Do we know who we are? Do we think we know who the person sitting across from us is? What if it’s all a big lie? This Flash Fiction piece explores the fun of maybe…

Claude was in the “box”. He knew it was just a formality, because he had already confessed to Detective Robinson, the fact that he had killed his wife. The good Detective was just using the interrogation room for the recording of Claude’s confession.

Robinson sat across the table from Claude, pen in hand, “At what time did you kill your wife?”

“Last evening, at ten thirty.” Claude shifted slightly and adjusted his tie.

The well-built, black Detective took a sip of his water and continued, “Was there an argument beforehand?”

“Not an argument, just a minor disagreement.” Seeming to brush something from the sleeve of his expensive looking pinstriped suit, Claude went on, “She knew too much and was going to go public with it.”

“Knew too much about what?”

“My counterfeiting.”

Robinson sat back and rubbed his baldhead, “Counterfeiting?”

“Yes. It’s my life. My nature. It’s what I do best.” Claude sat erect, as if he were being asked a question in English class rather than being interviewed about a murder.

“What do you counterfeit? Money? Bonds?”

“Why everything, of course. It’s more of a lifestyle than a means to make a living. And, I employ no one else, because there are none who can live up to my standards.”

“I still don’t get it. Everything?”

“Yes. Money, bonds, certificates, passports….everything. You saw that 1969 Camaro in my driveway, right?”

“Yeah. Special edition, with the ‘vette engine. Correct.”

“Absolutely. Only three hundred and fifty were made. Worth over a hundred grand.” Claude smirked, “Mine is a fake. Built it myself. It would take a fairly extensive metallurgical examination to uncover it as bogus.” Claude’s slight body leaned forward a bit, “Even the way I murdered Sharon was replicated.”

“How so?”

“Three shots through a pillow, into her head. I saw it on one of those forensic science shows. I mimicked every detail. Even handcrafted an exact replica of the pillow used in the re-enactment.”

Robinson wiped a little sweat from his head as he began to feel that Claude was feeding him some kind of cock and bull story, “You said she knew too much, yet it seems that counterfeiting and forgery are what you thrive on. How could she not know?”

“Oh, she knew most of it,” Claude smiled. “In fact we got together because I forged her asshole of a boyfriend’s signature on an IRS check, so that she could cash it.”

“Well then, what constituted ‘too much’, in your eyes?”

“She found out that I had counterfeited our marriage license. This upset her so deeply that she was going to turn me over to you guys.”

“Damn,” Robinson uttered. “You’ve got quite a tale started here.”

“I assure you that it is all true, Detective.”

“Well Claude, I’m gonna have to read you your rights…..”

“Ummm……actually…..it’s Claudia. And I……I am…..a….well….a clone.”

Deeps furrows instantly fortified Robinson’s forehead, “What was that?”

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© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Years ago I started writing Flash Fiction for just the sheer enjoyment of writing, and now it has turned into a full blown addiction. I can't quit the horse, man! Another dirty little secret about me is my ability to write all kinds of web content. SEO content, articles, blog posts, manifests; you name it, I'll write it. Looking for some help? My gun hangs at r.alex.crabtree@gmail.com

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This entry was posted on June 8, 2010 at 12:00 pm and is filed under Fiction, Flash Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.