Detective Clompshoes surveyed the grisly scene with gruesome relish, chomping on his cigar for a moment before realizing that it was actually his finger.
“Ouch,” he said, watching dispassionately as a single bead of blood dripped onto the cold concrete.
The guy in front of him was dead. That much was clear. Clompshoes could tell by all the bullet holes. He stuck the gun back into his pocket and turned, deliberately, towards the door.
“Evening,” said a calm voice.
It was Police Inspector “That Jerkface” Morris, a cigarette drooping from his lips. The cigarette was not his finger.
“Looks like somebody killed that guy,” Morris observed. “Awfully suspicious, Clompshoes, finding you at the scene like this.”
“You’re wrong, officer,” said Clompshoes. “I have the perfect alibi.”
Clompshoes had the perfect alibi, and nobody likes Inspector Morris anyway. What was his alibi?
A: “It’s high caliber and travels at a velocity of four thousand feet per second,” Clompshoes went on, “and it sounds a lot like this. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! I forgot I only had one bullet in my gun. Can we start over?”
