Keepsakes

I should give up the paper. I really should. I'm probably one of five people in the city that still has the damn thing delivered. It's a risk, an affectation. Still, I can't give it up. I step over my guests to pick it up and bring it back in. I look over to their still forms again and smile. At least I didn't disturb them.

The front page is the same old crap. Russia is tired of our garbage, and we'll end up irradiating the world between the two of us. The big egos yelling at each other. The companies sponsoring them trying to convince us we should care. Tired of it, I turn to the local section.

High school sports, local art (if you can call it that,) and stuff to do on the weekend. Boring, who needs that in their life? Like I can't entertain myself.

So, I look at the police blotter. Damn it. Sometimes the universe leads us to the right place at just the right time. I've never had a day go bad, not after I brought guests home. This is terrible though. Have you ever looked into the paper and saw your name associated with a crime you didn't commit? I never thought I would.

Right there, in black and white, it says I robbed a bank. I read between the lines and realize they're be coming for me. I look over at the guests and realize my luck is just getting worse. I really can't let them be found here.

Wouldn't you know it? That's the moment the cops decide to knock on my door. "Police, open up!" Yeah, yeah. Okay. I can figure this out. Where did I leave my bag?

"Just a moment! I'm not decent. Oh... and I didn't rob any bank!"

I look around, where is it? I speak from the center of the room. It's the only way this is going to work after all. There it is. The cop is shouting his lack of concern at my assurances.

I kind of figured he would.

Just like I expected him to tell me to come out or he'll break down the door. I hope there are only two of them. I stand next to the door, knowing they expect me to be in the middle of the room. True to his words, the door shatters inward.

Two of those big cops rush through. You know, the kind that eat too much red meat and spend hours at the gym? None of it on the treadmill. Guys that will leave muscled corpses before fifty. Anyway, they storm in.

As I slide in behind them, the brains of the outfit spots my guests. They both aim guns, but it's the brains that speaks. "They're de..."

I slide a needle into each of their steroid enhanced necks and depress the plungers. Thanking god there are only two of them. Look, I never said I didn't commit any crime, just not some low rent bank job.

I hate unexpected company.

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