor of mentoring many of Portland’s finest as lead T.O. or training Officer—T.O. Stabone they called him.

It was not Juan’s style to stay behind a desk and he was surely hoping that one fine day, his duel in the sun, his clash with Achilles, would occur and that he would distinguish himself in the most trying circumstances.

At some point in the early teens, still the resident ‘sensitivity expert from Seattle, this diplomatic image abetted by his aging smile and easy demeanor, Juan had accompanied Officer Spontenili, a squat, shaven-headed lesbian, on a simple traffic stop. We use the term accompanied, because Juan had informed her that this call was “all you,” her chance to shine in action as a unilateral operator.

As he sat in the passenger seat of the squad car, Officer Spontenili, walked up to the vehicle they had pulled over for a dead left taillight, came to the driver’s side window, paperwork in hand, knocked arrogantly on the window, began to inform the occupant of the vehicle about their taillight, and ate a lift jab to the jaw and promptly hit the deck, frantically searching for her paperwork under the wheels of the stopped car which could pull off at any moment, flattening her head, and Juan was on the scene just in time for the Anny Oakley of meth whores to leap out of the driver’s side window and began grounding and pounding his partner, who cringed, and cried, and whined and squirmed, as the meth whore danced from the collar of her flannel shirt—her boyfriend’s flannel shirt—which Juan held in one hand while he attempted to render first aid with his right hand and help his partner up—who bawled like a baby while her assailant screeched like a banshee…and it can become too much for a body to bear.

Many a partner Juan elevated to solo patrol, but the thirst remained, the desire to make real busts, to lock up real bad guys.

Needless to say, Juan Stabone put in for reassignment. It was February 2020, with one year to retirement, and Juan Stabone found a place on what would have once been called the Bunko Squad, but was now, Community Outreach…