William Page, PD

William Page, PD

*Disclaimer: None of the brands mentioned in this story belongs to me. If they did... Well, I'll be rich. (That's an understatement.)

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*~*~*

It was, as cliché as it sounded, a dark and stormy night. But one thing was for sure - William Page, aspiring private detective, was not going to let that stop him.

He leaned against his silvery-grey Toyota, a smoldering cigarette at his mouth. He sucked in a large lungful of smoke, resisting the urge to cough up the scent of tar, nicotine, and goodness knows what else. After all, if he wanted to pretend to be the gangster/drug dealer type, then he would have to suffer for it.

William wondered if it was possible to smoke while holding his breath. After a few rather pathetic attempts which all ended with him trying to retch his lungs out, he gave up and stomped the cigarette out. It didn't really matter; he didn't need to smoke to act like a bad guy. Right?

But that was not the point, William reprimanded himself. He should have been on the outlook for suspicious biker types of guys, and not standing by his shiny car, smoking a goddamned cigarette while making his oh-my-God-I-hope-I'm-not-going-to-throw-up face. That would not be a good thing to put on his CV for being a police detective.

And so, with the thought of a shiny police badge to call his own, William stood there in the bitter cold, hands shoved under his armpits in a desperate act of keeping warm. He was finally rewarded when a rusty, rattling old truck with its tail light missing drove round the corner from the gas station and pulled up in front of William's precious Toyota. The driver got out of the car, a cigarette of his own dangling from his lips.

William wrinkled his nose; had he been an actual policeman, he could have told the truck's driver to get his tail light fixed instead of being forced to stay put and inhale as the winter winds wafted the cigarette smoke up his nostrils - again.

"Hey," a rough, gravelly voice that belonged to the truck driver rumbled, shaking William out of his thoughts. "You know where's the vending machine?"

"Yeah. It's at the back of the station," he replied, jerking his thumb in the right direction. Now that, William mused as he watched the guy stride across the almost-vacant parking lot, was how the bad guys should sound like. It would make identifying them much easier; just get them to speak in a microphone, and their innocence or guilt would be proved, just like that.

And just like a bolt of lightning, an idea struck William: what if the truck driver really was a bad guy? Maybe he should follow him, just to see what was going on. Maybe he would stumble across a gang meeting, and he would finally get accepted into the police academy...

William slipped off his leather shoes; going barefoot would be quieter and more efficient in the art of spying. He crept across the concrete parking lot, carefully shifting his weight from foot to foot. Alas, William found the ground too cold for his comfort, and resorted to skipping to keep the least contact with the freezing concrete. It would have to do, since spies weren't supposed to get injured because of frostbite from the floor; it was too unexciting.

Having safely made it to the back of the station, he was encountered with -

Damn it. No gang members. All that was to be found was pitch blackness, and the slight tinkle of... water? How strange.

The tinkling sound subsided, and a sigh was heard. From the sigh's deep tone, William deduced that the person was the truck driver. Then there was the noise of a zipping zipper, and William made his conclusion.