Paperwork: the biggest reason why Detective Shawn Henry had
kinks in his neck and back the size of potatoes. He sat at his desk with his
head slouched over and his shoulders sagging. The dark circles under his eyes
made him look like he was in a brutal boxing match; in this case, he went all
twelve rounds with Mr. Sandman. The other cops at the station had gone home for
the evening to their spouses and children. Shawn scribbled a pen across a
mountain of paper while on autopilot. As he let out a cyclone of a yawn, the
lights above him dimmed out and all he could rely on was his desk lamp.
So many dead bodies left behind by Roger Zee in the past few
days, so many papers to fill out. Shawn put the pen down for a moment and let
out another grizzly yawn before standing up and stretching his limbs out. He
briefly held onto his tailbone and shifted his legs around to get some blood
pumping back into them. It was during this moment of intense relief that he
eyeballed a picture of his wife and daughter sitting in a golden frame on his
desk. Seeing their sunlit faces brought a small grin to his own. “Don’t worry,
papa’s going to be home soon,” Shawn said to the two members of the Henry Clan.
“I wouldn’t count on that if I were you,” said a raspy voice
before a dagger was thrown into the picture, shattering the glass and knocking
the frame to the floor. Shawn turned around with his fists clenched at his
sides and a venomous stare saturating the shadowed frame of Roger Zee. With the
other cops gone for the day, this was a strictly private conversation between
the long arm of the law and the machete that wanted to chop it off. Roger
showed off his razor sharp pearly whites in a sadistic grin underneath the glow
of a fiery torch he held in one hand.
Shawn made a quick grab for the gun at his side, but Roger
threw another knife and shattered the weapon as easily as the picture frame’s
glass cover. Detective Henry let out a sharp hiss as a gash opened where his
gun used to be. He pressed some of the paperwork against the wound and the
bleeding was slowly stopping.
“Is there another magic trick you’d like to try?” asked
Roger with sarcastic politeness. “Perhaps a shotgun? A knife? Your own shoes?
Please, go ahead and keep delaying the inevitable. I love screwing around when
there’s an important business matter to be discussed. It really throws a nice
twist on the whole thing.”
In a wolf’s growl accompanied by heavy breathing, Shawn
said, “The only business you have in my precinct is in a holding cell waiting
for a fucking trial! You’re in no condition to be negotiating with me, you
bloodthirsty freak! If I have to die fighting for what I believe in, then so be
it! Kill me now and get it over with!”
Roger chuckled while slowly advancing toward his “business
partner”. He waved the flaming torch around like he was getting ready to
perform a pyromantic ritual. “Die for what you believe in? And what exactly do
you believe in, Detective? Oppressing races? Claiming land as your own?
Destroying longstanding traditions? By pursuing this case against me, you’re
doing all of those things. And somehow, your media circus has labeled me the
zealot.”
“So that’s what this is about?” asked Shawn. “You’re mad
because somebody built an outdoor arena over your so-called sacred land? You
would kill hundreds of people over something stupid like that?”
“This is more than a battle over some silly heavy metal
venue,” explained Roger, waving the torch dangerously close to nearby desks.
“This is about respect. This is about principles, honor, and tradition,
something your human race knows nothing about. You allow those people to play
obnoxious and offensive music after our land is long forgotten about. You’re
spitting on the graves of those who came before you. Then again, your kind
isn’t really a stranger to taking things that don’t belong to them. History
tells that story over and over again.”
With one hand waving in confusion, Shawn said, “Well, what
are you waiting for? You’ve got the machete. You’ve got the torch. What am I
going to do: run away? Perform sick kung fu moves on you? Seriously, why are
you making me wait for my own demise?!”
Roger laughed evilly and spun around with the flame, causing
Shawn to almost fall on his desk in anticipation of being burned. The elf said,
“You? No, this isn’t about you, Detective. You’re merely a cog in the machine.
I want the whole damn machine. Listen carefully, my friend. What I’m about to
propose to you will be the difference between a free country and a dystopian
hellhole.”
Roger leaned his face close to Shawn’s and ejected foul
breath as he said, “I want access to all of your police resources. I want your
computers, your weapons, your military equipment, and even a few of your fellow
cops’ cooperation. In return, your family and friends, each and every one of
them, will live happily in my new world while everyone else burns down.”
Shawn tensed his muscles and shoved Roger back a few steps
before asking, “What have you done with them? Where’s my family?! They better
be alive or I’m putting your head on a fucking spear, bitch!”
Roger slapped his opponent across the face and knocked him
to the floor, leaving him fading in and out of blackness. A burning red
impression was left on the cop’s face and his eyes felt like they were going to
burst out of his head. “Believe it or not, that slap I just gave you is the
least of your worries. Your family is being kept in a safe place of my
choosing. You can have them back as soon as you give me everything I want
whenever I want it.”
The elf kneeled next to Shawn and stroked his thinning brown
hair in the most sarcastic gesture of gentleness imaginable. “And when you get
them back, be sure to give them all the psychological counseling you can afford
with a cop’s salary….because some thoughts were never meant to be forgotten.
They don’t just fly away like little birdies. They don’t soar through the
clouds with heavenly angels. The kind of memories I gave them…are forever!”
With the last of his fading strength, Shawn reached his hand
up and wrapped his beefy fingers around Roger’s throat, though any indication
of the elf’s pain was once again masked by sarcastic gestures. The elf flicked
the cop’s hand off of him like an annoying fly and said, “I expected much more
strength from a guy who just learned that his family…well, there’s really no
nice way to say this…actually, I don’t really have to say anything. The trauma
speaks for itself!”
“When I regain consciousness…” said Shawn with a throaty
voice. “I’m going to torture the shit out of you…I’ll make water boarding feel like
a sponge bath….I’ll make electrocution feel like a back rub…and if you think
heavy metal music is offensive to you now…wait until you hear it on full
blast…twenty-four hours a day…seven days a week…until you go bat shit crazy!
Then again…you’re already a nut job! Take your rightwing splooge and go to
hell!” That last sentence was punctuated with bloody spit in Roger’s face.
The zealot smiled as he wiped the red saliva off of his face
with his two forefingers. “I’m going to be the bigger man and let that go.
After all, it’s what tyrants like you expect from your people: peacefulness in
the face of military force. You can get that kind of cooperation from a lot of
people. But from me, you’ll only get violence, hatred, and your own personal
hell! I’ll give you some time to think about our little deal. Take as much time
as you’d like. It’s not like your family is depending on you.”
Roger stood up and looked around at the police station with
amazement on his flame-lit face. “Of course, if you’d rather I burn your police
resources to the ground with you at the forefront, then I’d hate to waste this
lovely torch. Pyromancy was once an ancient form of magic with sagely wisdom
behind every flickering flame. Now you and your moronic race have made a
mockery of our mysticism by inventing flamethrowers and drone bombs. You’ve
used our own powers against us and expect us to be peaceful about it. Like I
said earlier, you have some time to think about our deal. Go home. Get some
sleep. Then again, your traumatized wife and daughter have a better chance of
dreaming of unicorns and rainbows than you do. Toodles!”
The nationalist blew out the torch and little more could be
heard than light footsteps pattering out the back exit of the precinct. It
didn’t matter if there was a glowing light or not, because Shawn’s vision was
already darker than the inside of a coffin. Tears welled up in his stinging
eyes and aggravated the burn on his cheek from Roger’s slap. In Shawn’s mind, it
mattered not if the building was full of cops or not: he was screwed.
In a way, he was glad no more human lives had to be
sacrificed during Roger’s stealthy path to Detective Henry. It was only a
modicum of relief for the now numb-minded cop. He still felt like screaming. He
still wanted to murder and torture Roger Zee in the worst way. He was helpless
to do either, so he blacked out into a dream that was definitely not about
unicorns and rainbows.
