Getting Upset

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
George has been arrested for drug trafficking. At some point in his interrogation, the interrogating officer leaves, only to be replaced by a rather colorful character.

Submitted: May 26, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 26, 2012



Getting Upset

George was in relatively poor shape. The police had caught him and roughed him up quite a good deal on his way to the station. Undoubtedly they would say he fell at some point during the journey. Pigs.

His inability to keep his footing notwithstanding, he was now shackled to a metal table in a dingy interrogation room. The table was bolted to the floor, though his chair was not. The handcuffs had an incredibly length of chain attaching them to the table, giving him precious little purchase with which to move his hands. Didn’t stop him from trying, though, his arms and hands were in near perpetual motion, trying to get comfortable.

The heavy soundproofed door of the interrogation room groaned open and a tall, thin man in a nice suit walked in, hands in his pockets. He looked like the good half of the good cop, bad cop tandem. Without so much as a word, he took the seat across the table from George, looking grave.

“George, George, George,” said the newcomer, shaking his head sadly and folding one leg over the other. George continued to try and get his hands comfortable.

“I want my lawyer,” George said. He refused to speak to police without a lawyer present ever since he did two years in prison for “assaulting an officer of the peace”, which is to say calling a pig a prick. The newcomer seemed unimpressed by George’s strong front, however; he laughed and tented his fingers, watching George as one would watch a rat in a cage.

“Cocaine, George?” the man asked George, raising his eyebrows as if to say “really, buddy? Again?” George made a show of closing his mouth.

“Do you like hockey, George?” the newcomer asked, and George shrugged. If it wasn’t related to himself or crime he assumed he was safe to talk. Might even be a good idea—let the pigs realize he was a person.

“Yeah I guess,” George said. The newcomer clapped his hands.

“Oh, goodie!” he said. “You can call me . . . oh, I don’t know—how does Bryzgalov sound to you?”

It sounded pretty goddamn weird to him, is how it sounded. Ilya Bryzgalov was the Flyers’ truck of goalie, and a top class crazy. The man sitting across the metal table from him was about half a foot shorter than Bryzgalov, and most assuredly not a goaltender in the NHL.

Then he realized that if this guy was a pig—and why wouldn’t he be, he was in a police department interrogation room, after all—then the fact he used a fake name would assure that George could get off scot-free. Mistrial or entrapment or some garbage like that.

“Sure,” George said. “Bryzgalov.”

Bryzgalov grinned and clapped a single time. “Excellent,” he said. “But really, George, cocaine?”

George’s mouth once more clamped shut, though this time he didn’t make as much a show of it as he could. Bryzgalov frowned.

Silence reigned between the two for what must have been twenty minutes, before Bryzgalov broke it by removing a cigar from one of the pockets of his suit coat. Next he drew a lighter and lit the cigar.

“Can’t smoke in here, can you?” George asked, grinning slightly at how hilarious he was. Bryzgalov gave him a withering look.

“I suppose you can’t,” he agreed, and then brought the tip of the cigar down to George’s forearm. George screamed as the smoking brown barrel burned into his flesh. He slid his chair back as far as he could when Bryzgalov retrieved his now stamped out cigar.

“That’s illegal,” George said, breathless. “You can’t do that.”

Bryzgalov shrugged, tossing the cigar off to a dark corner of the room. “There are quite a few things you can’t do that you do anyway,” he said. “It’s part of human nature. Stealing fifteen kilograms of cocaine from a well-established drug cartel is one of those things, George. You can do it, it’s not even really illegal to do it, but good God damn is it stupid to do.”

George was standing now, backed as far away from the benignly smiling Bryzgalov as he could. Bryzgalov sat, one leg still folded over the other, looking as amiable as ever. The pigs had no idea where he had stolen the drugs from. Bryzgalov clearly did. George felt faint.

“Sit,” he suggested. George remained standing. Bryzgalov stood, and George flinched. Hadn’t he heard stories about the enforcer for the cartel? The man who looked like he’d buy you dinner before blowing your brains out? The guy who had killed hundreds if not thousands of people?

Bryzgalov was behind him now, and righted his chair. It was pushed roughly behind George, forcing his legs out from under him and his ass into the seat. Bryzgalov grasped his shoulders. “That’s better,” he said. “Now stay seated, please, George.”

George whimpered a response as Bryzgalov returned to his own chair, once more smiling.

“What kind of man are you, George?” he asked, tone light and inquisitive, as if he had just asked George what the weather was like. When George made no response, Bryzgalov’s smile wilted slightly.

“Well,” he said, “you see, I’m the type of man who’s a bit unhinged, I guess you could say. You see, I carry a grenade in case I get upset.”

George thought he was joking until a grenade, green and looking quite like a pineapple, was produced from one of Bryzgalov’s pockets. He put it on the metal table, and the metal on metal collision made an authoritative clank. George vaguely registered the front of his pants becoming warm and wet.

“And you see, George,” Bryzgalov continued, his arms now crossed and his smile gone, “you’re making me very upset. Are you going to talk or aren’t you? I would really like to know if you were working for anyone before one. The Bruins are playing the Islanders, and I would really like to see that game.”

George sputtered a weak response that was utterly incoherent. Bryzgalov nodded in understanding.

“Right. Right,” he said, standing. “I’m sorry we couldn’t come to an agreement, George. See you later. Or not, who knows!”


The pin of the grenade hit the grenade with an almost whimsical tinkling sound. George realized he was crying as the iron, soundproofed door of the room slammed shut behind Bryzgalov. He scrambled to get away from the green ball of death, his wrists snapping as he struggled to throw himself beneath the table. A deafening roar and blinding light stopped him cold.

Two days later, George found himself struggling to wake from a nightmarish slumber, shaking himself awake through sheer force of will. The irritating smell of antiseptic hit his nose in waves. Coupled with the dim light and the beeping of heart monitors, he realized he was in a hospital. And alive, it would seem. His everything hurt, though. He tried wiggling his fingers and toes, see if everything was still there, and to his surprise, everything was. He looked at his hands and saw they were wrapped in bandages, probably from shrapnel. His head hammered.

He looked around, and his heart stopped when he saw a card standing atop a box of chocolates on the table just next to his bed. It was an orange card with the Flyers logo on the front.

With trembling hands, he reached out for it, and opened it. He had to bring it incredibly close to his face to read it in the dark. A pin was taped inside at the top. He cringed at the sight, but read the card anyway.

Howdy, George. Bryzgalov here!

So sorry I couldn’t make your funeral—your brother told me who you were working for, wasn’t that nice of him? His wife and children weren’t nearly as nice, though, unfortunately :(

Either which way my dear man, as you can see there was a pin at the top of this card. And, as you may know, I am the type to carry a grenade with him in case I get upset. Even more unfortunately, the Flyers lost to the Senators just as I was coming in to visit! So, where does that leave you?

With about four seconds to live (or less, maybe more—who knows how fast you read?), is where. Toodles, George

BRYZGALOV (or maybe I should call myself Lundqvist or Thomas?)


George made to get up only to find his ankles cuffed to the bed.


© Copyright 2019 Alexander Queene. All rights reserved.

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