Ring Toss

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Some men have a code they live by.

Other men? Not so much.

My partner, John Ceepak, has a very strict, very rigid moral code that guides every single decision he makes, all day, every day.

Me? I’m a little more loosey-goosey. Then again, I’m twenty-five, he’s pushing forty.

It’s the middle of July. We’re on the job with the Sea Haven Police Department, working the late shift on a Saturday night. In a Jersey shore resort town like ours, that usually means we’d be breaking up under-age beer blasts on the beach or making sure nobody speeds through our kid-packed ice cream zones.

This particular Saturday night, however, we’re working a tip on the Sea Haven Boardwalk. We’re there to bust the new owner/operator of The Lord Of The Rings Toss booth. Any connection to the wildly popular movie franchise is purely intentional, I’m sure, though not officially licensed or paid for. The old ring toss boss just hired some local sign painter to rip off Bilbo, Gandalf, and that Elf with the arrows and then bought a can of gold spray paint to spritz his plastic rings so they’d be the same color as Frodo’s.

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