Wednesday, December 26, 2012


            “Do you come here often?” said the man in the dark blue suit.
            “Why yes, yes I do. I try to come here as often as possible,” replied the man in the grey tweed coat.
            “Is that right?” said the man in the dark blue suit. “I didn’t catch your name there Mr. . .”
            “Richard. Never Rich. Or Rick. Or Ricky. Or Dick. And for the love of all that is holy never, ever Dicky. Just Richard, Richard Wrighton,” proclaimed the man in the grey tweed coat.
            “Well then, Richard—,” started the man in the dark blue suit.
            “It’s what my mother used to call me. But she’s gone now. So long, long gone . . .” Richard said.
            “Well I’m sorry to hear—,” the man in the dark blue suit tried again.
            “She deserved it though,” said Richard flatly.
            “Well, um, I suppose so.”
            “Oh yes, she most certainly did,” Richard said. “You can’t do that sort of thing to a nun and not expect there to be repercussions, now can you?”
            “No, I don’t suppose you can,” said the man in the dark blue suit.
            “She’ll be over seventy before she’s up for her first appeal. Probably won’t get it though,” Richard said with a gleam in his eye.
            “Are you done?” said the man in the dark blue suit.
            “Excuse me?” said Richard defensively.
            “I mean are you done with your ‘business’,” said the man in the dark blue suit, waving a baton towards Richard’s crotch as he did so.
            Richard looked down to see that his fly was open and his bits were hanging out.
            “Sorry about that,” Richard said half-apologetically as he fixed himself. “You got me side tracked while in the middle of relieving myself.”
            “I could see that,” said the man in the dark blue suit. “And so could everyone else. That’s why they called me.”
            Through blurry eyes Richard tried to focus on the man, but he was having a hard time of it. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but the word ‘baton’ seemed to be swirling in his head for some reason.
            “I’m sorry,” started Richard. “I didn’t catch your name.”
            “It’s Eugene Statham,” said the man in the dark blue suit. “But you can call me ‘Officer Statham’. There was a complaint about some drunken fool relieving himself in the park fountain. In case you weren’t aware, that would be you.”
            Richard looked down, an look of honest surprise that he was standing in over a foot of water.
            “Now the Dicky, my boy—,” started officer Statham as he started guiding Richard by the elbow.
            “IT’S RICHARD!!” screamed Richard.
            “Oh right, right. I meant ‘Richard’,” Statham said with a devilish grin. “Let’s just the two of us, you and me, take a stroll on down to the hoosegow.”
            “The hoosegow?” questioned Richard. “I don’t think I’ve ever been there. DO they serve drinks.”
            “Only the finest—I think you’ll fit right in,” said officer Statham.
            “Then by all means, lead the way, lead the way,” said Richard, blissfully oblivious the predicament he was in.

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