If you’re going to work at Precinct 17, then you have to respect Pigtown. At least, that’s what the longtimers always try and tell the new police recruits, when they arrive, first day on the job. Of course, they also can’t be too specific–they wouldn’t be longtimers at the precinct without having made a few deals with the devil himself–but by now, the chief can usually tell, as soon as he meets them, which officers will survive a year so they can transfer out of this insane place, and which young hotshot the brass sent their way, so he won’t be with the force too much longer.

Recruit Donny Scrimm was one of those. Football jock bully in high school, dumb as a brick but the army wouldn’t take him for whatever reason, thought he’d become a police officer so he could get a chance to shoot a fucker and not get in trouble. He showed up, took one beat around the neighborhood, and was disgusted. What the hell was this place? Everywhere he looked, there were guys in rubber and leather, prowling the streets, their cocks hanging out. None of them approached him, and he didn’t know what to do about it. When he asked the chief, and the chief said to leave them alone–all of them–and to especially stay away from the bar called Pigtown, Donny couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He left, furious, and marched back out onto the street, ready to bash some of these disgusting queers back into their place.

He was missing for three days. When he finally did resurface, he was sobbing, crawling up the precinct steps, looking quite…different from when he’d left the building before. He’d put on about fifty pounds in his gut, a scruffy beard across his face, running up onto his chin, his uniform coated with who knew what. The recruits who saw him, well, now they knew why you didn’t fuck with Pigtown, and why Precinct 17 wasn’t like any other police station they’d ever been to. Donny went to the chief, asking for help, but the chief told him there wasn’t anything he could do–beyond take his badge and his uniform (which revealed Donny’s now hairy body was coated from foot to neck in lewd, filthy tattoos) give him a long fuck over his desk, get him dressed in some rubber, and throw him back to the streets, where he belonged now.

You can still see Scrimm on occasion, down in the alleys. He doesn’t remember being a police officer now–hell, he doesn’t remember much of anything. His entire body is tattooed, but oddly enough, the tattoos seem to change and shift over time–and anyone who takes a load of his pigseed finds a new tattoo of their one on their body, one that seems to grow a bit larger whenever they aren’t looking at it.