Fishy Goings-On


The doorbell rang once.  Twice.  Thrice.

“All right.  All right,” a voice from inside grumbled.  “I’m on my way.”

The aged man opened the front door to find three large individuals in black suits standing on his doormat.  The doormat read ‘Come Back With A Warrant.’

“Mormons?” the old man asked.

“Hardly.” The first man said, standing before the other two.  “We represent the Federal DPA.”  He held out a badge.

“Everyone’s out for their own acronym these days, trying to confuse folk,” the old man grunted.

“We are from the Federal Department of Provisional Assistance, sir.  It is the governmental department ensuring that we can carry out the passing of new laws and their implications thereof that are beyond the abilities and regulations of currently existing departments.”

“Sounds fishy.”

“There is hardly any need for concern in that regard, I assure you,” the first man said, clearly representing the three.  “You are Mr. Curtis Melvin I presume?”

“Who needs to know?”

The man ignored the question and continued, “You are recorded as being licensed for a variety of firearms.  We would like to see them.”

“Rats to pickles, you’ve got to be joking me.”

“I’m afraid not sir.”

“You yahoos trying to bribe everyone out of their rights again?  Offing money so that we’ll just hand them over?  Well, it didn’t work five years ago, and it won’t work now.  Goodbye.”  Melvin went to shut the door, but found a shiny shoe in the way.  The second man, previously standing behind the left side of the first, had stepped forward and jammed the door open with his foot.  Without a word the second man slowly reopened the door, despite the elderly man’s efforts to close it.

The poor old man was quite flustered by this. “What do you think you’re doing?  How dare you?  Get off my lawn, and stop making things up!”

“On the contrary Mr. Melvin,” the first man replied, unperturbed by the little man’s vehemence.  “We only enforce what has already been passed.  The DPA has been called to ensure that a new law is carried out to its full capacity.”

“And what sort of law is it this time?” Mr. Melvin spat.

“You haven’t heard?   A mandatory recall of all firearms in the United States. In addition, all imports and exports of firearms are frozen, indefinitely.  At this time all guns are contraband.”

Mr. Melvin was horrorstricken, and angry.  “How the hell did this happen?  That is all sorts of unconstitutional.  I’m calling the police.  You swankies are trying to pull one on me.  Get out before I feel the need to protect myself!”

“That will hardly be necessary, Mr. Melvin,” the first man said.  “You see, we represent the police too.”  The second man drew his Glock.  The third remained motionless, yet alert.

“I seem to have no choice,” Curtis said through his teeth.  “This is all very unorthodox.”

“You may call 911 if you wish.  But I doubt they will have any quarrel with us.  It would be best for you to comply, Mr. Melvin.  Let us in.”

“Can’t you read, slick?” Mr. Melvin replied, pointing down at the doormat.

The first man looked down and sneered.  “Clever. And it’s Hoover, Agent Hoover.”

“I don’t much care what fancy names you ingrates have.  I know my rights, and I’ll defend them.”

“So be it,” Agent Hoover said.  “Agent Jeffries, taze him.”  Hoover pushed past Curtis, now frozen with fear, and walked into the house while the third man pulled out a taser.

“Wait!” the little man cried, “Don’t hurt me!”

The third man looked intently upon the frail person before him, taser aimed at his chest.  Then he turned to the second agent and shot him with the taser instead.  The sudden shock didn’t let the man emit much more than a grunt before he shuddered to the ground.

“Why I never…” was all Mr. Melvin could mutter.

“Shhhhhhh” motioned the man called Agent Jeffries to the little man, “Wait here.”

Mr. Melvin could barely move, and merely sagged into the evergreen bush outside his front door, eyes on the now motionless agent on the walkway, while Agent Jeffries went inside.

He heard a scuffle, half a shout, then a thud.  Agent Jeffries reemerged at the front door and quickly dragged the unconscious agent through the threshold.  “Okay, get in here,” he motioned to Mr. Melvin.

The poor old man didn’t know what to think, or what to expect.  But he figured he was better off now than he was a minute ago.  He staggered inside, closed the door, and locked it.

Created March 2010.


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