text: THE FICTION POLICE The doorbell rang on a snowy midnight followed by an urgent pounding on the door. I stumbled out of bed and peered through the curtain. In the cold stood a man and a woman in uniform, so I opened the door a crack. The woman flashed a badge. “I’m agent Smith, this is agent Weston from the FP,” she said, “can we have a word?” “Umm, from where?” I said. “The Fiction Police. We seek out bad writers and bring them to justice,” she said. “Is this some kind of a joke?” I said. “Trust me, I’ve read your writing, it’s no joke,” she said. Right then years of combat training kicked in. Muscle memory never fades. In one swift motion I drew the eraser from my pocket to neutralize the threat. But she was good. She lunged for my hand and twisted it hard; the pink eraser fell and bounced on the concrete. “Keep your hands where we can see ‘em!” she shouted as she drew a steel pen from her holster. She had me at penpoint, a red laser dot danced on my forehead. I put my hands up. These people were pros. Probably pros at prose too, but I digress. “And before you drop the sad cliché about the pen versus the sword thing, I need to read you your rights,” she said, as I stood trembling. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a fictional court of law. You have the right to a fictional attorney. If you cannot afford a fictional attorney, one will be written for you. Do you understand these rights?” she said. I nodded. “With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to us?” she said. Just then I got the joke about the pen versus the sword; I tried to suppress a laugh but it snuck out. “Oh, a wise guy! Are we gonna do this the easy way, or the hard way, downtown?” she said. Her face twisted into a scowl as both agents stepped in closer. Her breath smelled of wine and, oddly enough, hand sanitizer. “No, I’ll talk, come inside,” I said. Slowly I turned and labored to heave the ancient oak door open, it creaked on rusty hinges like the unholy howls of a wounded beast in the... The sudden impact rattled my skull and sent my glasses flying; she hit me with a hard backhand then twisted my arm tight and slammed me against the wall. “Stop that, RIGHT NOW!” she yelled as she put the handcuffs on. I tasted blood. “Stop what?” I asked, as she patted me down for weapons. “That’s a 387, aggravated literary assault! Punks like you make me sick! What did those defenseless adjectives ever do to you?!? What!” she shouted. I stared at the floor as the gravity of the situation sunk in, and yet they both looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place them. “You sure you don’t recognize us?” she said. She was tall and thin, with short brown hair and striking blue eyes, surely more like a model than any cop I’d ever seen. “You can hear my inner dialogue?” I said. And then it hit me: Lottie Smith, the protagonist from my latest novel and Jim Weston, her square-faced older partner. I always forgot to give him dialogue. I blinked and took a step back, this must be a bad dream. “Dreams and flashbacks are code 412,” she said. “What’s a code 412?” I said. “Lazy writing,” she said. Just then she gazed out the window into the fetid gloom, her pale blue eyes reflected the glint of the summer moon. The same moon where she met him years before when... “STOP IT! I’m warning you! A 387, then a 412 and now an aggravated 423!” “Let me guess, a 423 is using the view from a window as a plot device to give backstory?” I said. “Bingo!” she said, “you’re not as dumb as you look.” >* * * The patrol car smelled strange, like cheap wine and expensive hand sanitizer. Weston drove fast, as if he could only express his inner anger through driving, not words. “I never meant to be a writer,” I said. “Let me guess,” she said, turning to face me, “you wanted to be a cop?” “I wanted to be an editor,” I said, “but I have an irrational fear of pencils.” Smith rolled her eyes, wishing the precinct was closer. “It was a tragedy. Both my parents were killed in a freak pencil sharpener accident. This scarred me for life. The mere sight of a red pencil can put me into shock.” “Sorry I asked”, she said, and meant it. We rounded the corner and the Fiction Police precinct building came into view. It was an amalgamation of the House of Usher and an Ikea store, but nobody knows why. Snow covered the lawn and lay piled around the building; the car splashed through puddles as we entered the parking garage. The booking process was fast and efficient; fingerprints, mug shots and writing samples. I met with my court-appointed fictional lawyer; he said I was looking at twenty years hard labor in an author re-education camp, maybe out in ten if I mind my p’s and q’s. Later that day I was transported to McKittrick Federal Fiction Prison to await trial. > * * * As the days passed and more fictional snow fell, a state of melancholy fell over me. My only option was to escape. I traded my daily ration of mashed potatoes for some cutting tools. For some reason the mashed potatoes at the prison were excellent, nobody knows why. After two weeks of careful planning, I was ready; I would escape or die trying. I sat in my cell thinking about life and how much I would miss the mashed potatoes, but my freedom was more important. The next day was perfect weather for an escape. Heavy snow had fallen and plows left a pile of it outside the fence; this would prove to be useful. I found a length of steel pipe left carelessly in the prison yard and no guards were in sight. So with the wind in my face I began my run to freedom. I held the pole parallel to the ground and sprinted towards the fence. Right then my years of pole vault training kicked in. I remember vaulting from my crib, from my parent’s car, even from the bathtub. At top speed I planted the pole at the fence; it stuck fast, flexed and soon I was sailing over the razor wire. The snow bank was more slush than snow, but it was good enough. I landed unhurt and now was free. I expected to hear guns shooting, alarms blaring, dogs barking or even dogs shooting and blaring but it was silent. I simply stood up and walked away. But suddenly a police cruiser roared into sight, so I turned to run. I started to sprint for the tree line but tripped and fell into a massive hole. As I looked up, I was greeted by the smug face of Agent Smith looking down on me. I cursed under my breath and struggled to my feet. “Well well well, if it isn’t vaulty mc-vault the pole vaulter! That was a nice try!” she said. “I almost made it. Dammit,” I said as she helped me from the hole. “You’re only making it harder on yourself,” she said, “is there anything else I need to know?” “Well, the story I told you about the pencils. That was a lie,” I said. “What story, I wasn’t listening,” she said. “I said I was scared of pencils.” She laughed out loud. “Only fictional characters are afraid of pencils--an editor can kill us in a heartbeat,” she said. Her smile turned to a look of horror when I drew my weapon, a red model two Staedtler pencil. She jumped back. The red pencil tip glowed like the light up nose of Rudolph the reindeer from the iconic low-budget stop-motion film of 1964. I passed it from hand to hand so she could see the weapon. I was ready to fight. “Nothing personal Smith, but I can’t let you take me in,” I said. In a flash she drew her weapon and crouched into a fighting stance. A ray of afternoon sun made the polished steel of her pen gleam and sparkle. She too passed it from hand to hand. “It’s not a choice, it’s my duty. Writing is not some kind of game,” She said. She breathed hard, making steam in the air, like a bull pawing the ground, ready to charge. “Put down your weapon, I promise to go easy on you,” she said. Sweat formed on her brow. “Sorry Smith you know I can’t do that,” I said. We circled each other like two alley cats ready to strike, weapons nearly touching. She advanced and swiped left but I dodged the attack and pivoted right. I swept my weapon forward, and made contact, a line of red formed on her arm. She grunted and shook off the pain, then swung wildly and struck back--a burning pain tore through my shoulder. Our weapons made contact, locked, arm against arm, strength against strength. Her blue eyes burned into me. “Give it up! Not worth dying over!” she hissed under her breath. Suddenly she swept her foot under mine to trip me. I fell backwards with her on top but twisted at the last second. She stabbed but missed and hit the ground. I scrambled to my feet, spun and made contact again. She staggered, this was taking its toll. “Don’t make me do this Smith, I don’t want to hurt you!” I said. But she advanced in a frenzy, swiping left, right, then left but I blocked and blocked again. But then I spotted the hole--it was behind me. I stepped backwards, took a swing then shoved her. She stumbled and tried to catch herself. She fell in. The fight was over. “Go ahead, kill me! I’m a flat cardboard cutout of a character, I deserve to die!” she said. But instead I reached out my hand and pulled her up. Suddenly her eyes were blue, bluer than the bluest of blue things. I could tell she wanted me. I pulled her close, closed my eyes and kissed her. But oddly her lips felt flat and dry. I opened my eyes and she was gone; I was kissing my manuscript. It smelled faintly of wine and hand sanitizer. That was weird. I threw the manuscript onto the slush pile, stepped into the fictional police cruiser and started the engine. It was now night and a light snow was falling. What a day it had been. So I drove off into the cold moist foggy night then looked up to ponder the infinite flat-black darkness of space that was punctuated by bright white pointy things and a big round white orb of some sort, then stopped to catch my breath from all the pointless exposition. I felt good. I shall live to write badly another day.