Laughing Jack: How To Put A Jack In The Box Back In The Box (Laughing JackxOC)

Chapter 12: Not Actually A Cop

Chapter 12: Not Actually A Cop

"Would you truly resort to murder merely to safeguard a deranged woman?" Laughing Jack's chuckle resonates with a sinister undertone, akin to a child's innocence twisted by malevolence. With a smirk that belies his malicious intent, he audaciously pops a bubble gum bubble right next to Dylan's ear.

"Who said anything about killing him?" Dylan retorted, casting a sidelong glance at Laughing Jack. The incessant popping of their gum grated on his nerves, threatening to escalate into a headache, but he pushed the irritation aside, focusing on his computer screen instead. Scrolling through articles detailing incidents aligned with Laughing Jack's notorious penchant for murdering and mutilating children, Dylan found himself intrigued a bit on how good of writing material this could be. The clown's heinous acts, depicted in gruesome detail, churned his stomach, yet stirred a creative impulse within him. As a writer drawn to the darker realms of human psyche, Dylan couldn't help but recognize the twisted inspiration lurking within these grim accounts.

"Well, how else do you propose we deal with him?" Laughing Jack queried, his default solution always leaning towards murder. It was as if violence were the only language he understood, eliciting a resigned sigh from Dylan.

"There are numerous ways to handle someone besides resorting to murder. And I refuse to dirty my hands at your whim," Dylan responded calmly, maintaining their composure despite the unsettling conversation.

"What have you got your eyes glued to?" Laughing Jack leaned over Dylan's shoulder, attempting to peek at the screen. Upon glimpsing the morbid images of their past victims, he couldn't contain his amusement, a childish glee bubbling up within him. "Ah, are you stalking me now? Tsk tsk, Little Mouse, that might just make me blush," he chortled, the jest in his tone belying the chilling reality of his actions.

"I'm going back to the source. If my hunch is correct, our Mr. Cop isn't actually law enforcement, and he seems to have some sort of connection to you," Dylan asserted, their cursor hovering over the 20th article they'd clicked on in the past half-hour.

"Not a cop? What gives you that idea?" Laughing Jack inquired, tilting his head as he punctuated his question with another pop of his gum.

"This town is small, and gossip spreads like wildfire. It's clear he's privy to information about your box, and that's not something just anyone knows, certainly not the police. Nor is it a detail parents would typically not even when their kids end up being split open," Dylan reasoned, emphasizing the gravity of the situation.

"Cops always travel in pairs. You never see one alone. And then there's this," Dylan continued, producing both the card Officer Michaels had given them and another from the town's sheriff, each adorned with a distinct logo. "Their insignias are different. Plus, I've practically met every cop in this town—comes with the territory when your mother's boyfriend is a piece of work," Dylan added, providing context. As Dylan's search yielded a promising article, he clicks on it, "Bingo." He said serenely.

"What?" the clown inquired, his gaze shifting to the article Dylan had pulled up.

"Deputy Trent Michaels' child and wife brutally murdered," Dylan read aloud from the article to Laughing Jack. "Seems like you're responsible for tearing apart his family. He tried to justify it to the police, but they deemed him unfit for duty due to his compromised mental state," Dylan explained, shutting his laptop and rising from his seat. As he stood, a sharp pain throbbed in his head, nearly causing him to lose his balance. He instinctively reached out, grasping the edge of his desk to steady himself.

"Oh, no wonder he looked familiar!" Laughing Jack giggled, before noticing Dylan's sudden discomfort. "Eh? Feeling faint, are we? Were my masterpieces too much for you?" he chuckled, disturbingly referring to his murders as works of art."

"No, I'm fine. Just a headache," Dylan replied, straightening up. The accumulated stress of the day was finally taking its toll. "I'm just going to take a bath," he announced before the downstairs door slammed shut, causing him to jerk his head in its direction. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, swiftly locking his laptop and other valuables in a drawer along with Jack's box. As shouts about dinner not being ready echoed from downstairs, Dylan tensed, hearing footsteps ascending the stairs.

"Hey, brat, what's the rush?" Laughing Jack began to ask, raising an eyebrow as they tilted their head in curiosity. But before Dylan could respond, the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs interrupted them, and the door swung open just as Dylan finished hiding the key to the drawer.