So that explained his roiling stomach and splitting headache. Then he remembered the horse. That explained his arse and the fact that he felt confident his posterior currently looked like a Jackson Pollock painting from a particularly dark period in the artist’s life. His back and shoulders also ached, as if keen not to be left out.
He tentatively touched his face. Bunny McGarry had been in more than his fair share of violent altercations in his life, and so recognised the signs. He took a deep breath and conducted a more detailed examination. Bit of swelling over the eye, split lip, jaw sore but in one piece. He’d be able to eat solid food – not that he’d ever be willing to do that again, but still, it was nice to have the option. He’d been in worse fights, although that was only an estimate, until he could assess the state of the other participants.
A door clanged open and footsteps came slowly down the hall. A tall, broad-shouldered man – who even without the cowboy hat might’ve given off a strong John-Wayne vibe – appeared at the other side of the bars. He wore a tan suit and a badge.
“Jeez, it stinks in here.”
“I know,” said Bunny. “And don’t think I won’t be mentioning it in my review.”
“So, you’re alive, then?”
“’Tis too early to tell.”
“How much of last night do you remember?”
“Well,” said Bunny. “I believe I was the victim of vehicular larceny.”
“Yeah,” said the man, leaning against the wall and pulling a cigar from a pocket inside his jacket. “That’ll be old Marge. The woman is a criminal institution.”
“Shouldn’t it sort of be your job to close such institutions down?”
“People who live in jailhouses shouldn’t throw stones.” He puffed his cigar into life. “I’m Chief Wiggum by the way. You’re in my house.”
“Wiggum?” said Bunny. “Like—”
“Yes,” interrupted Wiggum tersely. “It also happens to be the name of a character on The Simpsons. So what?”
Bunny held up a placatory hand. Clearly he’d hit a sore spot.
The smoke from the cigar drifted along the low ceiling. Bunny wasn’t a big fan of the smell, but given what was in the corner, it didn’t seem like a wise complaint to make.
“Let’s get back to you,” said the chief.
“Oh, great.”
Wiggum drew a notebook from his other pocket and flipped it open.
“Let’s see here. After you’d completed the apocalypse platter …” He nodded. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” said Bunny.
“You proceeded to attempt to drink the place dry. You were by all accounts a charming presence at first. Your riding of the mechanical rodeo bull was a highlight, it seems.”
“Riding a bull?” Bunny shifted in his seat. “With my red-raw arse?”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Just saying, all that charming presence stuff sounds like me alright.”
“At first,” repeated Wiggum. “A charming presence at first. Then, according to witnesses, it was like a switch flipped. To quote one bystander, ‘It was like the guy suddenly remembered he was an asshole.’” Wiggum looked up. “I’m going to add that to the fun list of witness statement quotes we have at the Christmas party each year.”
“’Tis nice to be remembered.”
“You then got into a heated argument with Bubba Jeremiah” – Wiggum paused for a puff on his cigar – “who is the biggest guy in these here parts. The altercation was about pass interference replay review in the NFL.”
“What?” said Bunny. “Now that doesn’t sound like me. I know nothing at all about American football.”
“Yes,” agreed Wiggum, “that is noted here. For a start, you kept calling it American football, and not just football.”
“Let’s not get started on that. You hardly even use your feet.”
“So you do know a little of the sport. Says here you seemed confused about what you were arguing about, but determined to get on Bubba’s last nerve.”
“And it was him who punched me?”
“No, he left. He’s a big man but a gentle soul. Sadly, he isn’t unfamiliar with a certain kind of … gentleman” – he said the word in such a way to make it clear it carried no complimentary connotations – “who goes looking for the big guy to start a fight with. I can’t explain why – you might need the assistance of a medical professional for that particular question.” He pronounced all four syllables of “particular” as if they were separate words. Bunny wondered how much of the drawl was natural and how much he was putting on.
Wiggum flipped the page. “You then got into it with Clarissa Waynes.”
At this, Bunny looked up, his head suddenly a lot clearer.
Wiggum kept him waiting for a moment before adding, “Not physically. Says she read you the riot act and you were quite apologetic.”
Bunny relaxed, his shoulders sagging.
“Yeah. You ain’t that big an asshole. Then your luck changed. The local hothead came in with his entourage of dumbasses.”
“Oh, right,” said Bunny, indicating the bruising on his face.
“Yeah,” said Wiggum with a shake of his head. “And you got the fight you’d been looking for.”
“Four of them.”
“Yep. You sent two to the hospital with broken bones, and the other two turned up for work looking like all hell. Worse still, the mechanical bull is a write-off.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. It shouldn’t be technically possible to shove somebody’s head up the ass of one of them, but it appears you have a gift.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re not welcome.” Wiggum pressed the end of his cigar against the wall and stubbed it out. “Now, the question is—”
He was interrupted by a door slamming open and the sound of feet running down the hall.
“Chief, chief.”
A man in police uniform with short-cropped blonde hair appeared beside Wiggum, holding a sheet of paper in his hand.
Wiggum’s eyes widened in clear irritation. “Jamie, I said I was not to be disturbed.”
“I know, Pa, but I ran his prints like you asked—”
Chief Wiggum looked at Bunny. “I said not to call me that at work.”
“Sorry, P— Chief. I ran his prints, sir.”
Wiggum
