"Uh oh, we're being pulled over."
That long recreational vehicle had barely begun moving and already Jack's fear was being realized. He turned to his small doll hospital on the shelf - a medium-sized plastic box filled with bits of cloth, plastic, and inscrutable tools. Although the whole mobile doll hospital scene was widely associated with drug activities, Jack's kit was, as of yet, clean. Still, that did nothing to calm his mounting fears.
"Got any coins?" one of his companions called from the back. Jack shook his head - he had not yet broken any laws, though he wasn't confident his companions could say the same. They might have any number of coins hidden in their doll hospitals.
Jack made his way to the front at a signal from the driver.
"Ok, remember, we're on our way to 411 Havey St. W," she reminded him.
"Uh, right... wait! Is it 311, or 411? 311, or 411?" He turned to the others in the back, motioning frantically with his hands.
"411!" one of them replied, slightly annoyed. As a group, they had prepared their stories, but Jack had forgotten many of the details.
"Ok," Jack said, turning back to the driver, "who are we visiting, again?
"My friend. But you know her, ________. You went to school together."
"Which school?" asked Jack, trying to anticipate the imminent questions from the police. Already he felt there was no way he'd be able to maintain a credible and consistent story.
"Highland Ground Tech," replied the driver.
"Ech, Heyland? Teyland?"
"Highland," asserted the driver calmly. "From '88 to '89."
Jack had many more questions, but the cops had begun to enter the RV. They were all dressed in black dress pants and tuxedo shirts, and although they all appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, they spoke in what sounded like Italian. It was a sharp and confusing mix. They didn't seem particularly aggressive, but there was a lot of yelling, and through their accents Jack couldn't tell what was English and what was Italian.
"Farrud! Farrud!" they yelled.
Jack's companions assembled in the lounge and began reading from the scripts detailing their stories. Incredibly, each literally read word-for-word from sheaves of large-spaced notebook paper, the letters scrawled in a laughably childish blue script. Even if they had not been reading directly from paper, their delivery was completely unconvincing - they sounded like third graders delivering their first in-class speech about their favorite president. Jack snickered at the spectacle - at least the pressure was off of him. Already he was modifying what he would say to the police. Rather than give them more of the same tripe, he would say something in the vein of, "I'm just gonna let you ask the questions."
A police waiter made his way up to Jack, and offered him a tray of slimy, pale seafood.
"Clams? Calamari?" offered the waiter.
"No, thanks..." said Jack. Although he knew he should probably accept, somehow he couldn't bring himself to acquiesce to this social convention. A short time passed, and as the questioning continued, the waiter made a second pass.
"Snapper?"
"Uh..." Jack reached out towards the tray, and one of the shells extended up rapidly and snapped at him. "No, thank you. The waiter left and returned.
"Oyster?" the waiter asked Jack.
"Um, no..." Jack hesitated. "I've heard in these situations that it's polite to just eat the food?"
"It is!" proclaimed the waiter, with perhaps sarcastic excitement, and he promptly tossed the tray behind his shoulder, scattering the oysters all over the lounge. Almost immediately, another tray was produced and offered, this one holding some malicious-looking crustaceans. Jack reached out and grabbed one of the elongated crabs. The back half was clearly de-shelled and cooked, but the front half still seemed to contain some life. It squirmed and clicked as Jack tried, without much conviction, to bite into its back half.
"Can't I just eat a food that's not scurrying?" he asked the waiter.
The waiter looked at Jack sympathetically.
