Intermission: "Dart"

 

I’ve been slowly – slooooowly – getting myself back into writing fiction, and one of things I’ve been doing from time to time is flash fiction. There’s a weekly local group that I went to for a bit that gives single-word prompts, typically a word that could have many meanings like “stoop” or “must.”

I’m pretty proud of this one. Long-time fans of The Lair of the Unwanted will appreciate the turn at the end.

 

Detective Dart Barreta sauntered into the interrogation room, cup of vending machine coffee in hand. He slid into the empty chair and stowed his sunglasses into the pocket of his Members Only jacket before addressing the perp. “So! Looks like you’ve been a very busy boy, Marone.”

Sulking on the other side of the table, “Lefty” Lou Marone sniffed; Barreta’s cologne was aggravating his sinuses. “You got nothin’ on me. I want my lawyer.”

“Oh I got plenty,” Barreta replied. He held up his coffee, showing the cards printed on its side – all diamonds. “I got a flush from the vending machine, I got a date with the   hot new clerk in processing, and I got you on three counts of larceny.”

Marone raised an eyebrow; he’d noticed the new clerk in processing. “Nice for you, but I still don’t have my lawyer.”

Barreta shrugged. “No, but you don’t need a lawyer to tell you that the quickest way to dart out of here is to roll on the guy bankrolling your illegal escapades. Of course, if you don’t want to talk to me, you can always talk to my partner…” He turned towards the two-way mirror and waved in the observer.

Marone chuckled. “They saddle you with a partner, Barreta? Guess the brass finally got someone to babysit you.”

Barreta sounded almost sad. “Sorry, Lou, but I’m the good cop in this scenario.”

The door to the interrogation room creaked open, but all that entered was a quiet “click, click, click.” Marone leaned over the table and gasped, his mind darting for a rational explanation. “Budget cuts,” Barreta said while his partner approach the table, as if that clarified things. “The Chief got real creative on this one.”

With a sudden flurry of activity, Barreta’s partner landed on the interrogation table. A tiny police badge hung around its neck, nestled in with its brown and white feathers. Its red plume was somehow slicked back, and tiny mirrored sunglasses sat on its dart-like beak. The bird was only two feet tall, but standing on the table put it at eye-level with Marone. It stared intensely.

“I’ve been trying to explain basic human rights to him,” Barreta said, “but he just doesn’t seem to give a cluck.”

The chicken cop shook the tiny sunglasses away so he could stare down Marone with his own eyes. He slowly approached Marone, claws scraping the table top. Marone couldn’t look away from those blazing yellow eyes, for if eyes are the windows to the soul then there was nothing inside the officer before him – no compassion, no humanity, nothing but savage determination.

“BAH-KAUWK!”

Marone broke into a cold sweat. The chicken cop would not be denied.