What is your motivation? That is to say, “Why did you pull your dick out, Caitlyn Jenner?”
Caitlyn: No, I didn’t pull it out. I pulled it off. Like an angry gorilla. I’m a gold medal winning Olympic athlete after all, silly… Make America great again.
You did pull it off. But why? Some people speculate you did it out of jealousy. Those Armenian bitches are getting all of the attention. But did they win any medals? No. They didn’t do shit except suck on a few cocks. So what? You’ve done that many times. It had to be jealousy, right?
Caitlyn: Well, not really. I think I was just bored…
“Is that the asshole?”
Detective Zoltan looks through the two-way mirror. The perp is slouched at the interview table, taping his fingers rhythmically on the cheap Ikea surface, and wearing a yellow and black checkerboard flannel. “I hate flannels,” the detective says through his teeth. “Unless it’s a lesbian lumberjack, it’s impossible to pull off any flannel un-ironically. Does he think he’s Kurt Cobain? Disgusting.” The detective slaps the case file and says, “I yearn for the day when we can charge these idiots with fashion crimes as well.” He kisses two fingers, then points them to the heavens. “R.I.P. Joan Rivers. Fashion police for life.”
The interrogation room door flies open. Detective Zoltan explodes into the room like a Twilight Sparkle led Budweiser carriage. An exact replication of a young Cindy Crawford, his scarf momentarily flowing behind from the inertia of this perfect strut. He channels the expression of Kate Moss. A look he’s practiced and perfected. Incredibly fierce, slightly uninterested, with a healthy dose of emaciation. “Malnutrition always brings out the cheekbones,” he whispers under his breath. A mantra recited before every interview. He abruptly turns to present himself to the perp, shifts his weight from right to left, his hips a perfect swivel, and drops the case file on the table.
“So,” he begins. “It appears you are in big trouble, Mr. Johanssohn.”
“Uhh is not a word, Mr. Johanssohn. Let me assist you.” With one hand, Detective Zoltan grabs the office chair like Christina Aguilera in Burlesque, spins it around, straddles it, and jazz hands the other. “Ladies, no regrets,” he whispers under his breath. A mantra recited before every chair sit. He looks the perp in the eye, and then the flannel, and back to the eye. And then the flannel again. “Disgusting.”
Detective Zoltan places his index finger on the case file as if he was pointing to it. A move he learned as a teenager to bring attention to his Ferragamo’s. The hand formed Italian leather was not only the most comfortable of shoes, they are the reason Mona Lisa smiles. When wearing them, he felt a pride that rivaled the adoption of his first Asian child. An almost perfect male replica of Liu Wen. Beautiful. His second, a small, mouse faced Pakistani girl, was a bit of a disappointment. A Kumail Nanjiani unibrow that you couldn’t groom fast enough. If only he could have seen a picture first. Plus, It’s hard to replicate pure joy. Some things you just can’t repeat.
“This file contains the tale of a heinous set of crimes. Not only did you enter the conservatory and club the victims head in with a candlestick, you crushed her child with a dumbbell, the family dog with a trophy, and the nanny with a lead pipe. We have the security footage. You undoubtedly committed all of these crimes. But what I am curious about is why did you do this. Was it jealousy? Revenge? Monetary gain? Why, Mr. Johannsohn, why did you do this?”
The perp shrugs. “I guess I was bored. I dunno.”
“You were bored?”
“Yeah. They don’t have the internet. Can you believe that? No Netflix or anything. Not even cable, dude. That’s ridiculous. I tried to find some alcohol, but nope. I checked the medicine cabinet for some Klonopin or Robitussin, but nothing. I tried to find something to do, but there was nothing. I tried to find something to entertain myself. Nothing.”
“Really. You killed three people and a dog… because you were bored.”
“Yep… Are those Ferragamo’s?”
“Why, yes. Yes they are.”
The inquiry always begins when someone gets hurt. And after you hurt someone, you have to explain your actions. Perhaps an abusive relationship led you to kill your lover. Maybe your hunger pains were the reason you pistol whipped that jeweler. Maybe mental illness or drug addiction were to blame for you slamming into that Lexus and killing that nice lady. But if you cite “boredom” as your inspiration, than that’s unacceptable. Sociopathic, even. But why?
I can personally blame almost ninety percent of my hangovers to boredom. Definitely one fist fight. And probably a couple of break ups. Sorry, lady, But I don’t want to do this anymore. No, you didn’t do anything wrong. No, there’s nobody else. No, I still think you are absolutely lovely. It’s, umm, I’m just wondering what would happen if I burned this bridge to the ground. Unless, of course, you can think of something else to do…