His hate-filled reverie was broken like the glass of an overcrowded downtown tenement window by the sound of Detective Black walking into the room. These two had been partners for decades now. Also, Detective White was white, while Detective Black was black. They’d had some hilarious cases back in the 80s.
“What’ve we got?” Black asked his partner.
“Craziest freakin’ shit I’ve ever seen,” White said. White had seen some crazy freakin’ shit, that’s for sure, so this shit was probably exceptionally freakin’ crazy.
“You interview the little girl yet?”
“Nah, she was kind of shaken up. We bought her a freakin’ DVD of Despicable Me, though. It seemed to calm her down.”
“Damn fine film,” Black said. “What’s say we have a few words with her?”
White nodded. It was all he could do in this crazy, freaked up world.
The detectives moseyed into the interrogation room. Or maybe it was more of a shuffle. Mosey sounds too laid-back, plus this tale takes place in NYC and moseying is strictly forbidden there. Whatever, they walked in slowly, but seriously, like two pallbearers holding an invisible coffin that was also a metaphor for the death of innocence and hope that plagued their souls like a parasite of gloom.
Black and White took their seats. The little girl was little, small, and a little short for her age (eight(8)). She kept her eyes down, her upper lip wobbling in a way that would have reminded White of a doomed game of Jenga, had he ever played it with his children. He had not, and that is why they were both so freaked up.
“Sweetheart, did you enjoy Despicable Me? asked White.”
“Yes,” she replied meekly. “It was good.”
“I disagree,” Black said disagreeingly. “It was fantastic.”
“I guess so,” Little Girl replied guessingly.
“Word,” Black said stereotypically.
“So,” White began, “Why don’t you tell us how everything started?”
Little Girl looked up at the two officers. She thought that one of them looked like Christopher Walken (for the purposes of this story, she knew who Christopher Walken is) and the other looked like that guy who was in every movie, ever (she was probably thinking of Samuel L. Jackson).
“Well,” she said, “It all started when I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus.”
That jolly, drunken motherfreaker, thought White. Douchebag didn’t give my kid a Furby back in the day, now look where he is.
“Go on,” Black said.
“I woke up in the middle of the night to see the eclipse, you know?” Little Girl said. The detectives nodded. They did know. That shit was awesome. “So,” she continued, “I was in the hallway when I saw Mommy by the tree kissing Santa Claus.”
White felt like he had heard that part before, perhaps because he already had.
“So the next day, when Daddy got home from work, I told him about it. He got really mad and said some words I didn’t understand, then he went out and when he came home he smelled like medicine.”
The only medicine that does the trick, sweetheart, White thought once again. He thought about things a lot. Kinda wish I had remembered to slip some medicine into my freaking coffee, if you know what I mean…
(He meant he wanted to add whiskey to his coffee.)
“He started yelling at Mommy and used even more words I didn’t understand, then I saw him walk out of our house with his gun, and Mommy said something like ‘Please Jimmy, don’t hurt him!’”
Black and White glanced at each other, speaking without words. Which doesn’t mean that they were psychic, in case that was unclear.
“Thanks, sweetheart, that’s all we need,” Black said. The two detectives walked out of the room. They probably should have told Little Girl when she could go home and see her mommy again, but it honestly slipped both of their minds. Luckily, Mommy was ok. Santa, on the other hand…
“That motherfreaking father of hers’ got all the way to the North Pole and put eight bullets in Santa. But first he did this.” White produced a crime scene photo that was so disturbing and awful and unbearable that you could literally hear Black’s soul die right then and there.
After pulling his head out of the trash can that was now filled with vomit so vomitous that it would make vomit vomit, Black asked, “And the elves?”
“Motherfreaker fed ‘em to the reindeer. There’s a video, but I don’t think you want to see. Rudolph roasted one of them alive with that damn nose of his. I did not realize that it radiated so much heat.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Black said, which is redundant since he already was sick. “How’s Mrs. Claus doing?”
“Totally delirious. Doctors say she may never recover. Might not even speak again.”
“What the freak,” Black said, jumping on that dialogue train. “Does Santa have an understudy?”
“What about the Easter Bunny?”
“The Easter Bunny doesn’t freakin’ exist! Don’t you get what this means?!”
Black did, but the purposes of exposition and explaining the situation to readers, he pretended not to.
“Christmas,” White said, “Is over. Because Santa couldn’t keep it in his pants.”
Simultaneously, the two detectives lit cigarettes, put on sunglasses, and stared out at the city. (They’re outside now.)
This freaked up world, they both thought. They did that sometimes.
This picture is unrelated. The Wire was just a good show.