“Step aside” commanded Commander Anderson to his SWAT team. “I’ve got this.” Pretending to be Jackie Chan, he thrust his combat boot to kick down the door, but the door was both unlocked and unlatched, and Anderson stumbled in behind the door as it swung open. He looked back through the doorway, and saw the 20 members of the SWAT team standing by, their arms in position as if they were holding imaginary guns. The team was unarmed.
Behind them, a herd of local residents had gathered to watch the spectacle. There was the local crew of ten year olds skateboarders, a few concerned middle-aged folk, and a writer from the Neighborhood Watch online newsletter taking notes with fever. Commander Anderson hoped that he would be quoted in the article.
Anderson motioned for all of his men to stand back. “But commander!” Protested Hultz, his second in command. Hutlz was licking his lips at the prospect of bodyslamming some criminals and bagging whatever the scumbags were cooking in there. “Stay back” insisted the commander, attempting to imitate Clint Eastwood with his voice. This was the moment he was made for.
From inside the living room, Anderson turned away and lite up a Winston 100 cigarette. He took in a long drag and assessed the situation. He realized he was standing in some a paper plate of some kind of squishy dessert that had been sitting on the floor. Poetry and handprints had been left on the walls in psychedelic fingerpaint, and right in his path was a chair in disguise as a tree... perhaps an art project, perhaps a part of some covert operation. He circled it suspiciously, examining. He could hear something like music echoing from the basement.
“That’s right, Commander” he whispered to himself, “Follow that trail like a bloodhound.” He put his cigarette out in the smooshed dessert and made his way into the basement, where he cleverly suspected there might be people, on account of the sound of music.
The music got louder as he crept down the stairs. “You never know what’s going to happen in my line of work.” he imagined himself saying to the waitress at the diner on his next lunch break.
“It’s dangerous and criminals are unpredictable—you have to be ready for anything.”
The basement was dark and the music was loud and disorienting, even for the cunning insights of Commander Anderson. In the dark, he became scared, and instinctively started pretending that he was Harrison Ford in (insert action movie) and karate chopping the air. And then—
“Oh, hey. How’s it going?” Said a mild voice. The drumming stopped.
The commander whirled around to see an unknown number of potentially dangerous suspects sitting on a couch. A few candles were lit.
“The brave commander didn’t hesitate.” The Commander whispered to himself. Sometimes the Commander would narrate his life to himself in whispers to keep himself on track. “He stepped forward commandingly!” On his first step, he slipped on some of the dessert that was stuck to his boot, and stumbled over the crocheted rug. The slip would not be in the narration.
“Everyone put your hands up! This is Denver State Police Authorities! You must comply immediately, hands in the air!” He had a badge, but since the quarantine, guns had gone missing and were sparse on the force. “I have a badge!”
As he was shouting, one of the people on the couch reached over and turned on the light.
“Hey, man, are you alright?”
“I am Commander Anderson of the SWAT division of the Denver State Police Authorities, and I will be the one to ask the questions!’
“I mean, you don’t have a gun. Do... you have a warrant?”
“What I HAVE is the authority of reasonable suspicion based on a diligent Neighborhood Watch cooperative, and reports that no one has entered or left this house in three months.”
“Yeah, that’s true. It’s nice to see a fresh face. Have a seat.”
“I’ll sit when I’m ready. I have questions first.”
“You look tired. Why aren't you at home?”
“At home — I am protecting and serving.”
“Oh, you’re here to protect us?”
“No! Not you!”
“Ah, well, serve then? Could you serve up some of the dessert we have upstairs?”
“I’m not here to help you!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did we misunderstand? It’s hard to think without the music playing.”
And the one on the left picked back up on the hand drums, playing faster than before. “Thanks, Franny. That’s better. Listen, man, you should probably have a seat. You look tired.”
“I AM tired. I’ve been staking out this house since 5am! This is important!”
“Yeah, you know, I’m glad you feel that way. This is important. This is all we have.”
“I’m sure you wouldn't know what it’s like to be important. I have reports that no one has come or gone from this house in months.”
“Quarantine, man.”
“Quarantine ended six months ago.”
“Really? Well, that’s why you look so tired. You went back to the grind. You should really sit down.”
This was a tough set of criminals to crack, even for Commander Anderson. The pressure was building as the music intensified.
“Enough of these games! Just tell me what you’ve been cooking down here!”
“Oh, sure, we’re happy to share. Just have a seat. Let’s talk.”
The commander, feeling that he had finally got them to talk, sat in the chair. Instantly, he felt the crocheted rug wrap up around him like a net. A booby trap! Commander Anderson hung in the net from the ceiling.
“Don’t worry, man. We’ll release you back into the wild. It will be good for you.” The group lowered the net into a wheel barrel, opened the secret staircase with the underground tunnel and headed to the mountains.
©2020 by Shelsea Ochoa. All rights reserved.