The Voice

The Voice

By Lucius Jack & Toast

 

            Ever since he was a boy, Dick had wanted to be a detective. He cared not for the gun fights and other violent acts, he preferred the quieter way of catching criminals where they had no other choice but to come into custody and hope their lawyer could get them out.

            Now, after three different college majors, he was meeting with the chief of police at the Nemometro Police Department. The chief in question was an old man with a big bushy mustache, he wasn’t fat, but it was plainly obvious that he had once worked out, then stopped. The top righthand drawer was bursting with junk, mostly instant popcorn bags. A little secret to know about the police, is that kids working nightshifts at convenience stores will offer cops free coffee and popcorn to keep them around in the crime high hours of the night.

            Dick made his introductions (which were just a formality at this point) and was handed over his badge by the chief.

            That was where it all began.

            “Did you hear that?” asked Dick, having a similar reaction to a balloon pop, or a jump scare in a horror movie. 

            The chief leaned forward and cupped his ear. “Hear what?”

            He couldn’t hear it of course; his mind was not attuned to the greater depths of perception.

            Dick jumped up out of his chair and held out his arms, ready for an attack. From some unseen danger, the type I was constantly surrounded by. “That voice! It sounds just like me, except... like if I lived in the forties? … You seriously can’t hear it?”

            The chief let out a laugh and waived his hand. “Oh that? It’s just your noir voice. Don’t worry all detectives have it.”

            Dick was both offput and comforted by how casually the chief was treating it. The schizophrenic unstopping narration for my now life, filled with darkness, shadows, dames, booze, and darkness.

            “Did it just use darkness twice in the same sentence?” asked Dick, still looking around the room for a speaker, hoping this was all some cruel hazing ritual.

            “I’ve been told that its volcab gets better over time,” said the chief.

            Dick sat back down in his chair. “And why is it past tense?” asked Dick, his voice sounding a bit more like the one in his head.

            “Fuck if I know,” sighed the chief.

            Little did I know the reason it was past tense was because it came from when I was shot dead by a gangster with a tommy gun. Just two weeks from retirement and with a kid on the way.

            “Waitwhat?”

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