The Ticket
by Andrew David

Lights flashed behind me, and a dark, uniformed figure leaned into my open window.

"Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"

“No, sir,” I slurred, “I couldn't see the speedometer over the bottle.” I demonstrated with a whiplash gulp of vodka.

“One hundred and seventy miles per hour,” he crooned admiringly.

“Want some?” I slobbered, waving the vodka at him.

“No — I'm on duty.” He blushed.

“Duty patootie,” I observed. “It's not as if you're a public law enforcement officer, sworn to uphold the connastution and all that crap. You're a privately employed security guy—”

“— Mall cop,” he corrected.

“That's right,” I garbled, “a working stiff, just like me — when I used to work.” I shook the near-empty flask at him.

“One hundred and seventy miles per hour,” he reprised.

“That's a whole lotta fast,” I concurred.

“Hoo-boy,” chimed the mall cop. “The posted speed limit here is five. I'm going to write you a mall ticket.”

“Mmhm,” I slurred.

“This carries a fine of two hundred and eighty dollars,” he said, tearing off the ticket. "Of course, as a mall cop, I have no real authority to issue legal writ, so you don't have to pay it if you don't want to…”

“We'll see,” I smiled, taking the ticket.

“Also,” the mall cop added, “for a limited time, it's good for fifteen percent off at Nieman Marcus.”

“The Ticket”
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