Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Happy Halloween From Moat

Hai thar AG! I'm sure a lot of you don't know who I am, so here's my introduction: I'm Jonathan, a.k.a. Moatmushercastlecrusher, a.k.a. Moabarmorgamer, a.k.a. Moat. I was a regular here about a year ago, but I quit sometime in the spring. However, I will be visiting AG from time to time on the holidays, and as it happens, this is one of those occasions! I am here to issue all of AG and its ancients(my old friends) a Happy Halloween, and a warm welcome to all the newcomers who had no idea who I was until about five seconds ago! And I know this may seem a bit harsh, so I apologize in advance for myself, but I am not going to return to AG, so I request that everyone stop bugging me about that or I will close my comments. I will be on AG for a least a little bit on all the holidays, and I will [try to] respond to every comment you leave in my absence. So, once again, happy Halloween to all my buds from AG.
Spencifilopidus: Are you still dating that cheerleader? What was her name, Caitlin? Because if you are, I just want to say, I retract my original thought that she was a succubus. Unless you broke up with her, in which case I TOLD YOU she was a blood-sucking monster from beyond. xP On another subject, I want to tell you something very important...lean in close...closer...closer...KEEP TEXA-TAH ALIVE, BROTHER!
Alt: Whoa, are you 14 now? Insane. Well, happy birthday dude, and good luck. I see you resigned as judge of the poetry contest, and all I have to say is; yeah. It's more difficult than it looks, isn't it? xP
Pickle: Justin, I just want to say again, congratulations! And I also want to wish you continued good luck with Wrenner, and I hope that someday he can grow up to be as epic as Moat, lol. Just kidding.
Parsat: All hail the poetry master! You have once again taken on the great burden and responsibility of being judge of the poetry contest. I want to wish you good luck with that, and keep up the good work! You are a better judge than I could ever hope to be, and I take my theoretical cap off to you, sir.
DD: Like Jdogg, you participated in practically every RPG I created since the day you joined. We're buddies.
Papi: Hey, I'm sorry about dropping the Adventures of Armorgames way back when, but if you want to I can tell you what I intended the ending to be.
Sam: Ah, dude, you were like one of my first AG friends. We haven't talked in a long time but I still wanted to bid you Happy Halloween.
Jdogg: Ah, my forum games buddy! Remember Undead World? And Warfare 1945? And like, the other twenty games I ran? Lol.
Jess: I never officially added you as a friend, but I do consider you as such. After all, we are both in the "Have To Constantly Correct Other Peoples' Wording Of Our Names" Club, are we not?
I think that's everything, right? So, yeah, just-
Mind-Moat: Dude. Seriously?
Jonathan: What?
Mind-Moat: Were you seriously just considering ending this without so much as a single Moat convo?!
Jonathan: Well...maybe a little bit...
Mind-Moat: GAH! Motherfucker! That does it! I'm calling in the rest of them!
Jonathan: No, no, don't do tha-
Mind-Moat: *snaps fingers* *rest of Moats appear*
Gay Moat: Hi AG! I'm thorry to thay, my lithp came back. I don't mind it ath much anymore, though.
Straight Moat: Yeah, well, the rest of us do.
Paranoid Moat: L-l-lisps are a p-proven s-sign of p-p-possession.
Straight Moat: Should I do it?
Gay Moat: Don't do it Thtrait, that'th cruel.
Straight Moat: I'm gonna do it. Paranoid, stutters are also supposed to be-
Mind-Moat: Possession. There. Now can we move on, please?
Paranoid Moat: *frantically starts trying to gouge out his eyes, Oedipus-style*.
Straight Moat: On to what?
Homicidal Moat: *starts sneaking up on Straight with a garrote* ON TO MURDER! *attacks*
Straight Moat: *is strangling*
Insane Moat: *kicks Homicidal off Straight* God, that was starting to get annoying.
Gay Moat: Inthane? When did you get nithe?
Insane Moat: I never got nice. He *points to unconscious Homicidal* was starting to get annoying. He stole all my cookies. Speaking of which...*searches Homicidal* *procures a batch of warm, yummiful looking cookies* Anybody want a cookie?
Straight Moat: *sigh* Don't eat the cookies.
Mind-Moat: Uh...you guys, exactly how many times have you done that cookie skit?
Straight Moat: I lost count after seventeen.
Mind-Moat: Don't you think it would've lost its humor by now?
Gay Moat: The cookie thkit ith a clathic.
Insane Moat: But seriously you guys! I'm being serious here! And nice! Jonathan, you're trying to wish these people Happy Halloween and you aren't even giving them candy!
Straight Moat: That's true.
Gay Moat: Yep.
Homicidal Moat: *waking up* Yeah...
Dr. Moat: It does appear to be so.
Insane Moat: See? So, can I please give AG my poison cookies?
Jonathan: No, they're my friends!
Insane Moat: ...who you're not giving any candy to.
Jonathan: Shut up, Insane.
Insane Moat: You shut up.
Jonathan: No, you.
Insane Moat: No, you.
Jonathan: NO, YOU WILL SHUT YOUR MOUTH OR I WILL SHUT IT FOR YOU!
Dr. Moat: Enough! Jonathan, you'll simply have to procure some other kind of present to give to AG.
Jonathan: Like what?
Dr. Moat: I don't know, you have to figure it out.
Jonathan: But you're the one with all the Ph.Ds.
Dr. Moat: Yeah, but I'm not Dr. Phil, and I'm sure as hell not Oprah. *gets up and walks away, carrying his suitcase*.
Jonathan: *gasp* I know just what to give to AG!
All: You do!?
Jonathan: Yes! Something that's ancient...something that's been all but forgotten about...a project I started back in the olden days....
Straight Moat: *in shock* You can't possibly mean...

THE MYSTERY
BY MOAT

Detective Gerard Spencer sighed, flipping through the pages of a case file in frustration.
"This just doesn't add up, Danny," he sighed. "I mean...this case just doesn't make any sense. Not to mention I haven't slept in a day and a half."
"Ger, would you stop complaining?" replied Detective Danny Carson, with a frown. "You're not the only one missing sleep, and besides you should count yourself lucky for that case. At least it's interesting. My active case is open-and-shut. Some teenage punk got picked up for public intox, but when we ran him through, he had about ten kinds of illegal narcotics on him . Piece of cake."
"Please don't call me Ger," Gerard requested. "But yeah, I guess you're right," Gerard conceded apologetically. "I'm sorry, I just..." His head slumped on his desk and he started snoring.

"'Ey Ger! Boss is comin'!" hissed Det. Danny Carson to his colleague. Gerard, although annoyed that Danny had, despite his request, called him "Ger" yet again, sat up straighter and quickly grabbed a case file off his desk and started reading it. He'd been accidentally taking a well-deserved nap after refraining from sleep for a day and a half, instead choosing to work on his fire case, the file of which he was now reading for the twentieth time. Suddenly, his boss, Chief Jason Carlos, walked up. His white suit and crisp mannerism highly contrasted Gerard's, who was wearing jeans(although formal ones, no tears or fades. Well, as formal as jeans can be, alright!)and a long-sleeved shirt. His usually front-styled dark brown hair was messed up due to his napping. An observant person might even spot his fiancee's necklace just peeking out of his right jeans pocket.
"How are you doing on that arson case, Spencer?" barked Chief Carlos. Although he was a nice enough man, the chief would work people to death, and the word "quiet" was not really in his vocabulary.
"Good!" replied Spencer, nodding vigorously. He winced slightly as he popped his neck doing so. "Although I'm beginning to doubt it was an arson."
"What are you talking about, Spencer?" exclaimed Chief Carlos. "We've got an eyewitness who swears to God she saw a man running from the burning building with something resembling a gas can in his hand!"
"Well, for one thing sir, the witness's credibility," Gerard started. "I mean, there's the fact that she has a bit of a love em and leave em reputation on the streets. Not exactly an exemplary citizen. And our arson inspecter and our fire chief both agree it looks like it was just a regular old fire, no traces of any accelerant such as gasoline found at the crime scene. And then," Spencer continued, warming to his theme, "there's the bit about how the witness stated that she texting with one of her drunken pals when the fire started, meaning she was distracted. Also-"
"Alright, alright, Spencer!" cut in Chief Carlos. "I get the point! And all that stuff will be in your report. In the meantime, I expect you to solve the case!" Chief Carlos stiffly marched back into his office and slammed the door. Det. Carson sighed.
"You know what, that man would have a better calling as, I dunno. A gym teacher or a boot camp drill sergeant," he commented.
"Be quiet, Danny," ordered Det. Spencer. As soon as his boss had left, Gerard had opened the case file up again and was fervently reading it and flipping through the pages, his blue-flecked green eyes speeding back and forth through the page. "On second thought, talk to me."
"Alright then. Well, for starters, my wife and I are having dinner tonight and I was wondering if you and your fian-" started Carson, his mouth motoring on.
"Not like that!" said Det. Spencer. "I meant, aw forget it. Just listen to this, alright?"
"Okay," said Danny, nodding. "Listen. I can do that."
"Anyone can do that," grumbled Det. Spencer.
"Hey!" Danny said, hurt.
"Sorry, sorry," sighed Det. Spencer. "I'm just tired."
"I know what you mean, Ger," Danny agreed, eliciting a frown from Spencer for again referring to him as "Ger". "But I don't take it out on my friends."
"Sorry," Det. Spencer repeated.
"Look, you can stop saying sorry. Just tell me whatever it is," Danny requested.
"Let's do a timeline, from the witness's point of view. First thing, about seven o clock pm, witness goes to a party, right?" Det. Spencer replies.
"Right."
"And then, about eight o clock pm, witness is driving and texting, not the best decision, to her condo on Wittner Street."
"Right."
"Wittner Street is, according to our maps and the witness, about a ten minute drive from the party house on 9th and Kroger Boulevard. The burned down building, O'Shalle Warehouse Limited, was just about right in between the two locations."
"That'd be right."
"And that does match up with our timeline. Fire chief says the fire started, early eight o clock."
"So far, so good."
"But here the story gets blurry. The witness said that she saw a tall man running from the scene of the fire with a gas can, or something resembling one, in his hand, right?"
"Right."
"But how could she have seen clearly? The street lights on that avenue were off; I checked it out myself. There was a power outage at eight o clock to nine o clock, no electricity there."
"Maybe the fire illuminated the man?" Det. Carson suggested.
"Can't be. She said she saw him at eight o clock. Fire chief said the fire started at eight o clock; he also said that the point of origin of the fire was on the west side of the building, right?"
"That's right, you heard him same as I did."
"But the road that leads to Wittner Street passes by the eastern side of the warehouse, not the western. And at that point of time, the fire wouldn't have either spread far enough or grown bright enough to affect vision that far away; remember, the fire had just started, according to both the witness and the fire chief."
"Maybe the witness could just see good in the dark?"
"Not that good. She said she couldn't identify the man from a lineup because it was so dark. But here's the thing; do you know how your eyes can see in the dark?"
"I have no idea."
"Well, the rods and cones in our eyes do adjust to darkness after a while in pitch blackness. But the witness did have her headlights on, which would've been trained on the road, so there was no way her eyes could've adjusted; for that to happen, you need real darkness. Plus, last night, the night all this was happening, had a new moon."
"Okay, so maybe the visibility can be doubted. But what else is there?"
"Right. As I was saying, the witness saw the man running from the building and across the street. She now saw the first flickers of a fire and pulled to the curb, then calling the police and fire department, who arrived approximately five minutes later, at about eight ten o clock. They did not succeed in putting out the fire at the warehouse, which burned down, but they did save the surrounding area."
"Okay."
"Next morning, upon further inspection, no evidence of arson. We find no accerlerants, no matches, nothing that says "arson". What we do find is cigarette butts, broken alcohol bottles, and traces of recreational drugs. And do you know what that says?" Gerard continued.
"I dunno...there was a party?" guessed Danny.
"Right," said Gerard. "The evidence says that there was a party, everyone was either drunk or high, and there were lit cigarettes."
"Sounds like an accident."
"Exactly."
"So, what do you think?"
"I think we should bring the witness and her party pals back in for questioning."

"Hello, Miss," said Officer McNab. He led her to Interrogation Room A, and gestured at the foldaway black chair opposite the table.
"Please, call me Ashe," Ashe requested as she sat down, and gave the officer her most winsome smile. McNab smiled in return.
"So, Ashe," continued Officer McNab, "the department just has some questions about last night's accidental fire."
"You mean arson," corrected Ashe.
"Actually, that's what we have questions about," said a tall, disheveled-looking man in jeans and a white shirt with black sleeves . Ashe felt a jolt of surprise; she hadn't heard him coming or seen him. She surmised he must have come through via the second door, which was to her back. He sat down in the identical chair across the table, and Officer McNab left the room, shutting the door behind him.
"Whatever do you mean, officer?" she asked, raising one eyebrow. "And who are you?"
"It's 'detective', actually," replied the man. "Detective Gerard Spencer, ,ma'am."
"Pleased to meet you, Detective," she said amiably, extending one hand over the table. She smiled, and added, "but shouldn't you be wearing a trenchcoat?", hoping to break the ice with a joke. Detective Spencer did not take the proffered hand, instead choosing to put a note in her palm. Ashe unfolded the note. It said simply, "Not all detectives wear trenchcoats and hats."
"Oh," Ashe said, concealing her slight disappointment. She had been curious and hoping for some intrigue; this arson was by far the most interesting thing that had happened to her all week. Ashe had been hoping the note had contained some secret code or message; "We can't talk here, it's not safe." or something like you saw in the movies. Downcast, she slid the note across the table back to Detective Spencer. He replaced it in his jeans pocket and picked up a fat manilla folder from the table. Ashe read the label; "Case #257: O'Shalle Arson."
"I believe you have some information for us concerning the O'Shalle Warehouse fire that happened last night?" Detective Spencer queried.
"Yes, but I thought we had settled this," answered Ashe. "I mean, I was already questioned last night."
"That's right," Detective Spencer replied, "but I'm afraid we still have a few questions to ask you. There's just a few points we'd like you to clarify. After all, arson is serious business, and the department wants to be sure about this before we pour too much into it."
"I can understand that," said Ashe, "but I know what I saw." She was feeling slightly miffed, but concealed it behind a bat of the eyelashes. Meanwhile, she noted that Detective Spencer did not seem to need the file; it was as if he'd memorized it. Most likely, he'd just brought it so it would seem more officious, and his words would hold more clout.
"That's fine, ma'am," said Detective Spencer. "Like I said, we just want to ask you a few questions."
Ashe shrugged. "Shoot," she invited.
"Alright. First; could you explain how you were able to see the perpetrator? The lights on that street were off at the time."
"Oh," Ashe said, "that's simple. The lights on the street were off, but my headlights were on."
Detective Spencer nodded. "I'd figured as much," he acknowledged, "but wouldn't the headlights have been trained on the road?"
"They were," Ashe returned, "but when I heard the sounds, I turned them to the source of the sound. I was only able to get a passing glimpse and the headlights barely illuminated him, but I saw the distinctive shape, to be sure."
"Really?" Detective Spencer seemed intrigued. He scribbled something down on his hand with a pen, then gestured with his hand to Ashe. "What sound was it that you heard?"
"I'm not sure; it was like firecrackers or bottle rockets going off or something," Ashe answered. Detective Spencer leaned forward on the table, and his eyebrows shot up. "But that's not uncommon," Ashe quickly added. "After all, last night was New Year's Eve."
"That's true," Detective Spencer conceded, but he still seemed excited. "Why didn't you tell this to the detective who questioned you last night? Detective Carson?"
"It didn't seem important at the time," Ashe fielded. "Like I said, it was New Year's. I only thought about it when you asked." She remembered Detective Carson; unlike Detective Spencer, he was a friendly, laid-back kind of guy. He'd laughed at her trenchcoat jest. Of course, Ashe knew that, like Detective Spencer's cold, no-nonsense routine, this was probably an act. She knew a poser when she saw one. She was an expert on that kind of thing.
"So, these firecrackers, were they muffled or clear? Were they repetetive, or was there only one? Did it sound like they came from somewhere nearby or far away?" demanded Detective Spencer.
Ashe was slightly overwhelmed by his barrage of questions. "Well...it was very loud, but still kind of muffled, if you know what I mean," she said. "It was like it was a building down or indoors or something, but I could still hear it clearly."
"Go on," urged Detective Spencer.
"And it wasn't really repetetive, but there was more than one," Ashe continued. "There were maybe two or three, I can't be sure. They didn't come rapidly though, there was a pause in between each. And it sounded like it came from somewhere nearby."
Detective Spencer was nodding and frenetically scribbling on the palm of his hand. The tired, disheveled man that had entered the room had seemingly been infused with some sort of manic energy. "And this gas can the man was holding...you're sure it was a gas can?" he asked.
"I'm not positive," Ashe admitted, "but I'm still fairly certain. I don't know what else it could have been."
"Hm. So Ashe, you said that your headlights barely illuminated this man. Why is that? After all, there was still ice on the roads from the snow early that morning. The roads were treacherous, even just a street road. Wouldn't you have had your lights on full blast, just to be safe?" Detective Spencer inquired.
"They were," Ashe confirmed, "but the headlights were kind of broken. The lights in them were going bad and I've been meaning to get them fixed."
"Really? I'm told you are part of a project to end the use of nuclear weapons and to bring those who have used them to justice. You research the affect of nuclear weapons in general on the environment and compile your findings into something that can be used in court and petitions. You are apparently pretty good at it. You, well, I guess I could say toured, across Russia, doing a presentation to their government and military to convince them to destroy the remainder of their nuclear armament. You have degrees in environmental science, criminology, and foreign language, which suit your job well. So-"
"I'm sorry detective," Ashe interrupted, "but where are you going with this?"
"What I mean to say is that you make quite a respectable salary; 75,000 dollars a year(about 113,000 pounds a year). Shouldn't you be able to repair your own headlights?" Detective Spencer explained, skepticism in his eyes.
"Ah, I see," Ashe nodded in comprehension. "Well, I don't normally drive that car, actually. I have two cars, and I usually take the Dodge. But it only seats three. I took the other car, the one I drove last night, because I don't drink even at parties, but I knew my friends would. I planned to drive a couple of them to their homes as opposed to them driving, so I took the car with the larger capacity. I really didn't see the point in getting the headlights on that car repaired, as I hardly ever used it."
"Mhm," responded Detective Spencer. He chewed on his lip and nodded. "Okay, Miss Cassidy. You're free to go. If you have any questions or if you remember anything else, please contact me." He wrote a phone number down on his notepad, tore the page out, and handed it to her. "There's the door."

"So?" asked Danny Carson. "How'd it go? Learn anything?" Gerard nodded.
"Well?" prompted Chief Carlos. He then added sarcastically, "be so kind as to share with us." Gerard shrugged.
"She seems clean enough. I don't think she's a suspect. But I do think that there were shots fired. Possibly within the warehouse," answered Gerard.
"Really?!" exclaimed Danny. "But...the fire chief didn't find any evidence of foul play, arson or otherwise."
"And besides, no evidence was found to indicate that there was anyone in the building at the time of the fire; that is, except for Miss Cassidy's mystery arsonist," agreed Chief Carlos with a boom.
"Well, I believe her," Gerard countered stubbornly. "Her story had no holes."...except of course, for all the evidence pointing the opposite direction.
"Detective Spencer," replied Chief Carlos, "this arson thing may merit further investigation. But not right now."
"Whaddaya mean?" asked Danny. He was easily mystified.
"What I mean is," expanded Chief Carlos," that to support the theory that this is arson, all we have is the word of one person, a hardly trustworthy person at that, pointing the finger at some arsonist she can't identify. However, what we have do have is a convincing argument to the contrary. For one, Fire Chief Baedeker's report, and the report of Arson Inspector Jaymes. She said that no accelerants were found, and Inspector Jaymes concurs. Chief Baedeker said that they found alcohol, cigarette butts, and recreational drugs; marijuana, methamphetamines, cocaine, and a few others at the scene, and Inspector Jaymes agrees. Chief Baedeker's report also says that-"
"Hold up there," Gerard interrupted, lifting a hand to signal Chief Carlos to stop. "The drugs were actually there? I thought-"
"Don't interrupt me!" bellowed Chief Carlos, his tanned face turning an interesting shade of beet red. Gerard instinctively backed up a few paces, and Danny's eyebrows shot up into his forehead.
"Sorry, chief," apologized Gerard.
"No, I'm sorry," muttered Chief Carlos, eyes downcast. "I haven't gotten much sleep lately."
"It's like an epidemic," observed Gerard under his breath.
"What was that?" demanded Chief Carlos.
"Nothing," Gerard shrugged off his comment. "But what I was going to say is that I thought we only found traces?"
"No," answered Chief Carlos, "we found a full stash of the drugs. Like I said, it points to an accident."
"Yeah, I know that points to an accident," Gerard agreed, nodding. "But don't you think that's a little strange?"
"What is?" queried Danny.
"That the drugs were just there. Unused?" Gerard wanted to confirm his theory.
"That's right," Chief Carlos assented. "Well, the majority of what we found. We did get some used drugs too, but most of it was unused."
"But....the cigarette butts were used?"
"Yeah," Danny told him. "We've been trying to get a saliva sample off the cigs to see if we can ID some of the potential witnesses there, but no luck so far. It would seem the fire destroyed all that."
"But my point is, why would a bunch of people leave valuable drugs like meth and coke behind?" explained Gerard.
"Oh..." said Chief Carlos, furrowing his eyebrows.
"I've got it!" exclaimed Gerard. "Someone must have crashed that party."
"One of our guys?" guessed Chief Carlos.
"Most likely the witness herself," murmured Gerard, in a world all his own. He bit his lip, thinking. "The partygoers see her driving, she turns to them because she heard a noise, they think they've been had, and they bolt. In the ensuing chaos, some cigarettes catch the building on fire. She sees one of them running away with something in his hand, and thinks that he set the fire."
"But that still begs the question; who was at the party?" Chief Carlos asked.
Gerard had a thought. "Danny, your public intoxication case; where did the kid get picked up?"
"Uhmm..." Danny rifled through some papers. "Wittner Street," he replied.
"Wittner!?" exclaimed both Chief Carlos and Gerard in unison.
"That's where the witness lives!" Gerard asserted.
"That's only a couple blocks away from O'Shalle!" Chief Carlos proclaimed.
"Danny," Gerard continued, "where is your public intox guy?"
"He's still in the station," Danny answered. "He was processed last night, but there's no one who's posted bail for him, so-"
"We need to talk to him, now!" roared Chief Carlos.

Sam Von raised an eyebrow as three people; a tall, muscular Hispanic man in a suit, a short man in a pair of cargos and a t-shirt, and another tall, disheveled-looking man in a black-and-white shirt and jeans burst into the room. He would've been somewhat happy for the blue company(having spent the night in a cell with far less savory characters; and what with his distatste with the cops, this was saying something), but the loud banging sound of the door behind them and their equally loud but unintelligible voices were really aggravating his headache. Pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to clear his head, he turned to address his visitors.
"Hey, dudes," he said, his voice cracking. "I'd be happy to answer your questions, but I've kind of got a killer hangover. If you could just lower your voices a bit, that'd be great."
"And I've got a killer sleep depir-derpri-depriver-" the short detective struggled.
"Deprivation?" suggested Sam dryly, rolling his eyes.
"That!" agreed the other man. "But I'm still going to yell as loud as I feel like it at some idiot like you."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Idiot, huh?" he repeated in his monotonic voice.
"Idiot," confirmed the short detective.
"Look," cut in the big overdressed dude. "We need to interrogate you regarding a police investigation. And before we do that, we need to make sure you're aware of your rights. You have the right to-"
"Yeah yeah, spare me the legal song and dance," Sam waved off the guy's statement. "Just tell me what you want."
"Sam Von...you seem to be unemployed," stated the short detective. "And you also have paid a few visits to a psychiatrist a few times in the last few years for depression and self-destructive tendencies."
"Yeah, well, I'm a bit of a rebel," Sam replied superficially. He was nothing of the kind anymore.
"And druggie, if I'm not mistaken," jumped in the tall disheveled detective.
"Your point being?"
"And solicitor of prostitution," continued the tall detective.
"Your deductive capabilities astound me," Sam said, his reply dripping with sarcasm.
"And alcoholic."
"Where are you going with this?"
"And you're guilty of petty crimes; shoplifting, breaking and entering, possession of illegal narco-"
"Okay, wait," Sam shook his head and held his hand up, signalling for the detective to stop. "You're wrong about all that stuff, you know. I'm clean. I stopped doing all that stuff a little over a year ago."
"Then why did you get picked up drunk last night?" demanded the tall detective.
"What, just because I'm clean means I can't have a good time? Besides, that party wasn't illegal. It only had drinks. I'm telling you, I quit cold turkey."
"Maybe you did, Von," stated the bulky dressed-up dude. "I can believe that."
"What?" asked the short detective. "That's impossible, chief! This kid's background check reads like a "How to Make An Unstable Psycho" handbook! Dad left him when he was young. Alcoholic mother, brother died from a dirty needle-"
"Yeah," interrupted the chief guy. "What I was going to say is maybe he stopped doing the petty crimes and drugs, and started looking a little higher on the ladder."
"What are you talking about?" asked Sam. "I haven't done anything."
"There was an arson last night. O'Shalle Warehouse Limited was burned to the ground," answered the chief.
"O'Shalle?" Sam repeated. His eyes flew open. This time, they showed worry, and not the dull pain of a hangover.
"Ahhh..." the chief nodded in satisfaction. "So it does mean something to you."
Sam sighed. "Maybe, maybe not," he told them with a shrug.
"Yeah? Well, I think it does," the tall detective. "Now, do you wanted to be arrested for obstruction of justice as well?"
"I know my rights, detective," Sam answered coolly, his voice still showing no emotion. "And I invoke my right to remain silent." He slumped back onto the desk, his head buried in his arms.

"Hey!" yelled Graham, shaking his fist at the punk standing just in front of the library doors smoking. "Can you not read?" He pointed to the sign just to the right of the punk; in bold, large-type letters it said "NO SMOKING ALLOWED ON LIBRARY GROUNDS."
"Yeah, I can read. What do you think I am, some kinda idiot?" the punk spat.
Yes, Graham thought to himself, but he said, "look, just go smoke somewhere else okay?"
"Fine," muttered the punk. He stubbed his cigarette out on the bricks of the library's outer wall and walked away, kicking the butt of the cigarette into the perfectly-manicured lawn. Graham sighed, walked over to the lawn, and gingerly picked up the cigarette butt. He then tossed it into the trash can and stepped into the public library. The moment his foot entered the threshold, he smiled. Ever since he'd lost his memory a few years ago...or, now that he thought about it, Graham had no idea when it'd happened. He'd just lost track of time...anyway, ever since he'd lost his memories, the various libraries around town had been Graham's only sanctuaries. He would stay in them for a while, reading all the books in the collection, gaining as much knowledge as possible, then move on. Immediately, he strode into the nonfiction section, remembered where he was at, and grabbed a book. In the Dewey Decimal System, its classification was 170: Ethics. He pulled up a chair, sat down, and began to read.

Quin Elijah Lee whistled as he walked, his "beautiful mane" of longish black hair waving behind him. Slung on his shoulder was his laptop case, carrying his beloved laptop, other than that, he wore normal clothes. An Aeropostal t-shirt, jeans, and some Reeboks. In his hand was a doughnut, which he was currently munching on. The doughnut was serving as his dinner, as he had no time to get some real dinner. His skin was brownish, an Asian color being that he's Chinese, but it was whitened with a CRT tan from countless hours of sitting in front of the computer. He stopped abruptly, realizing that he'd passed his intended mark. He rewinded himself a bit, then walked into the restaurant known as La Fiesta de la Familia; the festival for the family. He had a part-time job working there until he could at least figure out what he wanted to post-grad in. Walking into the waiters' room, he set his laptop case gently on the seat then grabbed some fries quatro quesos for himself, after all, they were delicious. He reported to his boss.
"Ah, Lee," his boss said, nodding. "So glad you could join us." Quin smiled.
"So, what am I doing today, Mr. de Soto?" Quin asked.
"Just go out there and serve the customers," Mr. de Soto told him with a wave of his hand. "Go!"

A few hours later, Quin stepped out of Fiesta de la Familia. He slung his laptop case back onto his shoulder and stepped outside. Already, he had opened up his laptop case and was typing away rapidly while he walked down the sidewalk. He pressed the button on the crosswalk control and waited for a moment. He continued to type away when suddenly, Quin heard a scream. He nearly dropped his laptop(however, he ended up setting it down gently on a bench) as he ran towards the source of the scream full-pelt. Along the way, he dropped his laptop case(albeit gently) onto the ground. It seemed to be coming from the alley just behind Fiesta de la Familia, and so he sprinted even faster. Along the way, he snatched up a particularly large stick from the ground as a weapon. When he finally reached the alley, he saw a woman(apparently the source of the noise) fighting off a tall figure dressed entirely in black.
"HEY!" yelled Quin. Holding his stick tight in shaking hands, he ran towards the attacker with the intention of giving [whoever he happened to hit]a good solid whack on the head. The woman, who was a little under a foot shorter than the person in black, kicked said person in the groin. Quin winced with sympathy, but the attack was successful. The attacker fell to his(the gender Quin deducted from this response to the woman's attack) knees, moaning. However, somehow, he stood back up. And this time, he pulled a handgun from his jeans pocket. Quin immediately dropped the stick, fighting his initial impulse to run, and with quaking hands dug his cell phone out of his pocket. He began to dial, his hands shaking violently and messing him up. 9-1-2! NO! 9-1-1. YES! Quin watched with urgency as the man began to take aim with the handgun at the lady. His cell phone was ringing...and now there was a voice on the other line!
"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" the operator asked. Quin, smiling, began to tell them just what had happened, when a gunshot rang through the air.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Happy Halloween AG, and see you later!