“Why do crickets always chirp whenever you’re waiting for something in the dark?” Harry slowly turned his gaze from the window in the distance and glared at Fred.
Fred looked away and muttered some excuses while noisily crunching a potato chip.
“I’m just, making some conversation…” Harry rolled his eyes and turned back towards the window across the street. After a few repeat performances of Fred breaking the silence and Harry glaring back, their stakeout finally yielded a result.
At 11:07:57 precisely by Harry’s watch, a dark figure opened the window they were watching and tumbled in. Fred sat up.
“That’s our cue, right? We go in now, right?” Harry rolled his eyes once more.
“No,” he replied, “We’re going to wait for the SWAT team to show up.” Fred looked around, and leaned in hopefully.
Harry’s look was less hate than disgust, but he got out of the car without another word. After Harry took a few steps, Fred understood he was supposed to follow him, and began to struggle with the seatbelt. He dug around some old wrappers until, with a great effort, he managed to unclick the buckle and release himself. He caught up with Harry at the front door.
“So. Should we knock?” Harry repeated his venomous look, like a snake watching mice in a pet store. Word by painstaking word, he explained the situation to his subordinate.
“We. Have. A. Warrant. We. Don’t. Need. To. Knock.”
“So, you have the warrant?” Harry’s mouth twitched to the point of convulsion.
“You were supposed to bring it,” he said. A deep breath. “Where is it now?”
“Oh-ho-ho, that warrant!” Harry leaned in and lifted his eyebrows, not in the least bit welcoming. Fred backed off.
“Yeah, its in the car,” he gestured with a careless head toss. “I’ll…go get it then.” He smiled and nodded and began to move back towards the car, away from the seething mass that was Harry.
All of a sudden, a piercing scream from inside the house broke the hush of the neighborhood.
Harry shoved Fred towards the cruiser and whipped open the door. “You get the warrant, I’ll see what that was.”
Fred pounded to the car as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him. He snapped the door handle futilely a few times while fishing around in his pocket for the key with his other hand.
It snapped open with a crack and he dove in headfirst, pulling aside papers, candy wrappers, and who knows what else.
With a triumphant yell, he gasped clear of a pizza box, grasping the warrant high above.
Speeding back to the house, he bounded through the front door and landed ungracefully in the dining room. Before him was an old man in his pyjamas, dead in his soup, an old grandmother brandishing a rolling pin, and two masked people holding guns.
“Harry, why’d you shoot the old guy?!”