Short Fiction: Waking Up in the Watch-House

What a night. Thumping headache, bruised elbow, missing shoe, empty pockets—it must have been a good one. Do they serve breakfast in here? Probably not. I bet that guy knows. This isn’t his first time. Why is he staring at me? Oh, yeah, the Santa outfit. The one time I go to a fancy dress party. What is that stain on the belt? Better I don’t know. Funny about Santa—a symbol of white patriarchy. Who knew? Bloke just wants to give kids presents, and now he’s a public enemy. Poor guy. That fella dressed as Stalin didn’t get yelled at though. I must be missing something.

When do they let me out? Am I supposed to ask? I don’t even remember what I did. Man, my breath stinks. Don’t I get a phone call? That’s what happens in the movies. I don’t know any phone numbers except my own. Where is my phone anyway? I hope they have it. Does anyone know I’m here? My head hurts.

Here comes someone… Nope. Not even a hello. Treats me like a hardened criminal. I’ve never even had a speeding fine. That guy’s not bothered. He knows the drill. I guess we just sit and wait. What time is it? I need to poo.

Finally. It’s about time. Huh? I’m not the guy they’re looking for—it’s another Santa? Robbed a petrol station at knifepoint. Well, I suppose he has to finance his toyshop somehow. I wonder if the officer would like that joke. What’s that? Pushed an old lady to the ground and broke her knee? No, probably not the time for jokes. My head hurts.

 

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