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Why Stay Silent?

comidacomida copyright 2019

Larry had spent fifteen years in the NYPD and he knew a thing or two about interrogation. He'd learned the tricks of the trade when it came to playing head games, how to catch people in a lie and how to use their own words against them... anything to get a reaction. After a disgraceful exit for 'corruption' it didn't take long for Larry to find other uses for those skills... and additional ones to add to the list.

The feel of his cloth-wrapped knuckles impacting against a cheekbone sent a shock up his forearm and into his elbow joint; it was the eleventh, or maybe twelfth of the night and he had a feeling he'd need to put some ice on it. He'd been 'too old for this shit' for at least five years... especially since his new employers were the same types of people he used to put away. He didn't particularly like working for criminals but he had to admit that there was a lot less red tape involved.

His next punch aimed lower and got a satisfying 'oof' out of his subject. The guy hadn't so much as uttered a single word in the near hour that he'd been tied to a chair in the room, and Larry, to be honest, was starting to wonder if he ever would. He was a rather unremarkable mark-- shaggy brown hair, bland brown eyes, thin build... the kind of guy anyone would pass on the street without a second glance... except for that stupid get-up. He didn't know who the guy was or why his employer wanted him there, but in Larry's professional opinion, the guy wasn't likely to crack... and it had nothing to do with his crazy 'costume'.

The man had only been identified to Larry as 'the mime through the door', and it was a good enough description. Their prisoner had a striped black and white shirt with black, skin-tight pants, and his face was painted. Well... it HAD been painted, until about half of it had come off by repeatedly meeting Larry's knuckles.

Larry's partner Al had been impatient ever since Larry had met him and, although the two had been working together for over a month, that trait had only gotten worse. "Should we get the car battery? I'mma get the car battery."

Larry had to hold out an arm to stop him. "Fuckin' gimmie a minute, Al... Jesus! It's barely been an hour."

His 'partner' didn't seem happy to wait. "You're right, Larr... and whadda we got to show for it? You're sweatin' almost as much as this prick and we still ain't even got his name!"

Slowly unwrapping his hand, Larry sighed. "There's an order to this, Al... and I'd rather avoid any unpleasantness if we can."

Al responded with a harsh, barking laugh followed by "Maybe this guy's a mime for a reason? Maybe he CAN'T talk... you think maybe I should go get a pen and paper?"

Larry figured the least he could do was humor his employer's muscle. Turning to the mime, he asked “Is that it? You a mute?"

Surprisingly, their prisoner responded with a calm and collected shake of his head. Al seemed to get a kick out of that. “Hell! There ya go, Larr... maybe ya just gotta do some yes or no questions.... maybe he's one a them-- you know... a retard!"

Wincing inwardly, Larry let the casual prejudice slide; he wasn't in a position to discuss political correctness while he had mime blood staining his shirt. Sighing, Larry asked regardless. “Al seems to think you have some kind of mental disability.... that it?"

Once again the mime clearly and consciously shook his head. Al laughed louder, managing to add in the words “Well then he's not talkin' cuz he probably likes pain! He's one a them sadist guys!"

Larry reached forward with the wadded up cloth that had been protecting his knuckles and he began blotting at the blood dribbling out of the mime's torn lip. “A sadist likes inflicting pain, Al... you're thinking masochist."

Al chortled to himself, smirking as he pointed at the prisoner. “He ain't talking cuz he's a masoc-- wait... he's a mime-o-chist..."

Despite the rather poor word play being a bit of a stretch, Al only laughed louder at his own 'brilliance'. Scowling, Larry turned to address his partner. “Al... either you're here to help me or--"

He didn't get a chance to finish the sentence as he was thrown backward by what felt like a concussive blast, and he slid backward along the floor until his shoulder impacted against the wall. Seeing stars for a handful of seconds, Larry pressed his hand against his ribs which, he suddenly realized had taken the brunt of whatever impact had launched him across the room.

Looking up from his place on the floor, Larry lost the breath he'd only just found as he stared at what his eyes encountered. Standing in front of a destroyed chair was a seven foot tall monster of a creature resembling some kind of humanoid dog-- no, he realized, a coyote. Its legs were covered in the shredded remnants of black pants and dusty-brown fur poked through the rags of a black-and-white striped shirt. Most noticeable were the last clinging dabs of smeared face paint clotted to the creature's facial fur as it stared down Al, who was squirming as it palmed his head in one massive paw.

The moment he shifted, the beast turned his direction. As if no more than an afterthought, the monster twisted its paw, breaking Al's neck as if it were snapping a stalk of celery. As it leaned down, the coyote bared its teeth-- it was... smiling? Larry's blood turned to ice when it actually spoke. “Mimes don't talk,... Larry..."

A second later the beast was gone, breaking through the door with a single punch. In all the years Larry had done interrogation, that was definitely a first. “Well... I didn't expect that reaction..."