THE STING.

Peter Wynn
Sep 7, 2018 · 1 min read

The black Mercedes Benz 4WD pulled up by the kerbside, its diesel engine chattering away, and the passenger side window purred as it glided down. Behind the steering wheel was a tall man, dressed in a dark, pinstripe suit and a white business shirt and paisley tie. He had salt and pepper grey hair.

On the kerb stood a diminutive woman, clad in a cropped leather jacket, unzipped, a short top and a miniskirt. She wore knee-high boots of leather with studs.

"How much, Love?" asked the driver.

"What are you after?"

"Full service?"

"With or without?"

"Without."

"That's $50 extra, on top of the $130."

"Okay. I've got it."

"Meet you around the corner."

The black Mercedes Benz cruised around the corner, as the woman spoke into a wire taped to her arm, under her jacket. There, the driver was met, not by the woman, but by two burly men, dressed in grey suits, blue shirts and red ties. "Uh-oh, these must be the pimps," he thought, as one reached into his jacket pocket. Up to the passenger's side, came the woman.

"Could you switch off the engine and step out of the car, please, Sir?"

"What? Are you planning to rob me?"

"No, but we are going to arrest you for soliciting."

His face turned ashen as he saw the woman's badge. "Senior Constable," were the first ones he saw.

Peter Wynn

Written by

Diagnosed with autism at 35. Explained a lifetime of difference.