“That’s my goldfish, dude!”

“No, sir, I think you misunderstand me, this criminal is wanted in seventeen countries for war crimes and multiple counts of vehicular slaughter. He is extremely unstable!”

I put my head in my hands and stare at my goldfish of 4 years, Jerry P. A complete freeloader, I should say, but whenever people see him looking sorry for himself at the bottom of his very expensive tank, they always coo and say, “Oh, you poor thing!” As if I’m starving him. Or something.

Some days I go downstairs in the morning to feed him and I just can’t see him anywhere. Jerry P disappears like this a lot, but I always assume he’s making out with the clownfish statue behind the seaweed props and I never think twice about his absence.

I told all of this to the lady at the front desk. She just shook her head and pointed down the corridor. Now I’ve been dragged into an interrogation room, and a beast of an officer with a moustache to rival Hitler’s is telling me my goldfish is wanted for felonies in more countries than I’ve ever visited.

“So what am I supposed to do about JP being a criminal mastermind, exactly?” I sigh wearily, glancing at my watch. I’ve been sitting here for forty five minutes already. Did I leave the stove on? Shit, did I leave dinner on the stove and leave the stove on?

“Sir, you have two options, one of which is allowing us to detain Jerry P and sentence him to a life sentence. And the other is death by electric chair. Well, tank.”

“Right.” I’m still puzzling over whether my house could possibly be burning down at this very moment. “Uh, you can put him down, or whatever. He wasn’t that important anyway. Look, man—can I go home now?”

The officer’s eyebrows knit together and the lines on his forehead deepen into canyons. “You don’t want to say goodbye?”

“I-I really don’t have time for…” But the dude looks so upset that I turn around and flash JP one last middle finger, for old time’s sake.

“Goodbye, you lousy ass.”