So the story goes this way. About fifteen years ago there’s this clown in Santa Cruz, okay? Okay, back up: Santa Cruz is this weird, weird town about a hundred miles south of San Francisco where weird, weird people go to be young and normal, normal people who want to believe they’re weird go to be old. Anyway, there’s some clown named “Mr. Twister.” Back up, wait, I mean, he’s not just “some clown,” he’s actually a clown — honk honk, that kind of clown, got it?
Anyway, there’s this clown in Santa Cruz and he supposedly gets a ticket from the Santa Cruz PD, and almost gets arrested and hauled off to the hoosegow, for going around feeding other peoples’ parking meters, right? The Santa Cruz cops are pretty much famous, like Wayne Newton famous, for pissing off the hippies by doing shit like kicking them in the groin while they’re sleeping and impounding their backpacks and telling them “You can’t sit there” and just generally being complete douchebags in a way that would make Vic Mackey give them a lecture on serving the public.