Right, let’s get this over with.

“Birthday party. Full-on crowd. Fancy dress. Be bold.” That’s what the listing said. Standard crap. Probably a bunch of middle-aged weirdos half-cut on lager, with one poor sod turning forty and pretending to enjoy it.

They wanted the police officer again — of course they did. It’s always the police officer. Something about the badge, the boots, the skirt... men are terribly basic, really.

I dig the costume out from under last week’s laundry — yeah, I know, I should fold things. The fabric’s all clingy and cheap, smells faintly like vodka and strawberry body spray. Classy.

I shimmy into it, tugging the tight black skirt down over my hips. Barely covers anything. One wrong step and it’s an indecent exposure charge — how ironic. The top’s snug too, buttons straining a little over the chest. Makes me look all “official,” if the officials worked in a dodgy nightclub.

I add the belt, clip on the little prop radio, and then the handcuffs. They’re heavier than they look. Clink when I move — nice touch. The hat goes on last. Tilts a bit, but I make it work. Lean into the cheeky angle.

Then the boots — tall, black, zip up tight. They make me taller, more commanding. Add a little extra snap to my walk.

I glance in the mirror and smirk.

“Ma’am,” I say to my reflection, raising one brow. “You’re under arrest… for having zero shame.”

And hey — shame doesn’t pay the bills.

Bag over shoulder. Lip gloss applied. Confidence dialed up to eleven.

Let’s go make some drunk loser’s night.