They had become legend. That was true.
News of the now infamous Sandford Shootout had spread far and fast. But quite like a game of Telephone, the actual story had become twisted. No matter what the newspapers reported, everyone always had their own version of what actually happened that day: Bob Walker and the dog were the first to overtake the pub. Wainwright and Cartwright were made out to be grizzled war veterans, recently returned from Iraq. The Turner twins turned out to have set off the explosion that leveled the Sandford police station. Doris was a 36-26-38 blonde supermodel.
But the most ridiculous thing to come from this kerfuffle was the rumors about The Sergeant Who Started The Whole Thing and The Constable Who Believed Him. After The Constable was shot with a blunderbuss (it’s ridiculous, really; who has a blunderbuss?) and the station exploded, The Sergeant stayed by his side: the ambulance, the hospital, the trip home, it didn’t matter where; The Sergeant never left his side.
The Sergeant was an Angel (pun completely intended most of the time) for The Constable. He’d helped with his recovery, monitored his physical therapy, and quietly ushered him back to work with grace and poise.
No one ever said it out loud, but everyone knew it: sometime during the course of the events, The Sergeant and The Constable had fallen in love. Real snogging on the couch, stolen kisses in the break room, quick intimate touches when no one’s looking, shagging like animals love. You could see it in their eyes (even though nobody has actually seen their eyes).
To everyone actually living in Sandford, the absurd rumors were just that: absurd rumors.
But, of course, everyone knows that certain rumors always have some sort of grain of truth to them.