The Interrogation RoomMature

Part Two-The Crystal City
New York, New York

 

“What’s yer name, kid?”

                Simon squinted against the harsh, flickering florescent light, and tugged at the manacles binding his wrists.  They were shiny.  The manacles.  Not his wrists.

                “Simon.”

                “Simon who?”

                He considered for a moment, poking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and crossing his eyes at the flat mirror on the wall behind his interrogator.  “Why’s it matter to you?”

                “Just tell me yer name,” the officer growled.

                “Edmund.”

                “Alright, then, Mr. Edmund.  Where were yeh on the night uv November seckent?”

                Simon blinked.  “Of what year?”

                The cop’s bulldog face contorted into an angry snarl.  “Don’t be a smartass with me, yeh Anglo son uv a bitch!  This year!  2012!”

                “I’m not English,” Simon sniffed indignantly.  “I’m of Murkintsenian nobility, thank you very much!”

                “You could be from motherfucking Narnia, fer all I care!  Just answer the goddamn question!”

                “Repite, por favor.

                “Where were you,” the officer repeated, enunciating every word, “on the night uv November seckent?”

                Simon thought about it.  “At the Castle Carviliet, I think.”

                The officer snorted.  “The Castle Carviliet, huh?  What’s that, some kinda gay bar?”

                “No,” Simon replied.  “It’s a castle.  A real one.  Nowhere near here, though.  Nowhere near here at all.”

                The officer sighed loudly.  “Okay, Mr. Edmund, if yeh aren’t gonna cooperate, I’m gonna hafta refer yeh to a shrink.  Yeh want that?”

                Simon yawned widely to demonstrate just how much he cared.

The End

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