Barney

Night had blanketed the city in a thick, dark shroud, with only the occasional streetlight casting dim circles of light on the wet asphalt. Officer Duckman stood by an old brick wall, peering into the shadows of an alley. He clutched his radio, and a nasty premonition clung to his chest. He'd been on the trail of the elusive criminal for weeks, and today his intuition told him the end was near.

Barney emerged silently from the darkness. In his white shirt and hat, he looked like a ghost—unnaturally pale, almost unreal. His mustache trembled, as if he were whispering to himself. A mad glint danced in his eyes, but something else flickered in them, too—longing, loneliness, a subtle vulnerability.

"Freeze! Hands up!" Duckman barked, drawing his weapon. His voice was firm, but inside he was trembling: he knew who stood before him, and he understood that this could be his last meeting.

Barney froze, then slowly raised his hands, but instead of fear, a slight, almost sad smile appeared on his face.

"You won't shoot, will you?" he drawled in a soft, ingratiating voice. "Am I right?"