This is the city: Celebration, Florida. Where crime is as absent as an original thought in Levi Johnston’s head.
This here all-American city was built and zoned by Disney 14 years ago. OK, by all-American that means it’s white and Protestant and people always vote Republican. They even vote for a Bush when a Bush name isn’t on the ballot. Jiminy Crickets!, some still vote for Eisenhower. And don’t get us started on Nixon. Many elders can’t think of him without asking can you feel the love tonight?
My name is Sgt. Murray Poppins. My partner’s name is Thumper. The Captain’s name is Hook. And that’s the extent of our Police Department.
We’re short on staff, but we’re not running no Mickey Mouse operation here.
So you know we’re not singing “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah-zip-a–dee-A. My-oh-my-what-a-wonderful-day” when perennial losing Democratic candidate for mayor Cruella de Vil and her Lost Boys refer to us as The Three Little Pigs.
We were working the day watch (because there’s no night watch) out of the Neverland section investigating a missing mobility scooter when the call came through: The city’s first homicide —- a 50something man killed in the comfort of his own home. Poor guy, he was probably watching classic “Hannah Montana” episondes when his life was cut short by an assassin’s bullet.
Someone ruined the dream that’s a wish your heart makes in Celebration. For 14 years it was as civil as a “View” program with the sound turned down —– but someone had to ruin things by turning it into a Rand Paul rally.
Come to think of it, we did see a change of pace in the lack of comfort in the community ever since Tinker Bell and her fairies rented a condo.
The department went right to work by first hiring deputies to help comb the area for the killer. The Seven Dwarfs volunteered. They’re just leaving now: “Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to find the bad guy we go….”
The department then started rounding up the usual suspects — which are pretty scant in this sleepy littly community.
We thought we had the culprit. A person of interest by the name of Roger Rabbit. Turns out he was framed.
The department used lie detector tests on a few suspects —- except for one: the kid we usually pick up for graffiti misdemeanors who can’t lie without his nose growing longer.
We let it go in one ear and out the other when the loudmouth senior citizen who confesses to every crime in the book —– from killing Bambi’s mother to poisoning Snow White —- came calling. We just let the gnarly geriatric scream his lungs out. He’s known around the community as the angry, mean town crier. We call him Old Yeller.
As if this moider wasn’t enough, a few days later some guy barricades himself in his foreclosed house and exchanges rounds of ammo with deputies. Dopey was hit, but he was quickly fixed up because Doc was there. Meanwhile, he guy ended up turning the gun on himself.
The department has its work cut out for it all of a sudden.
It’s a whole new world out there.
When you wish upon a star makes no difference where you are. Shoot happens.