The Plagiarist The cops beat the petty thief mercilessly with their Leviathan billy clubs, demanding his confession.
“I admit it! I stole his idea!” the sordid thief finally admitted after he feared his head had been nearly drained of blood.
“And?...” goaded one officer, who was trying to play the good cop in between gauntlet sessions.
“And I’m a gorilla!!”
“That’s what we wanted to hear. We will set you free now, on three conditions. Firstly, you don’t contact any polarizing civil rights advocates about this experience. Secondly, you don’t steal any more poetry, or bananas for that matter. Thirdly, you attend bi-weekly sessions at our rehabilitation center for recidivist plagiarists.”
And the thief was out, having suffered not even the proverbial slap on the wrist, although having suffered multiple concussions. But before you could say Jack Flash, he had jumped into the nearest Barnes & Noble’s. He was running amok through the aisles, reading beat poetry, political economy, eastern philosophy, terrorism bestsellers, health-food cookbooks, and taking down quoted notes for the malignant purposes of his long-awaited epic poem about depressed frogs. Sheesh, he didn’t even bother to paraphrase!
But before he could choose which books to fit into his backpack and pass through the fake metal detectors and ignorant security guards at the door, he realized it was time for his appointment with the social worker at rehab.
He entered the office, spotted the secretary, and considered snipping off a lock of her hair when she wasn’t looking to use in his newest masterpiece, an epic poem about depressed frogs. But then the doctor emerged, a short chubby man with a Richard Simmons afro and a zesty German accent. He could tell he had this accent even though he had not spoken a word, and considered tacitly recording it to use at his upcoming feature on Def Poetry Jam.
The doctor did not speak at all; such a waste to have such an accent and not use it. Perhaps the reason he didn’t speak was because his voice had already been stolen. Perhaps the grief of this loss was why he spent his time trying to cure these outright offenses of plagiarism.
So instead he extended a sheet of paper, grasped wryly in his chubby-yet-nimble fingers. It read: “In order to purge the temptation of plagiarism, we must feed you inspiration.” And he shoved him away with a brisk wave.
As he was about to exit the office, the secretary beamed him in the back of the head with a plastic baggie full of pills.
“Ouch!” he cried.
“Two every hour,” she instructed.
When he woke up he was in the police station again, bleeding from the nose, mouth and ears.
“Admit it!” blasted once again in his ears.
“I know I stole something, but I don’t remember what it is!”
“No, you stupid gorilla, the charges are serious this time! You are in possession of illegal substances!”