An Officer and Some Gentlemen by J.A. O’Sullivan

Don't fuck it up.
I won't fuck it up.
Seriously. Don't.
I won't.
Grab the tail and help me push him in.
How do you know it's a him?
It's a him. Didn't you look?
Alright. Alright.
Watch the blood on the floor. This was the worst idea.
There have been worse.
Keep the blood off the fur. God. I hate bloody fur.
You've considered it before?
Actually, no. This is a first impression.
See? It's an adventure.
An adventure? It was fucked up. You posted it on YouTube.
But not our faces. They won't know it was us. Unless they recognize your accent.
Unless they recognize my accent.
So what is there to fuck up?
Just don't fuck it up. Help me with the paw.
Alright. Alright.
Watch the blood.
You already said that.
We probably broke some sort of law.
There's no law against puppeteering.
But how you could you shove your hand up . . .
That's how the ventriloquists do it.
With trained dummies. And you thought you really had to do that? With what's his name?
I didn't catch his name.
What's the tag say?
Richard Cheney.
You thought you had to do that with Richard Cheney?
I saw it on YouTube.
Does Richard Cheney look like a ventriloquist doll?
I saw it on YouTube.
Does he look like a doll?
He looks like a Golden Retriever.
That's right. You know why?
Why?
Because he is.
Alright.
So why would you shove your hand . . .
Look. I saw it on YouTube. That's what you do.
We're going to have to double bag this.
Alright.
Get another trash bag. They're under the sink.
Alright.
Fur thumps to the floor. Plastic rustles in the kitchen.
You really killed that monologue.
Give me the bag.
Was that The Godfather?
Scarface.
Killer.
Okay, we're ready to go now. Lift the hind legs.
Maybe we should be taping this.
Have you read in China about the virtual lynch mobs for the kitten killers?
No.
They could come after us. Like the kitten killers.
We didn't kill any kittens.
That's beside the point. You want to fuck this up?
No, it'd just be cool if . . .
If we were killed by hairy PETA women?
Alright. Alright.
Don't fuck this up.
Seriously, there's no crime against puppeteering.
Shut the fuck up.
Puppeteering is not a crime. We could make t-shirts.
Shut the fuck up. How did you even think you'd be able to hold it up after you shoved . .
I'm strong. Check the muscle. Ridic.
But this is a St. Bernard.
Actually, since you were doing the voice, I thought you could help prop it up in the back.
You're fucked up. This is fucked up.
You are complicit.
You're fucked up.
It's like the Holocaust and you're a German citizen. The one that didn't complain.
Not everything is like the Holocaust.
Everything is like the Holocaust.
You're fucked up.
Everyday is a Holocaust. Somewhere
Fuck you. Help me drag the bag.
When is Aunt Edna supposed to get home?
Later.
Because I hear a shitty diesel engine.
Where? Now?
Yep.
No.
Yep.
Fuck. In the closet  come on, help me drag.
This is heavy. I thought Edna was gone all day?
Me too.
Hmm.
Okay, help me get it in the closet.
Him.
What?
It's a him. Richard Cheney.
Quiet!
A rustling in the closet as they crouch. The bag slouches onto them. Edna enters and freaks.
She's calling the cops.
How could she know anything's wrong?
Because you the left camera and tripod in the middle of the bedroom.
Oh. A tripod's not bad. Weird, yeah, but . . .
With the camera attached.
Oh.
Yes.
Oh.
Quiet!
Edna's on the phone. She's calling the cops.
Maybe we can sneak out the bathroom window.
And leave this?
Do you have a better idea?
Oh.
Okay, we've got to wait for her to go out front.
Okay. Are those sirens?
How could they be here already?
Maybe they surveiled us?
What the fuck is surveiled?
You know. Shut up. God. We're fucked.
Oh.
The officer arrives. The gentleman fret.
We need another plan. He's not yet in the bedroom.
What?
We could talk our way out of it.
How do I explain trying to shove my hand up . . .
Don't. We found it that way.
That's sort of true. He was dead.
He was dead.
But they believe it?
I don't know, we could . . . shh!
The officer enters the bedroom. The gentlemen fret.
Okay, let's try and talk our . . .
DROP ANY WEAPONS AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP
Shit.
Oh. My.
DROP ANY WEAPONS AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP
Alright officer. Don't worry. We're unarmed!!
Get the bag off me. I can't move.
I'm trying. It's heavy.
That's because it's a St. Bernard.
DROP ANY WEAPONS AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP
We're trying!
We're trying!
The bag rustles. It jostles the closet door.
YOU HAVE TILL THE COUNT OF 3. YOU ARE CONSIDERED A THREAT
We're trying, we have to . . .
Okay, let's just talk to him. We can explain this.
The gentleman propel the bag forward. It moves, but not enough.
YOU HAVE TO THE COUNT OF 1. YOU ARE CONSIDERED A THREAT
What happened to 2?
I don't know. Push harder. Now.
Now?
Now.
The bag crashes through the closet door. The officer shoots. He shoots again. And again.
Jesus! There's going to a huge lawsuit when they watch YouTube. It'll be killer.
I think it already has been.
The dog is bleeding on me.
That's me.
Oh.
Yes.
Oh.


J.A. O'Sullivan writes news and fiction, strums guitar, and boxes. He hopes to spar with you soonrhetorically, metaphysically or otherwise. He lives in Casper, WY. Blog at http://jaosullivan.com. Twitter: @jaosullivanx.