Sheriff Cecil Plettschner knew the price of being the last serious man in a town that size, and he was willing to pay it. For a man like him, it wasn’t a matter of willingness any more than it was one of necessity.

Weaver Parish had become just another sad example of a once great, hardworking people falling into the cruel fate that both war and divine providence had in store for them, and in a time like this, men like him would be needed.

He rode down the main street in his cruiser when he spotted the small diner. The truck parked outside left no doubt as to whether he was in the right place or not. As he parked right beside it, he stepped down and adjusted his belt while having a peek inside the passenger window, then later the trunk. No unattended firearms, no clothes or car seats with fresh stains of  blood. A pity, really, he thought to himself.

He kicked the tire lightly with the tip of his boot and felt almost disappointed when not even that looked half-assed enough to warrant a ticket. Recently calibrated, way too together to not be suspicious when it comes to a man who being the opposite of together is a major trait.

As the sheriff stepped in, he scanned around the establishment.

Sergeant Bosconovitch was sitting at the counter, silently looking down as he ate a serving of bacon and eggs over a cup of coffee.

Plettschner made his way across the establishment as he sat next to the sergeant.

“You know”, he started. “When people told me some deranged lunatic was admitting to war crimes in broad daylight while harassing government workers I just laughed to myself. I mean, what’s new, right?”

The sergeant just kept eating in silence, as if the conversation was taking place between two other people beside him.