Punk Hazard
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“Back up, back up,” a police officer cried, setting up the last barricade between the reporters and the crime scene. Cameras flashed as more and more reporters arrived at the scene in vans for local news stations.
“What do we have here?” an detective asked an officer. He wore a brown suit and shoes that could have either been brown or a worn-out auburn. He had worn those shoes everyday for the past few years while on duty, so it could have very well been the latter, but not of his colleagues could tell for sure, as they couldn’t imagine a time they had seen them in better shape. The same could be said about his career, though to do so would be far more complimentary. He took a notepad out of his trench coat’s pocket, and quickly started writing down what the officer told him. He nodded as he wrote, not breaking eye contact with the officer the entire time.
“She was in her mid-30s. An up-and-coming actress or something of the sort. Ms. Samantha Roman. I quite frankly never heard a’ her, I can’t keep up with these newer acts in Hollywood these days,” he said, fumbling with his hat as he said the last sentence.
“Stick to the facts of the crime and victim, please.”
“Ah sorry, wouldn’t want to waste the time of you detective folk. Forensics say she was shot at around 3 AM last night. Once in her hip and once in her neck. Bled out right there.” He pointed at her body, which was now covered with a black sheet. “No witnesses, no fingerprints, no weapon. No suspects.”
The detective stopped writing and peered down at his notes. “Any other information I should know about?” His eyebrows were now furrowed.
“Uhh, she was apparently at some club right before coming here. Big-time spot for those entertainment folk, I hear. I could never go to those places, they kill my back.”
“Officer.”
“We called in a specialist.”
“Specialist?”
“That’s right.”
“What are his credentials? Who is he?”
“He’s solved all 13 crimes he’s been asked to help with now. Caught all perps.” The detective started writing again, this time looking at his notepad as his pencil scribbled across the page quickly. His handwriting was barely legible, but he knew what it said just fine. Because he wrote it.
“He even has 21 Grammys.”
The detective stopped abruptly, the point of his pencil breaking. His eyebrows moved inwards in complete confusion, and he looked up at the officer by moving his eyes, but not the rest of his head. “What did you just say?”
“Yup. I didn’t kno’ this till he caught the hacker known as 4Chan.”
The detective’s eyes flashed. He knew now exactly who he was talking about. “Oh, my God,” he said in irritated anticipation.
“You called?” a voice called, as if on cue. The voice was the epitome of cool. The personification of inspirational. The very manifestation of confidence. The detective turned and saw him walking over. A brand-new pair of Yeezy Boosts on his feet, as though they were made right before he got out of the limo he arrived in, a blue jacket and a grey shirt that simply had “KY” on it but probably cost more than the limo he arrived in and a chain around his neck, Kanye took off his signature sunglasses. A man rushed up to him, tears in his eyes. His daughter, whom he had been carrying, laid on the floor, crying.
“Oh my God, it’s Kanye!” the man said, so hysterical the words could barely leave his mouth.
“Now that’s just redundant,” Kanye said, walking past the sobbing man.
“I am not working with him,” the detective said.
“I’m afraid you have no choice,” the officer shrugged.
Kanye approached the detective and officer. He looked down at the stout man, not impressed by his badge. “So what’s the situation?” he asked the officer.
“Well, she was shot-”
“Okay, first off,” Kanye said, cutting off the officer. “Don’t. Talk. To me.”
He walked past the officer and towards the body. He pulled off the sheet and tossed it aside. He squinted his eyes, looking down at the woman’s body. She had black hair, and pale skin, though he was sure she had it even before she died. She wore a blue dress, with a pair of sheer stockings that matched the sky on a clear, sunny day. “She was stabbed.”
“What? No she wasn’t!” the detective cried out. “What is this nonsense? He’s just an egotistical entertainer! He even just let that man drop his child!”
“The grave of my presence” Kanye said in a serious, low tone, “is more important than his daughter defying gravity. After all, if gravity was meant to be defied, I wouldn’t have invented it.”
“What the **** are you talking about?” the detective yelled. He had balled his hand into a fist, scrunching up his notepad. “I don’t care how many Grammys he’s won or how many crimes he’s solved. This man is not a part of law enforcement, and is clearly incompetent in more ways than one. I refuse to work with him.”
“That’s fine. I’m used to the white man trying to mar-gin-alize me. But I won’t be stopped.”
“You’re just blathering!”
“WALT DISNEY!”
“Guys, you may wanna take a look at this. We found a note over here,” another officer called out.
“What do we have here?” an detective asked an officer. He wore a brown suit and shoes that could have either been brown or a worn-out auburn. He had worn those shoes everyday for the past few years while on duty, so it could have very well been the latter, but not of his colleagues could tell for sure, as they couldn’t imagine a time they had seen them in better shape. The same could be said about his career, though to do so would be far more complimentary. He took a notepad out of his trench coat’s pocket, and quickly started writing down what the officer told him. He nodded as he wrote, not breaking eye contact with the officer the entire time.
“She was in her mid-30s. An up-and-coming actress or something of the sort. Ms. Samantha Roman. I quite frankly never heard a’ her, I can’t keep up with these newer acts in Hollywood these days,” he said, fumbling with his hat as he said the last sentence.
“Stick to the facts of the crime and victim, please.”
“Ah sorry, wouldn’t want to waste the time of you detective folk. Forensics say she was shot at around 3 AM last night. Once in her hip and once in her neck. Bled out right there.” He pointed at her body, which was now covered with a black sheet. “No witnesses, no fingerprints, no weapon. No suspects.”
The detective stopped writing and peered down at his notes. “Any other information I should know about?” His eyebrows were now furrowed.
“Uhh, she was apparently at some club right before coming here. Big-time spot for those entertainment folk, I hear. I could never go to those places, they kill my back.”
“Officer.”
“We called in a specialist.”
“Specialist?”
“That’s right.”
“What are his credentials? Who is he?”
“He’s solved all 13 crimes he’s been asked to help with now. Caught all perps.” The detective started writing again, this time looking at his notepad as his pencil scribbled across the page quickly. His handwriting was barely legible, but he knew what it said just fine. Because he wrote it.
“He even has 21 Grammys.”
The detective stopped abruptly, the point of his pencil breaking. His eyebrows moved inwards in complete confusion, and he looked up at the officer by moving his eyes, but not the rest of his head. “What did you just say?”
“Yup. I didn’t kno’ this till he caught the hacker known as 4Chan.”
The detective’s eyes flashed. He knew now exactly who he was talking about. “Oh, my God,” he said in irritated anticipation.
“You called?” a voice called, as if on cue. The voice was the epitome of cool. The personification of inspirational. The very manifestation of confidence. The detective turned and saw him walking over. A brand-new pair of Yeezy Boosts on his feet, as though they were made right before he got out of the limo he arrived in, a blue jacket and a grey shirt that simply had “KY” on it but probably cost more than the limo he arrived in and a chain around his neck, Kanye took off his signature sunglasses. A man rushed up to him, tears in his eyes. His daughter, whom he had been carrying, laid on the floor, crying.
“Oh my God, it’s Kanye!” the man said, so hysterical the words could barely leave his mouth.
“Now that’s just redundant,” Kanye said, walking past the sobbing man.
“I am not working with him,” the detective said.
“I’m afraid you have no choice,” the officer shrugged.
Kanye approached the detective and officer. He looked down at the stout man, not impressed by his badge. “So what’s the situation?” he asked the officer.
“Well, she was shot-”
“Okay, first off,” Kanye said, cutting off the officer. “Don’t. Talk. To me.”
He walked past the officer and towards the body. He pulled off the sheet and tossed it aside. He squinted his eyes, looking down at the woman’s body. She had black hair, and pale skin, though he was sure she had it even before she died. She wore a blue dress, with a pair of sheer stockings that matched the sky on a clear, sunny day. “She was stabbed.”
“What? No she wasn’t!” the detective cried out. “What is this nonsense? He’s just an egotistical entertainer! He even just let that man drop his child!”
“The grave of my presence” Kanye said in a serious, low tone, “is more important than his daughter defying gravity. After all, if gravity was meant to be defied, I wouldn’t have invented it.”
“What the **** are you talking about?” the detective yelled. He had balled his hand into a fist, scrunching up his notepad. “I don’t care how many Grammys he’s won or how many crimes he’s solved. This man is not a part of law enforcement, and is clearly incompetent in more ways than one. I refuse to work with him.”
“That’s fine. I’m used to the white man trying to mar-gin-alize me. But I won’t be stopped.”
“You’re just blathering!”
“WALT DISNEY!”
“Guys, you may wanna take a look at this. We found a note over here,” another officer called out.
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