There are things I like to avoid lie the plague—like dead people. I went to John’s apartment to take care of some business, you know, and there he was, sprawled on the kitchen floor, dead as a doornail.
Well, I took the tiger by the tail and called the cops. They got there pretty quick, too, considering that the sugar from their donuts was a thick as thieves around their lips.
They were like a kid in a candy store, snapping pictures of the deceased and dusting for fingerprints. Sgt. Tomlin sat me down in the living room to take my statement. “Why did you come here?” he asked.
“Well, we, John and me that is, we are scout leaders,” I told him. “We needed to discuss an upcoming trip to Philmont.”
“What kind of trip?” he asked. Seriously? If only these walls could talk, I mean, the man couldn’t think outside the box much less find his way around the inside of the box. I’m not even sure he could think outside a bag or recognize beans when the bag was open. The man is like a low hanging fruit. I thought about saying a flippant “Acid trip, Dude,” but instead I told him about Philmont’s incredible outdoor scout program.
After about an hour of Tomlin’s stumbling interview, he joined the other cops searching for clues. They say every dog has its day, but this was not Tomlin’s day, nor was it Detective Billson’s day. It was I who found the threads from a red pair of pants, still clutched in John’s cold dead fingers. Billson ragged Tomlin for overlooking the thread he himself had missed, sort of the pot calling the kettle black. They both needed to wake up and smell the coffee.
But at the end of the day they got their man. Seems that the man in the red coat that was missing the thread found in John’s hand had stopped at the 7-11 store across the street to stock up on beer. The rookie cop left outside to guard the patrol cars caught him jaywalking.
Well, now I need to find someone to replace John for our Philmont trip. There are plenty of fish in the sea they say, so I should have no problem finding someone soon.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
(If you’ve stuck with me this far–this was a deliberate writing exercise to see how many bad clichés I could work into a short story.)