Come Again?


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If you are a creationist, evangelist, fundamentalist, or biblical literalist, this will probably offend you.

If you have any sense of propriety, this will probably offend you.

If you have the capacity to be offended, this book will probably do the trick.

If you’re okay with that, then read on.

If you want to read on just so you can send me an email telling me how terrible I am and that I should never write another word ever again, feel free.

Who knows? It might actually work.

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“Jay, it’s eleven o’ clock in the fucking morning. Will you get rid of that?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?”

From where he’s slumped on the couch playing Mario Kart on Nintendo Switch, Jay guzzles the rest of his beer. He pauses the game, lines up a trash can by the desk...


He ignores her, goes through a few practise motions. One, two...


He throws.

The bottle hits the desk and explodes. To be fair, most of the glass falls into the bin.

“Oh... whoops,” Jay says, but there isn’t a shred of sincerity in his voice.

Lindsay sighs.

She’s sitting behind the desk, phone to her ear. She’s on hold with her service provider about a goddamn surcharge for thirty extra gigabytes of data she allegedly used the previous month.

In truth, Jay had used it to stream the new season of Brooklyn Nine Nine without her knowledge or consent. When confronted with this information, Jay shrugged, said she must have done it when she was drunk.

He’d even hacked into her Netflix account, so there was no point arguing with him.

Instead, she was going to argue with the phone company about something which wasn’t their fault, and which would almost certainly not result in them amending her bill, but would definitely result in her paying for an unnecessary call.

Before she got a chance to have that pointless and costly debate, however, Lindsay was going to listen to that sweet ‘on hold’ music for a little while longer.

In the meantime, Jay was just going to go on drinking through lunch without a care in the world – even though they had a meeting with a client later that day.

“You gonna clean that up?” Lindsay says.

“Yeah, in a sec.”

Jay gets up, and for a second, she thinks he might actually be going to get the vacuum. Instead, he disappears into the kitchen and she hears the fridge door opening, a bottle being cracked.

She sighs again.

He comes back in and sits down, picks up the Switch controller to resume gameplay without looking at her.

Lindsay watches him. “Are you gonna get dressed?”

“I am dressed.”

He’s wearing a loose-fitting shirt and track pants. Couple that with wild curls of black hair, a full beard and thick glasses that make his crazy, bulging eyes bulge even more, he’s not exactly camera-ready.

Picture Jason Mantzoukas on a stay-cay and you’re not far off.

“You’re not dressed,” Lindsay says. “You’re clothed.

“There’s a difference?”

Lindsay hears the ‘on hold’ music pause and she sits up straight. Finally...

Instead, it begins playing again from the start.

“Goddamn it!” she says, hanging up. To Jay, she goes, “Will you put some fucking clothes on?!”

Jay appears shocked by her sudden outburst. “Relax, mom...

Lindsay groans.

“...I’ll get around to it. What’s the big rush, anyway? Grab a beer, get a controller, and come put your feet up. I’ll switch it over to multiplayer...”

“No, don’t switch it to multiplayer...”

“Fine. You play, I’ll give you a foot rub. Deal?”

“I don’t want a foot rub...”

“Then what do you want?”

“Aspirin,” she says. “I want a goddamn aspirin.”

Lindsay opens her desk drawer, taking out a blister pack and cracking one of the tablets out into her water glass. She then proceeds to drain the entire glass in a matter of seconds.

Jay glances over several times from the game – half-impressed, half-concerned. “Y’know, I think you’re meant to wait for it to dissolve first.”

“Oh, really?” Lindsay says, sarcastic as the day is long. “Is that what you’re supposed to do?”

Jay frowns, not looking at her. “Man, what is up with you today?”

Lindsay can’t comprehend his innocence, feigned or not. She brushes back a few strands of long, blond hair from her eyes and ties it up in a bun with one hand. Why one hand, you might ask?

Her other hand is frozen in place by a big, stupid, ugly plaster cast that covers from elbow to palm.

Why does she have a plaster cast, you might also ask?

That’s another story.

Also, stop asking questions. It’s none of your business.

Does it help her mood that her plastered hand and her masturbating hand just happen to be one in the same?

Big ol’ nope on that one.

Does it help that Jay’s sitting there, drinking, playing video games in what barely qualify as pyjamas when they’ve got a client coming over and she can’t even get a good fingering going?

I can’t see how it would.

Does any of that qualify as ‘your business’, either?

Sure as shit don’t sound like it.

So stop incepting me with personal questions that I then pose rhetorically back to you in order to expertly convey exposition and let me get on with the story, alright?


Now, where were we?

Oh, yeah...

Look, this isn’t about Lindsay’s plaster cast, or Jay’s day-drinking, or the necessity of a decent orgasm once in a while.

This is about business.

Looking down at the cast, Lindsay sees words and images scrawled in markers of various colors, much like it would be if she were six years old and watching the other kids play on the jungle gym.

However, unlike that sad, metaphorical six year old, the cast is not covered in variations of ‘get well soon’ or the shittily-written names of her classmates.

Instead, it’s vandalised with obscene words, crudely-drawn sexual imagery (the most prominent of which is an ejaculating penis), and various claims that Jay ‘rulez’, ‘rox’ and ‘is tha best’.

To top it all off, there’s an “I’m With Stupid” arrow pointing up her arm at her face (which, to be fair, shows a considerable amount of restraint on Jay’s part).

She catches herself making excuses for her partner’s childish scribblings (done while she was asleep or passed-out drunk or before she was passed-out drunk when she thought it was really funny) and shakes her head.

In a soft, resigned tone, she says, “Just get dressed and I’ll be fine.”

“What for?”

“The client we’re meeting today. He’ll be over here in like...” She checks her phone. “Like half an hour.”

“Client? What client?”

He’s acting like this is news to him, when she specifically remembers telling him last night when they were out at the bar. She was sitting right next to him. He was choking down his fourth tequila shot and...

Ohhhhhkay. That’s why.

Rather than reminding him of this fact, she goes, “Just... some guy. Called up yesterday. Said he wants to meet. Probably be best if you weren’t half in the bag when he gets here.”

“I’m not half in the bag.”

“Fine. Three quarters in the bag. Whatever.” She gets up and walks past him into the kitchen. “Brush your teeth, too.”

“I brushed last night,” Jay says, taking another sip.

“Well... just use some mouthwash then. I don’t want you smelling like a brewery when he gets here.”

“Pfft,” Jay scoffs. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Lindsay says, distractedly. She takes out some bread and Nutella to make herself a sandwich – her go-to comfort food. “Said his name was Giovanni... something.”

Jay freezes. Stops playing.

The game keeps going but he stops.

It’s like he’s just been told his dog got run over.

“Giovanni?” he says. “That sounds like a Roman name.”

Lindsay spreads the Nutella over a slice of white bread – thick enough so that one could make the joke: “You want some bread with that Nutella?” and it would totally kill.

“If you mean Italian... then, yeah, he probably is. Or his parents are or whatever.”

Jay leaps to his feet, leaving the game going in the background so the inane (yet somehow addictive) soundtrack of boops and bleeps keeps playing in a loop.

He stands in the doorway, watching her make a sandwich in their tiny kitchen.

“I’m not dealing with a fucking Roman, Linds. That is one hundred percent not happening.”

Lindsay slaps a second, equally-Nutella-slathered piece of bread on top of the first so it’s like a damn Oreo. She proceeds to take a big ol’ bite out of it and says, while chewing, “Well... he’s a potential client... with the potential to pay us actual money. So if you don’t want to go out there and work the corner for this month’s rent... yeah, you’re fucking dealing with him.”

Half-surprised by how forceful she’s being, half-disgusted by the sheer volume of Nutella in that sandwich, Jay shrinks a little. “What’s he want?”

“How should I know?” Lindsay says, walking out past him. “He’ll explain when he gets here. Said something about his wife and some guy from their synagogue.”

Jay freezes a second time.

Now, it’s like he’s just been told his dog was cheating on him with another owner prior to getting run over.

“Did you just say synagogue?

He spins around dramatically, holding either side of the doorframe.

Walking back to her desk, she goes, “Don’t start...”

“You know my rule, Linds. No Jews. No Romans.”

Lindsay sits back down, swallowing her mouthful of bready, chocolatey, hazelnutty goodness. She’s still got a smear of it on her lip, though it detracts in no way from the hardness of her stare.

“Screw your rule. I’m running a freaking business here. If I followed every one of your rules, we’d never have a single client.”

“Yeah, but that’s the golden rule.”

“I thought the golden rule was ‘treat others as you’d like to be treated?’”

Jay furrows his brow. “Where the John Patrick Shanley did you hear that?”

Lindsay ignores him, starts playing on her phone.

“Listen...” Jay says, walking out into the room. “I specifically said: no Jews and no Romans. And what did you do, huh? You went out and found a guy who was both.”

“First of all...” Lindsay says, glancing up only periodically from her phone. “I didn’t find him – he found us. And what does it even matter if he’s Jewish? You’re Jewish, aren’t you? Technically.”

Offended, Jay’s like, “Technically?”

“Well, I just thought because...”

“I was born and raised Jewish. How am I not fucking Jewish?”

He’s gesticulating wildly, almost yelling at this point.

Lindsay just stares at him, like, “Really? This again?”

She puts her phone down.

“Just so I’m clear on what’s happening here... You’re offended when I imply you’re not Jewish, but then you refuse to deal with a Jewish client? Seriously?” A pause. “And you are aware they’re not called Romans anymore, right?”

Jay smoulders. “They’ll always be goddamn Romans.”

Lindsay takes another bite. “I just don’t get what the big deal is – if he’s Jewish or if he’s...” A sigh. “...Roman.

Jay reacts open-mouthed, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “The big deal is that the Jews asked the Romans to nail me to a freaking cross, and the Romans actually went ahead and did it. Cowards.”

Lindsay swallows. “Man, you can hold a grudge. That was two thousand years ago. Will you get over it already?

“Oh, oh, oh...” Jay says, getting worked up now. “Is that how it’s gonna be? You gonna play that card?”


“You really gonna play that card?”

“I’m playing that card, baby.”

Building slowly into a frenzied, screaming rage, Jay goes, “Okay. Alright. Cool. Fine. Whatever. Why don’t we go outside, then? I’ll somehow get my hands on a cat o’ nine tails and flog you within an inch of your life. Then, when we’re done with that, I’ll saddle you up with a cross – again, not sure where I’ll get one of those in this day and age. Maybe I’ll go down to the hardware store and grab a couple of four-by-fours. Shouldn’t be a problem putting them together because, hey, I’m a carpenter! But don’t worry, after you’ve lugged that cross down main street and up the hill, I’ll pound a few girthy nails through your wrists and feet. Then you can hang there for a few days without moving until you suffocate or die of shock. Not to mention I’ll tap a nice little crown of thorns gently into your scalp and poke you in the ribs with a spear, just to top it all off. Oh, and everyone you ever loved is either watching this or has run away after stabbing you in the back. Does that sound like not a big deal to you?!”


Jay stares at her, eyes wide, panting.

Lindsay stares at him, betraying nothing.

“Yeah,” he says. “Didn’t think so.”

Lindsay takes a bite. “What about all that ‘turn the other cheek’ nonsense?”

Jay shrugs. “What about it?”

Lindsay sets her half-finished sandwich down on the plate and brushes the crumbs off her hands. “You seriously want me to call and cancel on this guy? You actually want me to turn away a potential client?”

“I’d appreciate that, yes.”

“He’s probably already on his way.”

Jay rests both hands on the desk and looks at Lindsay without blinking – his huge, manic eyes staring directly into hers, magnified by his glasses. “I don’t give two shits what he’s doing. As long as he’s not here.”

Lindsay racks her brain, trying to stay cool in the face of so much irrationality. “What do you want me to say? That we’re not taking on any more clients?”

Speaking slowly, Jay’s like, “I want you to say that we don’t deal with Jews and we don’t deal with Romans. How hard is that?”

“And you’re gonna find us another client to replace him?”

With the same intensity, Jay replies, “As soon as I beat this level. Bowser is kicking my ass.”

Lindsay glares back. “Fine.”

As she picks up the phone and dials Giovanni, Jay walks back over to the couch.

Lindsay holds the phone to her ear.

“Jesus Christ...” she mutters under her breath.

Jay turns, ready to go another round. “What was that?”

Lindsay considers it. Thinks again.

“Nothing,” she says.

Jay narrows his eyes, suspicious. He sits down, picks up the controller and resumes gameplay. After a few seconds, he takes a sip of his beer, and as if to put a period on their conversation, he belches. Loudly.

Lindsay just shakes her head.

“Have fun playing Mario Kart,” she says, really putting some emphasis on the name of the mustachioed Italian (aka Roman) plumber.

Jay freezes a third time as the revelation sinks in.

“Goddamn it!” he screams, hurling the controller at the wall.

Lindsay smiles.

Giovanni picks up. “Hello?”

“Yes, this is Lindsay Roach from the Roach & de Souza Detective Agency...”

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“So, let me get this straight...” Jay says.

He and Lindsay are sitting behind the desk in their office/apartment. The couch bed has been folded up, the place cleaned. It actually looks pretty respectable, as far as office/apartments go.

Stan Szweykowski, a client with a thick Polish accent and an even thicker mustache sits across from them, wringing a baseball cap in his hands.

“You want us...” Jay continues. “ and her... to kill your wife for you? Am I reading that right?”

“Well...” Stan says, avoiding eye contact. “I wouldn’t put it quite so crudely as that.”

“No?” Lindsay says. “How would you put it?”

She takes a sip of soy latte from her reusable coffee cup. The place down the street takes fifty cents off the price when she brings it in. Saving the planet never felt so good.

Stan rubs the back of his neck, nervous. “I just... want you to make her go away and never come back.”


“And not be alive anymore.”


“Uh-huh,” Lindsay says. “Listen, Mr. Sez... Suez...”

She’s having a little trouble wrapping her gums around his name, so he helps her out – “Szweykowski.”

“Szweykowski,” Lindsay repeats, a little embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”

“Not at all.”

“I think you might have been misinformed about what we do here.”

A pause as Stan processes this.

“You are private detectives, are you not?”

He puts a lot of emphasis on the ‘private’ part, as if that connotes a whole range of illicit activities that normal police would never engage in.

Lindsay sighs. She’s been down this road before. “Yeah... but we’re not assassins.

Apparently unsatisfied with that answer, Stan turns to Jay. “And how do you feel about this?”

Jay doesn’t waste a second thinking about it. “How much?”

“Jay!” Lindsay says, appalled.

“How much what?”

In a very level tone of voice, Jay goes, “How much will you pay us to get rid of your wife?”

“How much do you want?”

“Well...” Jay hems and haws. “What kind of ballpark are we playing in here? Are we talking blank check, or...?”

“Jay!” Lindsay says again. Her partner shrinks, like a dog who’s been smacked on the nose. She turns back to Stan. “I’m sorry, Mr. Suez... Mr. Sez...”

Again, having a real hard time with that surname.

“Szweykowski,” Stan repeats, a little more frustrated now.

“Szweykowski. Again, very sorry...” Lindsay shakes off the awkwardness, keeps moving. “...but we’re not going to murder your wife. Frankly, I’m offended you’d even ask us to do something like that.”

“Well, I do apologise for having offended you, but when one thinks private detective, there are certain assumptions that are made.”

“What, like we’re fucking hitmen?”

“Well...” Stan says, in that elongated, high-pitched kind of way that really means, “Precisely.”

“No,” Lindsay says, fed up. “This is a respectable detective agency. You can’t just come in here asking us to kill people.”

“Well...” Jay says, in the same elongated, high-pitched kind of way that really means, “Hold on a second. Not so fast...”

“Listen,” Stan says. “I came because I heard this was the office of Jesus Christ. Is it not?”

Lindsay and Jay share a wide-eyed glance. How the fuck did he know that?

“Ah – I see from your reaction that it is so. Now, why can you not simply... make her disappear. Miracle her away. Send her to heaven, I don’t care.”

Recovering from the shock, Jay’s like, “That’s not exactly how it works...”

“How does it work, then?”

Lindsay shakes her head fervently, but Jay gives her a “he already knows” kind of look. She sits back in the chair, throwing her hands up.

Jay proceeds. “Look... generally, my area of expertise is... turning water into wine, shit like that. You’ll find a lot of the stuff they say happened in the Bible tends to be a bit... exaggerated.”

Stan looks between them, brow furrowed. “Wait a second – you’re Jesus?”

Now it’s Jay’s turn to frown, utterly perplexed.

Finally, Lindsay joins the trio of frowning, furrowing people, until they’re all just staring at each other like, “What the fuck is going on?”

“Yeah...” Jay says, at last. “What’d you think...” He laughs, gesturing to Lindsay. “...she fucking was?”

Stan suddenly looks very awkward. He fiddles with the bill of his baseball cap. “I’m sorry, you’re just... a little darker than I expected.”


Slowly, Jay’s smile disappears and a dark cloud comes over him.

“Yeah, well, I’m from a fucking desert in the Middle East, aren’t I? What’d you expect – a white guy with flowing brown hair? I was a carpenter, bro. You realise how quickly I’d get melanoma if I was as fucking pasty as you are? Not to mention I’d get heatstroke in about two seconds with those wavy locks I see in all the paintings. I mean, seriously, dude – do you know fucking anything about evolution?”

Stan stammers, “Well, I...”

“Also...” Lindsay says. “How do you make the leap to me being Jesus? I’m a woman.”

Now Stan’s really confused. “You’re a woman?

Jay and Lindsay exchange another look – slower this time, blank-faced. What the Chad Michael Murray is wrong with this guy?

Then Lindsay turns back to Stan and lets him have it. “Of course I’m a fucking woman, you maniac. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just... your hair is very short and your chest, well...”

Lindsay’s eyes bulge with anger. Her face goes red with embarrassment. She covers her admittedly-flat chest with her plaster cast, and touches her pixie cut with the other hand, as if there’s something wrong with it.

Jay, seeing how much this hurts Lindsay, feels a strange, sudden rush of empathy and jumps in.

“Hey, buddy...” he says, getting to his feet and pointing at Stan. “You can’t talk to her that way. You can’t just come in here, asking us to kill people, commenting on our bodies like that. We’re not just pieces of meat for you to objectify and lust over.”

Stan recoils. “Lust over?”

Lindsay touches his arm. “It’s alright.”

Jay hesitates, eyes narrowed. Stan presses himself back into his chair, as if afraid the two-thousand-year-old private detective might leap across the desk and throttle him.

Slowly, Jay calms. Sits back down.

Lindsay stares at the client with cold eyes. She wants to leap across the desk and throttle him herself. Part of her wishes Jay had. But someone’s gotta steer the ship. And, as usual, that responsibility falls to her.

“Mr. Szweykowski...” she begins.

“Szweykowski,” Stan corrects her.

Lindsay snaps, “That’s what I fucking said.”

“Just making sure.”

She glares at him. Her hand grips the Glock 17 in the holster fixed to the underside of her desk and she entertains the fantasy for a moment. Ooh, man, that’d be sweet...

Jay’s eyes bulge when he sees her hand on the gun, thinking some shit’s about to go down.

Then Lindsay snaps back to reality, composing herself. “I’m sorry, Mr. Szweykowski....” She lets go of the gun and Jay breathes a sigh of relief. “...I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to take on your case.”

Getting indignant, Stan goes, “Why not?”

Remaining calm, Lindsay goes, “Because, unfortunately for you – fortunately for your wife – we don’t murder people here. Also... we’re probably going to have to notify the police.”

“What?” Stan says, suddenly afraid. “Why?”

Jay’s like, “Don’t worry – she’s only joking.”

Lindsay shoots him a “don’t undercut me in front of the clients” look. “No, I’m not fucking joking.”


Jay looks at Lindsay as if to gauge her sincerity, then at Stan. He nods, whispering. “She is.”

Lindsay rolls her eyes, shakes her head.

“Also, I been meaning to ask...” Jay goes on. “I’m having a little trouble placing that accent, man. Where you from?”


“Oh...” A pause. “Sounds kind of like Russian.”

“It’s not.”

Jay bristles. “I’m not saying it is. I’m saying it sounds like it is.”

Sensing an argument brewing, Lindsay rubs her temple. “Jay, just shut the fuck up.”

Stan goes on, “Maybe my mother was from Russia and my father died when I was young, so I got his name, but her accent. Does it really fucking matter?”

Jay shrugs. “I suppose not.”

“Would you even know the difference between a Polish and Russian accent anyway?

Jay chuckles. “Nope.”

“No,” Stan says, practically spitting the words. “So fuck you.”


Jay resumes chuckling.

After showing Stan the door, Lindsay walks to the window and peers out, still on the phone with the police.

“Yes, he just left and is heading east along Hamilton Street.” A pause while she listens. “Okay, thanks. I will.”

Lindsay hangs up and goes to sit on the couch beside Jay. He’s staring intensely at the TV, giving the duct-taped Nintendo Switch controller in his hands the workout of a lifetime.

“So, apparently...” Lindsay says. “Ol’ Stan the Man has a record.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jay says, not looking up. “Don’t tell me. Guy’s a modern-day Henry the Eighth – got a list of dead ex-wives longer than my wang?”

Lindsay frowns. “No, not even close. Why would you...?” She shakes her head, moving on. “Carrying a concealed firearm without a permit.”

Disappointed, Jay goes, “Oh.”

“Well, nothing’s going to sound impressive if you keep comparing everyone to Henry the Eighth.”

Jay chuckles. “Dude was a straight-up monster.”

“Listen...” Lindsay says, her tone more serious. “What happened back there...”

“You’re welcome,” Jay says, moving around in his seat as if that will help him play better.

Lindsay frowns. “I’m welcome?

“Yeah. I jumped in and defended you when that guy was making fun of your surfboard chest and masculine haircut.”

He continues to play as if what he’s said is totally reasonable.

For a moment, Lindsay looks angry. But she isn’t surprised. “You know, just when I start to think there might be a good guy in there somewhere...”

“I go and say something like that?”


Still not taking his eyes off the screen, Jay says, “Well, do you want me to be nice or do you want me to be honest?”

“Ideally, both would be great.”

Another chuckle. “That would be great.”

Fed up, Lindsay gets to her feet and goes to the fridge, taking out a beer for herself.

When Jay hears the familiar tinkle of a glass bottle being moved, his ears prick up like a deer at the sound of a hunter’s boot crunching a twig.

“Love one,” he says.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Yeah, but you were about to.”

Reluctantly, Lindsay takes out another beer and leaves the kitchen to hand it to him.

In his best, most-politest five-year-old voice, he says, “Thank you, Lindsay.”

She grumbles, leans against the wall and takes a sip. Thinks.

“Hey... how’d that guy know you were Jesus, anyway?”

Jay takes a second to consider it, then shrugs. “Don’t know.”

He swigs.

Lindsay swirls the beer in its bottle. “You weren’t, say, out drinking in a bar one night and decided it was a good idea to announce your Second Coming, right?”

Jay’s eyes flick over to her then back to his game. He clears his throat nervously. “No... Why?”

Lindsay sits down beside him. “Just spitballing. I mean, how many people are going to believe someone if they say they’re Jesus Christ? They’d probably have to be a bit unstable, right? Prone to... irrationality.” She eyes him. “Probably the kind of person who hangs out in the same bars you hang out in. Maybe he’s the kind of person who’s friends with the kind of people who hang out in the same bars you hang out in. The kind of unhinged degenerate who’d actually believe someone if they said they were out drinking with Jesus fucking Christ.”

She’s right up in his grill now, boring a hole in the side of his face.

Jay swallows. He tries to focus on the game, but Lindsay can tell he’s sweating.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Linds. I mean, I agree with you that the guy’s clearly unstable...”

At that moment, police sirens begin to sound in the distance.

Jay continues playing his game. “...but even if I did let something slip – and I’m not saying I did – but if I did... it’s like you said: how many people are going to believe someone if they say they’re Jesus Christ? It can always be written off as some drunk dude in a bar. We knew that from the beginning. No harm, no foul.”

Lindsay scoffs, leaning back into the couch. “Yes harm, yes foul. Harm and foul. The last thing we need is a bunch of ‘you-freaks’ holding a vigil on the curb outside. Don’t let it happen again, alright?”

She takes a swig.

The police sirens get louder, closer. Tyres screech to a halt. Car doors open and close. Cops are shouting:


“Put your hands up!”

Jay and Lindsay continue to stare at the TV screen as if nothing’s happening outside.

“Jay?” Lindsay says.

He ignores her, keeps playing.

A cop shouts, “He’s got a gun!”

Several loud gunshots ring out from down the street.

“Suspect down!”

Lindsay grows frustrated with her partner not answering. “Jay?!”

This manages to crack through the tunnel-like focus Jay has on the game. “Yeah, alright, alright.”

A pause.

The game keeps going.

The sirens keep going.

“You think we should go out there?” Lindsay says.

“You can. I go out there, I’ll get shot in the back.”

Lindsay nods, knowing he’s right. She realises something. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“Me getting shot in the back by a bunch of trigger-happy guys wearing badges? Gee, thanks Linds.”

“No, not that,” Lindsay says. “You getting drunk and telling everyone you’re Jesus.”

“I didn’t-”

“I’m just saying... Dude was a sad, vengeful cuck, but he was right about one thing: you certainly don’t look like Jesus. Not their Jesus, anyway.”

“And you don’t look like a dude.”

Another pause.

Lindsay chuckles, realising that’s the best she’s going to get out of him.

“Thanks, Jay.”

She takes another sip.

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