I was not serious. It wasn't a cry for attention, nor a search for punishment. An experiment, if you will.
The driver had begun to smoke, and I told him to put it out, lighting my own cigarette, when the police station rolled by. I tell him to stop, and I get out.
I stood in front of the doors, suddenly anxious. I feel a wave of breeze catch the back of my neck, and go in.
There was a police officer at the desk, smoking and drinking coffee, and he gave no indication of my presence. I cleared my throat, and he looked up. I told him I'd like to report a murder, "I've killed alot of people."
The man looks at me, and I notice his two dollar hair cut hidden under a lined blue officer hat, an exact match of his loosly creased suit with the iron on crest.
He takes a pen, and a notepad, and looks back at me. He looks bored.
"Really?" he ask, "How many?"
I take a moment to think about it, unable to deduce an exact fragment of a number. I lean in, "Alot of people."
The officer, who's thick brimmed glasses glare at both myself and the clock, says dismissivly, as though I were a child, "Do these people have names?"
"Some." I say.
A women is across the room, and she stares and points at me to another women, who is much prettier.
"Uh huh," the officer says, "Look, guy. I don't know who you think you are--"
"Patrick Batemen, Pierce and Pierce," I throw my new business card with the embossed watermark and the elegantly thickened lettering on an eggshell formatting that looks perfect on the worn desk top.
He picks it up and nods, "Yeah, well, Patrick Batemen, we don't got time for our little jokes, so why don't you just go on out with your friends and pick a whore or somethin'."
He throws my card back on the desk, and I grind my teeth, "Last night I axed a hooker in the face and then baked her vagina into a pie."
The man seems unaffected, and tells me to leave. He has work to do.
I leave, go back to the car. I tried.
Author's Note: Hergh?? Wha??