“So, who is Jack?” Martinez asked again. Even after skimming the overview, he was still confused about how this “person of interest” in some conspiracy theory discussion board was related to Vickers' missing weather balloon.
Meanwhile, Paulson, his bottom half still firmly lashed to the soggy hotel chair, enjoyed the second half of his vending machine sandwich with his one free left hand. Still adorned in his own slimy effluvium, he occasionally dabbed at his busted lip with one of the hotel torture towels, the waterlogged pink going darker with the afternoon heat. “There's some discussion on the boards that he might be from further back, but he arrived in Arroyo Grande with some sort of device, and I am pretty sure that it has something to do with that saucer you guys are looking for.” Paulson set down the remainder of his sandwich, peeled back the squished wheat bread, and carefully stacked Cool Ranch Doritos in a layer. Replacing the bread, he crushed it flat with the palm of his hand and gingerly picked it up, spreading Doritos shrapnel everywhere.
Martinez was about to complain about the corn chips mess, but glancing around the room, he recognized that the blood stains setting in everywhere were all Paulson's. An ant infestation wasn't really going to be a problem.
“Judging by the black hole of redacted paperwork that your organization leaves in the wake of this upcoming event; I got a really good feeling about tonight.” Paulson nodded.
Martinez scowled, trying to decide what that even meant. Whoever he was, he had an annoying habit of shifting between the past, present, and future, sometimes in the same sentence. “But you have a record of some sort, then?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Paulson shook his head, wiping Dorito dust from his lips with his blood-smeared wrist. “Everything gets wiped here.” Eyeing the other half of his sandwich he plucked another bag of chips from the stack Martinez retrieved for him. “I mean, nobody really knows what happened here. This entire event is popular lore if only because it never happens on paper.”
Both Martinez and Paulson heard a thud from the balcony walkway and worried that the cleaning crew might be doing the rounds. They sat in silence, listening to the racket coming down the hall towards the door. Martinez felt confident that he had put out the sign, but he wasn't sure if Paulson was about to go hollering out for help.
Paulson seemed to crouch lower behind the kitchenette table, peering over his chip bag and waiting for the housekeeper to pass. He stifled a chuckle and glanced over at the chief.
Whoever it was, they were mumbling, or singing, and the chief realized that he might have left the sergeant unsupervised for just a little too long.
O'Connor came into the room ass first, arms full of his conquest, a gold top, deep cell 12-volt car battery, and a pair of jumper cables with the sales tags still on them, fresh from the roadside emergency kit. Standing in the entryway he was a sweaty, sunbaked lunatic with an angry smile. “You like the super hits of the sixties and seventies, right bud?”
Paulson chuckled and eyed Martinez for a Geneva Convention intervention.
O'Connor started singing again. “We're gonna rock down to Electric Avenue...” he dropped the battery on the kitchenette table, rattling everything on it. His smile was a sick thing. “...and we set your junk on fire!”
