Free CON TEST: Double Life by Rahiem Brooks

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    “ Noooooooo, buddy. That’s all you,” she said, clearing the pizza from the bed. Now let me kick ya butt in Trivial Pursuit.”
    He looked behind himself, and then to his left and right. “Kick whose butt? Mine? You have been drinking too much ginger ale.”

 
    THIRTEEN
     
     
    A fter a good night’s sleep and morning jog, William walked into his office and heard the screaming silence. He craved caffeine, which he fought off with an energy drink. So many things ping-ponged inside of his skull. That day, he would sort them out. He wondered had he had it with being a writer. He had enough dumb criminal behavior reported in his tales. He hated the balance that criminals kept the world. He imagined the unemployment rate if the two-million inmates were released. Hell, what about the murder rate. Even worse, they may take stabs at writing and step on my toes . That propelled him to work harder. No one would steal his thunder.
    Matter of fact, William had everything lately, starting with Justice. He hated things that snuck up on you like, a man’s—or woman’s for this matter—ass-crack sneaking out of their jeans. Yes, he hated that. For the most part he liked talking to strangers that had traits that he could bestow upon one of his fictional characters. However, there was a catch. At the moment that their tongue became coated with white foam, which crept out the corners of their mouth, he hated them. And he hated people that chewed with their mouths open. Viewing one’s food shifting in their mouth was malicious, and the sound that it created was outlawed in Iraq, and punishable by tongue removal.
    William loved to write thrillers, though. Enough procrastination, he thought. The cursor on the computer screen kept winking at him. The Seattle Symphony filled the quiet air and, he began to type:
    The patrol man stopped his vehicle and flipped the overhead lights off. Walmart loss prevention stopped walking, but Justice kept strolling through the parking lot. The cop stepped out his cruiser and summoned Justice over to his vehicle. Justice hung his head low and appeared scared. He was definitely on top of his game. He knew better than to volunteer information, not to admit anything and definitely do not rat on Amir. The Walmart guy with the stupid red hair brought the cop up to speed.
    “ We received a call from one of our cashiers in electronics claiming they were being passed a fake check for $400 to purchase two camcorders. What tipped her off was that people ordinarily do not buy two camcorders. I arrived at the department and upon inspection of the check, I noticed that the check did not have a padlock on the face. That indicated that the check was printed on a home computer and not manufactured at a bank. I offered to call the bank to verify funds and the perp became panicky and snatched his ID from my hand and took off running. We gave chase, but he ran into the woods. We did not enter for our safety.”
    The cop spat out tobacco and spoke with a Yankee drawl. “How’d you find him?”
    “ We didn’t. This guy here was outside and looked lost, so we assumed that he was with the perp.”
    The cop turned to Justice. “Where’s your friend, son?”
    Son, Justice thought. “I dunno,” he replied. He sounded ignorant.
    “ What’s his name?” The cop asked, pulling out his pad and pen.
    “ Harry Dijonette,” the Walmart guy interjected. He showed the cop the check. “Our clerk recorded his ID number on it.”
    The cop radioed the name and ID number to his dispatch officer. He waited for a response, and in the meantime, he asked Justice for ID. Justice claimed to have left his ID at home. He took down the fictitious information that Justice gave him. Prayerfully, Justice’s lies were interrupted.
    “ Lazar. Go.” Officer Lazar said into his walkie talkie.
    “ The ID number matches a Lauren Colansky.”
    “ Roger that,” he replied and then added, “Could you run Justice Baker?” He