What a Character

What a Character Contest



         “Do you have any idea the world of hurt you just open up for yourself?  Your career, my friend, just went down the tubes!”

         “Yeah, I hear that a lot.”

         “You don’t even know who I am, do you?”

         “So why don’t you tell me.”

         “First, you tell me who you are and why it is you think you can manhandle and handcuff me, squash me into the back of a police car, and drag me in here?” 

         “We did what we needed to do to get you under control and here.”          

“I didn’t do anything and you and that other damned Nazi almost ripped my shoulder out of the socket.”

         “Sorry, you must be a lot more delicate than your hulking body seems to say.  And, if you didn’t do anything, then you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?”

         “Look, it’s obvious you all have me confused with someone else.  And . . . the way you all attacked me put my hackles up. But I did get upset and lose my temper.  And I can become volatile.  So, why don’t we start over?  How about you unshackle me and let me go.”

         “How about this, I’ll move them so your hands are in front?”

         “Why are you doing this?  Why are you persecuting me like this?”

         “I’m just doing my job.  And the sooner we get on with things, the sooner we’ll be done.”

         “I just want to get out of here.  I have a church board meeting tonight, and in light of the recent developments, it’s very important that I’m there.  They can’t possibly handle this situation without me.”

         “There, see, I’ve even added a second set of cuffs, so you should be comfortable. And it’s because of those ‘recent developments’ that makes you a ‘person of interest’.  So, let’s start with your name, okay?  ”

         “Are you serious?  You shanghaied me without even knowing who I am?”

         “Don’t make me put the cuffs behind your back again.  Stay on point and just answer the questions.”

         “I am Rolland D-o-n-a-l-d-s-o-n, from Donaldsonville.  Are you getting it yet, Officer Fife?”

         “The name is ‘Firth’, Trooper Firth.  But I get it, a Barney Fife joke, huh?  You’re a very funny man.  Well, at least to yourself.  But then, I kind of get the impression you amuse easily.”

         “Did you hear the name?  I’m Rolland Donaldson.”

           “Okay, so aside from you being the distant descendent of the Donaldson who founded the town,  what makes you so important?”

         “I’m Vice President of Manufacturing of Southern New England Control Company.  I’m a community leader, for Christ’s sake—a fucking deacon of the church.”

         “Nice language, deacon.  So, where is this company you work for?”

         “Danbury.”

         “And you do what?”

         “I supervise the design and manufacturing of the switches we sell.  And, I’m supposed to be going to Boston on business tomorrow morning.”

         “Well, that remains to be seen.”

         “Are you saying I’m arrested?”

         “I told you, you are a ‘person of interest’—right now.  We’ll let you know when and if that changes.  All you need to do is answer our questions.  Got it?”

         “Don’t take that tone with me, you . . . you . . .  After all, who are you?  The town’s resident trooper!  An outsider, a newbie, a nobody!”

         “You’re right.  I am new in town.  But, unfortunately for you, I am not new to my job.  Or, questioning jerks like you.  So let’s just—”

         “Who the hell do you think you are to speak to me like that?  I’ve already told you, I’m a leading member of the community and I hold a large number of patents—”

         “Yeah, yeah, I know the town couldn’t get along without you.  I bet you invented penicillin, pants, and the internet, too.  But right now—”

         “Why you arrogant interloper, I swear, you will regret this!  I have friends in high places—”

         "I know, I know, you are a legend—at least, in your own mind—but here’s how this works, I ask the questions, and you answer them.”

         “You are so going to regret this—”

         “I already do, but not for the reasons you think.  I swear, if you don’t start playing ‘nice’, I’m going to make you listen to this tape, over and over and over again.  I’m pretty sure that the droning monotony of your own voice will give, even you, a headache. ”

         “You’re taping me?”

         “Of course.  Tell me, how is it someone who’s so all-knowing, almost a god, doesn’t know that?  Haven’t you ever seen a ‘Law & Order’ episode?”

         “This just gets better and better.  I want to go home.  Now!”

         “Well, that’s not happening any time soon.  So let’s just focus, shall we?  You are a member of the First Baptist Church of Donaldsonville?”

         “I AM the First Baptist Church of Donaldsonville.  I’m their most loyal member.  I have been for years.”

         “I’m not looking for an election speech.  Are you a member or not?”

         “YES!  Haven’t I already told you yes?  I’m a head deacon and have an important board meeting tonight.”

         “I’m sure you get to run that meeting, but this—we’re playing in my sandbox now, so we’ll do this my way.  Okay?”

         “Whatever  . . .”

         “So, now you’re a ‘Valley Girl’.  Tell me; is this your idea of laying the foundations for an insanity plea?  Multiple personalities—and some are teenage girls?”

         “What . . .?  You are pushing your luck, T-r-o-o-p-e-r F-i-r-t-h.”

         “Just answer my questions.  Everyone we’ve spoken to at the church does nothing but sing you praises—officially.  You’re a real humanitarian. How you’ve built houses in Haiti.  That you even did rescue work in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.”

         “Then why are you interrogating me?”

         “Because, what I found more interesting is what they didn’t say—like how much they like you—personally—that is.  Not one person I spoke to said they ‘liked’ you—being with you.  Why do you think that is?”

         “I . . .  I have no idea . . . why that is.  Who . . . who . . . said that?”

         “Why all the sputtering?  For all your importance and knowledge, you hadn’t realized that you were appreciated—but, only at a safe distance?  Hadn’t you ever notice how none of your so-called friends and neighbors—your fellow parishioners—aren’t jostling each other to get up close and personal with you?”

         “I have no idea why.  But then, God only knows what you told them.”

         “I didn’t tell them anything.  I asked them about you.  They told me that you were a ‘take-charge’ guy.  That you were always the first one to write a check, or volunteer to do something—as long as there was an audience.”

         “So, how exactly, does that make me a bad guy?”

         “I don’t remember calling you that.  Are you?  A bad guy, I mean?”

         “How can you ask me that?  I told you, I’m a law abiding citizen.  I pay taxes—a lot of taxes.  I’m good at what I do, and I work hard doing it.  I also try to do what I’m able to make my community better.”

         “Well, like I said, everyone I spoke to said you were the guy who’d organize the fund raiser, or head the committee to select the new pastor, but helping with the grunt work to set up the Christmas pageant or annual crafts fair was somehow beneath you.”

         “That’s not fair!  I’ve never refused to do anything someone asked of me.”

         “Oh, everyone says you always have a plausible reason you aren’t able to pitch in.  Maybe you’re traveling on business, or already deeply involved in some other church project.  But, the bottom line is you are never around for the ‘heavy lifting’, with the exception of the electrical stuff.”

         “That’s an out and out lie—”

         “Look, I don’t really give a rat’s ass.  I just want to hear your theory about how all those bodies ended up in the dirt cellar beneath the church sanctuary.”

         “How the hell should I know?  The church is almost two-hundred and fifty years old.  For all I know it’s built over an Indian burial ground.”

         “Nice try, but I’m pretty sure that none of our ancient Native Americans used body bags.  Besides, all these bodies are of teenage girls.”

         “Why ask me?”

         “Why?  Because, you are the only person who’s worked under there—the only ‘hands on’, ‘down and dirty’ work you’ve ever done.” 

         “I don’t know about that.  I’m sure other people have been down there.  It’s not a secret room or anything.”

         “Trooper Wilson has been asking everyone he could find to speak with, and no one has ever been down there—other then you.  At least, until of that unfortunate nail-gun accident yesterday—the one that shot a finishing nail through the paneling, pierced the baptismal tank and brought someone’s dirty, little secret to light.  YOUR dirty little secret.”

         “You’re insane!”

         “I don’t think so.  You look like you could use a stiff drink.  Sorry, all I’ve got is bottled water.”

         “You don’t think I’m going to drink that, do you?  You think I’m some kind of idiot?  I drink that and you get my DNA.”

         “We already have your DNA, Brainiac.  You threw your Dunkin Donuts cup at my partner when we stopped you.  So, you might as well have the water.  It will give you a minute to come up with a story about how all those girls’ bodies found their way under the church.”



Word count: 1606