Rango looked up from the deceased philosopher, just in time to see captain Footwear push past his men. Of course Footwear was not his actual name, he was French from his mother’s side, so he was actually called Feau ‘Twear, but everyone just called him Footwear. The name was rather appropriate for the leathery faced captain. The only facial features that looked truly organic where his tightly trimmed haircut and his stiffly maintained moustache.
Rango sighed, knowing he’d been caught red-handed. He sighed raising his hands. His search for answers regarding the mysterious moustacheless man would end here. They would make him hand over the moustache and that would be it.
Footwear grunted. “I figured I would find you here, Shaver.”
Rango tensed at the insult.
“I hope for you that you kept your hands clear of the body.”
Rango scuttled aside to make way for Footwear as he walked over to examine the body.
A tense silence hung in the air.
“The man’s moustache is missing.” Footwear said calmly.
Rango began to sweat.
“Did you take it, Shaver?” Footwear asked.
Rango swallowed.
Then Footwear, shook his head then waved to his subordinates. “Nash, George arrest him for obstruction of justice, contamination of the crime scene, and as a potential murder suspect.”
The two, Nash and George, were men Rango did not recognise from his time on the force. Rango went with them as they him away from the murder, away from answers. Yet he could not help feeling frustrated. He had been so close. He could not give up. Not this time.
As the two led him out of the building he desperately felt in his pockets, yet all he found was a stale piece of bread he’d been planning to eat. Nothing that could help him with his escape.
“-should feed the poor critters.” Nash was saying. The two were talking like he wasn’t even there.
“Poor critters?” George said indignantly. “They’re vermin, you softhead. They should be exterminated, and if not that then having them starve is the best alternative. Especially those feathered fiends that seem to dominate every single roof and statue of this place.”
Then it hit Rango, the bread could be useful after all. Frantically he began tearing the piece of bread with his hands.
Nash noticed his movement.
“Hey what are you-”
Rango threw the torn pieces of bread at Nash and George, hoping for a flow of hungry “feathered fiends” to descend on them, as he ran away.
Instead the stale and heavy pieces of bread just bounced off them, although one did hit Nash in the eye.
“Ow! Oh I’m going to get you for that, bloody Shaver.” Nash said as he grabbed for the now running Rango. George swiftly followed suit.
Rango sprinted through the streets, as fast as his poorly trained body could maintain. He ventured a glance behind him, and saw the two catching up to him. He cursed, already out of breath from the short sprint.
“Halt!” George shouted.
Rango stopped to halt, mostly from exhaustion.
“Now, be a good boy and just come along quietly, okay?”
But before anyone could move a young man stepped in front of the two officers. He wore a white apron, with a matching white hat. With white dusted hands he flourished, then threw the finest of breadcrumbs at the two officers. This time, the feathered friends actually chose to respond and descended upon the two, pecking at the breadcrumbs.
The man took Rango by the arm, and dragged him to an alleyway, muttering. “This is bad for business. Very bad.”