by R.P. Burnham
One day when Griswold heard that the police were searching for the perpetrator of a particularly gruesome murder that occurred over the Easter holidays, he hastened himself down to the station to confess. "I used a meat cleaver," he explained. "There was no stopping my lust for blood. I hacked away until the pieces were suitable for stir frying in a wok. That's the kind of monster I am. Come on," he finished, puttting his hands out to be cuffed, "put me in jail and throw the key away."
"Why'd you do it?" asked the big, burly and bored desk sergeant, ignoring the proffered hands and instead slurping at his mug of coffee.
Griswold frowned, not at all pleased with the cop's attitude. Griswold preferred to live in a moral society where standards existed and people could be shocked, but you'd have to look real close to see even a tiny speck of revulsion or horror on this cop's beefy face. Besides, the guy was bald, and Griswold never trusted bald guys. "Why?" he repeated. "Because I'm a monster who doesn't deserve to live. I'm a menace to society. No decent person should be allowed to come within fifteen feet of me."
The sergeant put down his coffee mug and wiped his mouth with his hairy wrist. "You've got one thing right, pal. Except I'd revise it to a hundred feet. Get lost."
Griswold didn't have to hear the guy twice. He made himself scarce.
