Bill Fagan (now deceased) was out for the evening once cruising 8th & Main and happened to encounter a local professional who appeared might meet his needs. Dressed to the nines in the finest bait, with low-maintenance coif and heavy scent, the prospect and Bill began the usual short preliminary interview. Negotiations were conducted, reassignment of capital was concluded, and they were enroute to an hospitable location when a local gendarme lit them up.
Bill pulled over, the officer came around and shone his light in the driver's window, then walked around to the passenger's side. He shone his light on Bill's commercial companion, and said, “alright, get out, Fred.” (you saw that coming, didn't you?)
Bill was aghast, of course, but nearly soiled himself when the cop frisked Fred and found a large knife concealed on his person. The officer took him into custody and sent Bill on his way. It was never made clear whether he continued his quest or called it a night. Controllers don't give up easily.
Of course that's one of those “whew!” stories that gives one pause and often gives rise to a “there, but for the grace…” sentiment. But the interesting thing that I observe is that there's only one way this story made its way to the gang at work. Controllers are really good at telling stories on themselves, no matter what light it casts them in. Bill sang like a canary.
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