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fiction

Interrogating a Mime

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Sarge: Alright Jake, bring him in.

Jake: Here he is sarge, uh, but you should now—he, well… he won’t say anything.

Sarge: Ah, so he wants to lawyer-up does he? I knew you looked like a coward, you scumbag.

Jake: Well, no. He didn’t exactly ask for a lawyer. He appears to be a street performer.

Sarge: Street performer? You mean like a prostitute?

Jake: What? No. No, He’s a mime.

Sarge: I see. So that explains all of this eccentric make-up. I assumed he was some weird clown that only wore black and white.

Jake: I mean, that’s kind of exactly what he is.

Sarge: Listen up clown boy! I’m not here for games. You better tell us everything you know about the murder in the alley.

Jake: He appears to be pretending that he’s an obnoxious teen causing mischief in the street.

Sarge: That must be the murderee. We already know who was killed. Get on with the story, what happened to him?

Jake: Okay, he’s leaning against a wall holding his mouth like he’s causally whistling. Now he’s looking side to side like he’s about to commit a crime. Wait, what? Oh! He threw someone down and is now stepping on him with his boot.

Sarge: So that’s how it happened, huh? Some guy on the street attacks a teen and you don’t say anything! 

Jake: Not saying anything is kind of his thing, sarge.

Sarge: How about I grab you by the collar, scumbag, huh? Wanna get roughed up a bit, will that get ya talking?

Jake: Hold on, sarge. He’s writing something down.

Sarge: A confession perhaps?

Jake: It says that he was born mute. He literally can’t talk.

Sarge: Mighty convenient, wouldn’t you say? Oh, that’s right, you can’t “say” anything.

Jake: Do you think he has any proof? Like do they carry a card around or something that says they can’t talk?

Sarge: If they could, this scumbag would probably forge one. Stand up, mime-y, show me a trick. Let’s see if you’re even a mime.

Jake: Oh wow! That’s pretty impressive. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was actually in a box. Can you do the thing where you pretend to pull a rope?

Sarge: Yeah, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a confession! A box? That’s where you deserve to be, right? In a jail cell.

Jake: Look, sarge. This guy may be guilty, but we literally have nothing to hold him on, and I don’t think he’s gonna talk.

Sarge: Alright, alright. But don’t think I’m done with you mime-y. This ain’t over. Now get your butt out of my precinct! Oh yeah… and don’t leave town.

Jake: That guy sure was a weird one, huh?

Sarge: Yeah, he certainly was… Dammit Jake! Did you step in the crime scene? There’s a bloody footprint by the door.

Jake: No, no I wouldn’t. My shoes are clean, see?

Sarge: Mine too… that means—

Jake: Sarge! There’s a note here. ”What’s black and white, and red all over.” A newspaper, right, sarge?

Sarge: …Flip it over.

Jake: ”Answer: A mime who just got away with murder”

Sarge: After that mime!

fiction

Heebie-Jeebies

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Robert Arrelstein was in quite a slump. After several years of writing a successful series of spooky and fright-inducing books for kids, he suddenly lost his edge. Ideas wouldn’t come to him anymore, no matter what he tried.

His old tricks failed him. The graveyard bore no fruit. The foggy forest up the road brought only yawns. He needed help, so he enlisted the aid of a popular freelance ghost-writer in the area. He goes by Tim.

“How ya doing Mr. Arrelstein?” Tim said like an excited child meeting Superman at the mall.

“I’m doing fine young man, thank you for agreeing to help me with some ideas for my new book. I’ve heard good things from Stefie Queen, although you do understand that my horror stories are for a younger audience I take it?” answered Robert.

“Yes, of course. I’ve read all your books and love them! That’s why I want to help you give these kids the scare of a lifetime.”

“What exactly did you have in mind?” said Robert slowly, a little insulted that Tim seemed to think his books would be better if they really gave children nightmares.

“Well, for starters. I had this idea where a world-wide disease, like the kind you see in zombie movies, has taken over every known country, slowly turning every adult into a grotesque statue of themselves while their children watch.” Tim moved his hands around a lot when he talked, as if his idea was so complex that it would be greatly aided through the art of mime.

“That’s certainly… creative, Tim. I’ll give you that. Don’t you think a story about a deadly infectious disease is in poor taste?”

“I don’t know what you mean, but guess what! My second one is even better. So, all of a sudden everyone in the world has to get a special shot that protects them against aliens that are going to invade. But it’s actually a trick perpetrated by the aliens and all of humanity is being turned into helpless frogs, especially the kids!”

Arrelstein drops his head into his open hands. “I think I’ll just do another one about a creepy doll in the attic. Thanks anyway.”