Ficlets

Prim as ever, Cole sat in the metal chair, legs crossed daintily and the chair backed away at an angle from the bare table. He sighed his usual melodramatic sigh when Agent Lefleur came in grumbling over a stack of papers.

“So we shall dance again, Agent…” Cole began.

“Nope,” Agent Lefleur cut him off, “No dancing analogies.” He sat and began to arrange his papers. Cole considered this man, this bulky figure. The man’s gray eyes peered out from coarse features topped with an untamed mane of dirty blond hair. This lumbering hulk playing at the cerebral game of detective would have struck Cole as funny. It would have if it were doggedly directed towards him.

“Very well,” cooed Cole, “But does that mean no pleasantries altogether?” No response. Cole sighed again and glanced at his watch. He’d been waiting an hour.

With a click the tired tape recorder was started, “Okay, May four…”

A knock came, and the door was flung open, “Agent, it’s one of the girls! She’s called 911…like, now!”