I found a line worthy of one of yours in a fanfic, and just had to submit it.
“That’s one of the most… creative interpretations of regulations I’ve heard since one of my old chief engineers got caught with a feather boa, a hog-monkey, and six dancing girls.”
- Embers, Vathara (highly recommended, but long and involving AtLA fic)
Hwell woke up to a face full of orange plastic and his own drool. The light made his hair hurt. Why, O why, did he have to keep trying the green stuff?
“GOOD MORNING!” Ax'and'l roared. “YOU’RE IN A LOT OF TROUBLE!”
“…ooooooooowwwwwwwww…” He rearranged himself across the traffic cone he didn’t remember picking up. “Le'me alone t’ die…”
“I have a batch of ‘Thank the Powers’,” said the familiar, measured tones of Sherlock. “If you’re willing to co-operate…”
Thank the Powers. The best and only cure for hangover. Withholding such a cure from a suffering cogniscent was not illegal… yet. Hwell tried to sit up. “I ’membur… some green stuff?”
“Yes, that was at about nine PM…” said Sherlock. “Do you remember where you went?”
Hwell tried to glare through a protective layer of his eyebrows. “Y’ got footage 'f everythin’… don'cha?”
“Not after you blundered into the Dark Zone.”
Not all places on the station were still operative. Some areas fell into neglect, were abandoned, or merely inhabited by the sort of people who became denizens. They did not like being observed. Security tolerated a certain amount of underhanded goings-on, on the basis that clamping completely down meant that keeping track of them would be impossible. They’d go to other places, or find ways of avoiding security that meant more problems in the long run.
“…uh…” managed Hwell. “I did that?”
“It’s not illegal,” said Ax'and'l. “You did quite a lot of things that aren’t illegal. In rapid succession. According to the evidence.”
“'F it’s not illegal, why’m I inna cell?”
“Because, Mister Barrow,” said Sherlock, “yours has been the most creative interpretation of the law since three JOATs were caught with fifteen recreational mating therapists, three jugs of Space Lightning, an Augmented pig and five cracked left-handed Lurning wrenches.”
There was something in the traffic cone. Something small and shiny with a preternatural weight to it. “Guess I’m in trouble f'r findin’ this, too.” he bought it into the light.
Ax'and'l hissed backwards through his teeth. “That would pay for twice the damages you incurred… I swear, the drunker you are, the luckier you get.”
“There’s a reward?” he cheered up a bit. “Tha’s a bit better.”
“But first,” said Sherlock, “We need to talk about Daisy, the Augmented Capuchin…”