You Again?

Marty was struck by the realization that apartments generally did not choose to fill their window-holes with sugar glass, and that because of that, it would take more than a tossed pebble to shatter the one that had just shattered. In other words, the harder-than-tosser who had thrown the bigger-than-pebble must have intended on doing some serious damage to Marty's noggin. His aim was good, too; a pissing chimpanzee could only have been used to describe it in that he could probably take one out from far enough back as to not be sodden by its messy shenanigans.

Marty perhaps should have feared for his safety after realizing this, but a number of factors led to this not even occurring to him. For one thing, there was a very distracting alarm blaring right next to him that he felt he should do something about, especially considering he was kind of suspected of robbing a bank. For another, the thrower-of-stones had taken his leave of the place, and at a run. Apparently the mix of an alarm, approaching police sirens, and a worthy adversary in the form of a man who could dodge a pissing chimp with his back turned had proved to be too much for him.

Urinating primate metaphors aside, for now anyway, Marty had decided that the best course of action was to do absolutely nothing. Running, on top of really not being Marty's idea of a good time at the moment, was only likely to cast suspicion on him, and walking was absolutely useless. Going inside the building was always an option, but then they could justifiably pin him with at least the breaking part of a B&E charge. So he decided to just stand there and wait. Sitting would have been nice, but he didn't want to get glass in his...

Well, the sirens had ceased. The alarm was still doing it's thing though, as a cruiser pulled up in front of the building and regurgitated an officer of the law onto pavement not far from Marty. The optimistic smile Marty had forced onto his face to make a good impression attempted to turn into both a frown and an amused grin at the same time when he saw who the officer was, resulting in a tangled mess of expression.

"You again?" the police woman and Marty both said, the former with hostility and exasperation and the latter with amusement, bemusement, and perhaps even cemusement.

The officer wasted no time. "Put your hands on the hood," she said, gesturing toward her cruiser as though it were something he should be delighted to grace with the presence of his hands.

Marty walked toward the cruiser, but made no move to do as he was asked. "You know, I've ran into you so many times today, but I never got your name," he said, because the author is getting tired of referring to people by title.

"Officer Walsh," Officer Walsh tersely answered, "now put your hands on the hood."

"Pleasure, Miss Walsh," Marty said, offering her a handshake.

"Officer Walsh," she replied forcibly, grabbing Marty's hand and placing it roughly on the hood before doing the same with the withheld appendage. "I'm going to pat you down for weapons. Do you have anything sharp on you?"

"Actually, I couldn't tell you. These aren't my pants."

This comment illicited an all-too-familiar reaction for Marty; a smack in the back of the head. Or, more precisely, a forearm to the back of his head forcing his face into the hood.

Marty, to his credit, took the violence pretty gracefully. He did his best to speak with a hood-mashed face, remaining amazingly calm, given the situation. It was very likely he was simply becoming desensitized to the whole head-smacking thing, though he would have to admit it still hurt.

"Do you really want to bring me back to the station, again, with no evidence?"

By way of a response, the amount of downward pressure attempting to merge the hood of the car and his face into one entity increased.

Isn't something revelation-y supposed to happen when I get smacked? he wondered idly, wincing at the pain despite himself.

"Excuse me, what are you doing?"

Marty's heart soared. He couldn't see her, but somehow he knew.

"I'm arresting this man. There was a break-in at that apartment," Officer Walsh said. "Do you live there, ma'am?"

"Yes, I do. My name is Katie Summers. And I think you've got the wrong guy. Why would he break in when he has a key?"

Marty felt the pressure ease slightly, but before this, he had a brief moment in which he finally understood what it was that was jabbing into his leg uncomfortably as it pressed against the cruiser. He didn't remember receiving the key, but none of that mattered. Katie had come to save him!

"You have a key?" Officer Walsh asked in a somewhat cautious tone.

"Yes," Marty said, far too calmly for one in his position, "I do. It's in my pocket."

"I thought those weren't your pants."

"I meant... in the figurative sense. Do we really own anything? Can anyone really claim ownership over a product of this Earth?" Marty said, slipping into a somewhat familiar, if still very strange, role.

Officer Walsh recognized the start of a long-winded speech, and pulled Marty up from the hood of the car. "You're free to go then, sir."

"It's Marty," Marty offered.

"Sir," Officer Walsh counter-offered. Marty thought that was a pretty good deal, and shut up about it. He did, however, have one other thing to add. "You might want to go that way," he said, pointing down the street. "The one who broke the window ran down there. He's got a mean stone-throwing arm. Watch out."

Officer Walsh shot him a look dirtier than a pair of mud-wrestling hobos hopped up on laxatives before returning to her cruiser and driving away, Marty noted, in the opposite direction of the one he'd suggested. He was suddenly upset he'd given her the wrong one.

"Let's go inside," Katie said, heading into the building without waiting for Marty. As Marty hurried after her like a puppy in heat after some prime leg, the alarm finally turned off, and he was surprised to notice that he hadn't even realized it was still going. These hits to the head, he was becoming convinced, were clearly not healthy.

Marty entered the building to see Katie leaning against a doorjam down the hall, halfway in an apartment and halfway out. He started after her again, and once she was satisfied he had seen where she was headed, she slipped into the room.

Marty followed not long after, confused, disoriented, but above all, ecstatic. He'd finally found her! And he was, as far as he could tell, perfectly conscious. If it all turned out to be a dream, he would personally smack himself in the head until he could return to it in peace.

He entered the apartment, only to see it was nearly empty. Very little furniture, no personal effects, and most importatnly, no Katie. He walked to the center of the room, glancing into the kitchen, and jumped when the door slammed behind him. He turned to find Katie standing in front of it.

Suddenly, his mind, which had been racing all day, went as blank as a dropout's exam page. What the heck was he supposed to say to her, after all of this?

He'd finally settled on, "We both got conked by frisbees, I'd imagine we're soulmates or something," when he noticed what Katie was doing.

She had taken a few slow steps toward him, and there was a very strange look on her face that Marty wasn't entirely sure he liked. In fact, he was convinced that whatever was about to happen, it would not be good for him.

"Er, are you---" he began, but he was sharply interrupted.

"Take off the pants. Now."

The End

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