Bail Bonds and Big Laughs

The dusty, stained armchair in the corner of the cramped apartment groaned under Rene’s weight as she bounced her knee at warp speed. “He’s *in* the washing machine, Deon. I’m telling you, the vibrations are suppressing the tracking microchip they put in his left molar.”

Deon, draped precariously over the back of the couch like a limp, oversized scarf, adjusted the tinfoil-lined trilby hat that was clearly doing nothing to block the government's mind-scramble rays. “The washing machine, Rene? That’s bold. Almost *too* bold. He’s trying to camouflage the frequency signature of his guilt inside the spin cycle.”

Outside, the muffled sound of a police siren sliced through the stale afternoon air. Rene shot upright, knocking over a tower of empty energy drink cans. “Sirens! They know! They know we trapped Bartholomew ‘Barty the Batterer’ Higgins in the Kenmore Elite!”