CRW exercise #3
“Give me back my fucking cats!”
“Put down the gun, detective. I don’t think you want your little friends to get hurt.”
I stood there, pointing my gun at him, unflinching. I stared at the man who I had been chasing for the past three days, trying to think what to do.
I brought my firearm down to the roof of the building and kicked it away.
“Where are they?! Where did you bury them?” I begged. The man walked closer, focusing his gun on me.
“They’re in the cemetery.” His grin twisted around his face like barbed wire.
“Which grave?!”
“What’s the matter, detective? Not used to knowing all the answers?”
“WHICH GRAVE?!” I yelled. Just then, a pigeon flew by, drawing the rouge’s attention for a brief moment. But I live for brief moments.
With one swift kick the gun went flying. I curled my fist back and sucker punched him right in the nuts. I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. I reached for my knife and held it against his neck.
“Which grave?” I demanded.
“Why detective, yours of course.” I released the man. He went staggering back. I chucked my Berretta at his skull.
“Have a nice trip” There was a loud crack, and as the gun smacked his temple, sending him back. His heel caught the ledge and the rouge hurdled toward the city street below.
“See you next fall.”
Hurriedly, I sped toward the Rosehill Cemetery with my siren crying. I parked crooked on the sidewalk and ran around the tombstones, desperately looking for a grave that read the name “Corey Constantine.”
There was no sign of it. I had scoured the Cs and came up empty. Sweat was pouring from my face. I could see all my cats, Otis, Cheryl, Hutchins, Bernard, Carrie, Susan, Roosevelt, Herald, Bruno, and Billiam von Williamsburg IV all crying out, wondering where I was, when they were going to go on walkies, where their next Fancy Feast would come from; never knowing when they would see the light of day again.
Across the cemetery there was a funeral precession. All the friends and family, dressed in black, huddled around the raised casket about to go into the ground. I began sprinting toward it, hurdling over gravestones, knocking over flowers and vases left and right.
“DON’T PUT THAT FUCKING CASKET IN THE GROUND!!” I cried. The heads of the precession turned to focus on the insane man barreling toward them with tremendous fervor.
I attacked the casket, pushing off the flowers decorating it for burial. Some broad screamed and I felt a surge of hands clawing at me, trying to prevent me from ruining their precious funeral. It was much too late for that. More important matters take precedence in times of crisis.
“I’m a cop you idiot!” I reached for my badge and threw it at them. “There are ten cats in that casket and if you don’t get the fuck off of me they will all die!”
“We are trying to bury our grandfather, Corey Konstantine, and you are ruining it!” someone yelled at me. I climbed on top of the casket and kicked at the crowed while I brandished my knife.
“Do you want to deal with this? Huh?” I said while making stabbing motions with my hand. The crowd took a few steps back, allowing me to climb down and work on opening the casket. I lifted the lid and out came the cats, Otis, Cheryl, Hutchins, Bernard, Carrie, Susan, Roosevelt, Herald, Bruno, and Billiam von Williamsburg IV. The cats meowed and purred and blinked their eyes signifying they were happy to see me. I smiled and blinked back at them.
“B-But what about our grandfather?” a man asked.
“Sorry. That’s a mystery for another day.” I carried the casket back to my car where I unloaded the cats.
“Here’s you coffin back.”
“It’s not a coffin, asshole, it’s a casket. He’s not a vampire.”
“Whatever,” I said as I peeled out in the parking lot. The tires screeched loudly and I could see some of the mourners making angry faces at me. I didn’t care, though. I was just happy to get my cats back.
“I’m calling the cops!” one of them yelled at me as I drove off.
“I AM the cops,” I replied, “I am the cops.”
“Put down the gun, detective. I don’t think you want your little friends to get hurt.”
I stood there, pointing my gun at him, unflinching. I stared at the man who I had been chasing for the past three days, trying to think what to do.
I brought my firearm down to the roof of the building and kicked it away.
“Where are they?! Where did you bury them?” I begged. The man walked closer, focusing his gun on me.
“They’re in the cemetery.” His grin twisted around his face like barbed wire.
“Which grave?!”
“What’s the matter, detective? Not used to knowing all the answers?”
“WHICH GRAVE?!” I yelled. Just then, a pigeon flew by, drawing the rouge’s attention for a brief moment. But I live for brief moments.
With one swift kick the gun went flying. I curled my fist back and sucker punched him right in the nuts. I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. I reached for my knife and held it against his neck.
“Which grave?” I demanded.
“Why detective, yours of course.” I released the man. He went staggering back. I chucked my Berretta at his skull.
“Have a nice trip” There was a loud crack, and as the gun smacked his temple, sending him back. His heel caught the ledge and the rouge hurdled toward the city street below.
“See you next fall.”
Hurriedly, I sped toward the Rosehill Cemetery with my siren crying. I parked crooked on the sidewalk and ran around the tombstones, desperately looking for a grave that read the name “Corey Constantine.”
There was no sign of it. I had scoured the Cs and came up empty. Sweat was pouring from my face. I could see all my cats, Otis, Cheryl, Hutchins, Bernard, Carrie, Susan, Roosevelt, Herald, Bruno, and Billiam von Williamsburg IV all crying out, wondering where I was, when they were going to go on walkies, where their next Fancy Feast would come from; never knowing when they would see the light of day again.
Across the cemetery there was a funeral precession. All the friends and family, dressed in black, huddled around the raised casket about to go into the ground. I began sprinting toward it, hurdling over gravestones, knocking over flowers and vases left and right.
“DON’T PUT THAT FUCKING CASKET IN THE GROUND!!” I cried. The heads of the precession turned to focus on the insane man barreling toward them with tremendous fervor.
I attacked the casket, pushing off the flowers decorating it for burial. Some broad screamed and I felt a surge of hands clawing at me, trying to prevent me from ruining their precious funeral. It was much too late for that. More important matters take precedence in times of crisis.
“I’m a cop you idiot!” I reached for my badge and threw it at them. “There are ten cats in that casket and if you don’t get the fuck off of me they will all die!”
“We are trying to bury our grandfather, Corey Konstantine, and you are ruining it!” someone yelled at me. I climbed on top of the casket and kicked at the crowed while I brandished my knife.
“Do you want to deal with this? Huh?” I said while making stabbing motions with my hand. The crowd took a few steps back, allowing me to climb down and work on opening the casket. I lifted the lid and out came the cats, Otis, Cheryl, Hutchins, Bernard, Carrie, Susan, Roosevelt, Herald, Bruno, and Billiam von Williamsburg IV. The cats meowed and purred and blinked their eyes signifying they were happy to see me. I smiled and blinked back at them.
“B-But what about our grandfather?” a man asked.
“Sorry. That’s a mystery for another day.” I carried the casket back to my car where I unloaded the cats.
“Here’s you coffin back.”
“It’s not a coffin, asshole, it’s a casket. He’s not a vampire.”
“Whatever,” I said as I peeled out in the parking lot. The tires screeched loudly and I could see some of the mourners making angry faces at me. I didn’t care, though. I was just happy to get my cats back.
“I’m calling the cops!” one of them yelled at me as I drove off.
“I AM the cops,” I replied, “I am the cops.”