The car had just nicked the house, really. Some of the siding would have to be replaced. Vic makes a mental note that thirty-three years ago he should have made the investment to go with the brick. Then the sonuvabitch’d be sorry. Insurance would cover it though. Now it is eerily quiet in the front yard, even with all the neighbors looking on and the strobes from the two patrol cars lighting everything up.

The deputy asks, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Victor. Hauser. H-A-U-S-E-R.”

“Okay. Thank you, sir.”

Vic waits for the moment of recognition, but it does not arrive.

Just then Sheriff McKale strolls over. “Sorry, Vic. They keep givin’ ’em to me younger and younge—don’t know their history.” The Sheriff winks at the deputy who is perplexed. “This young turk here—all he knows about is computers. Not baseball.”

Vic just says huh.

“You’re lucky Mr. Hauser, sir, he didn’t drive right on inta your livin’ room.”

Vic nods; like he needs some pup to tell him that. He looks out to the yard where a muddy, shirtless, exhausted man in handcuffs is being picked up off the ground.

Read the whole thread: Thinstyle, Unthreaded