Today they'll use the "Young/Old Cop" routine to interrogate you.

You're sitting in the interrogation room of the police station. It's exactly what you thought it would be like, after a lifetime of watching movies and TV. You're still dressed in your work clothes, sitting in a hard plastic chair pulled up to a stainless steel desk. The one-way mirror continuously draws your attention away from the two policemen in the room with you, but you force your attention back and look them over again.

The policeman standing up with his arms crossed and brow furrowed looks to be in his early thirties. He occasionally paces around in stark contrast to his partner, an older cop with sweat stains dotting his uniform who sits partially slumped in another chair near the single door. Young Cop scrutinizes you while Old Cop distractedly brushes imaginary dust off of his pants leg.

Suddenly Young Cop lunges forward, planting his hands on the table in front of you with a slight whack sound that is quickly swallowed by the claustrophobic room you sit in. They're going to try to get you to talk.

Young Cop: "Confess, Tough Guy! We both know damn well you did it, and when I put you away I'll be doing this city a favor."

Old Cop: "Even if we do put 'em away, there's fifteen more just like 'em waitin' in line. I seen it again and again. After every bad guy, there's even worse guys waiting."

Young Cop: "Don't listen to him, Tough Guy. Getting scum like you off these streets will make the city a better place, it'll make a difference. Now, confess!"

Old Cop: "Confess if y'want." He sighs. "Go free if y'want. It ain't gonna matter. This city gets worse every single day. When I joined the force I had hope, I wanted to clean up these grimy streets.  But blood don't wash off concrete so easy..."

Young Cop: "Stop it! Look Tough Guy, he doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. I got a wife and a kid at home, with another one on the way. When I get you behind bars, I'll be providing a better life for them."

Old Cop: "I wanted a family once. I coulda had one. In fact, I was even engaged once...a pretty young gal, thought I was the greatest...for a time. She weren't no fool, though. She knew I was married to the force. When it all fell apart, I thought even though we wasn't gettin' married I could at least do right by her by makin' the city she lived in a safer place."

Young Cop: "Do you hear that, Tough Guy? Do you? This man here chose the job because putting trash like you away where you can't corrupt decent folk is that important. Confess!"

Old Cop: "She was murdered the day before our wedding. Killer never was found, neither. If only I'd known how pointless it all is I woulda put this place in my rearview mirror and married her somewhere quieter. Ain't never gonna know now if I coulda just maybe had one year of blissful love instead of chasin' scumbags and dopeheads like some impotent old bull."

Young Cop: "God damn it dude you are so totally not helping!"

Old Cop: "I'm too old to help. It ain't no good to no one. Too old to play the good guy and pretend that chasin' down the bad guys is anything more 'n a game. No matter how hard I fought crime, they still got her. They killed her."

Young Cop: "But I still have so much time, I know I can do better! Maybe I can help restore this city for the better so my wife and children will be safe in their beds at night! If I can just get Tough Guy here to confess, then in some way your fiance's death wouldn't have been for nothing!"

Old Cop: "It was for nuthin'. All of it were for nuthin'."

BLAM!

The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. The old cop sitting across from you drew his sidearm and pulled the trigger with his lips around the barrel without another word.

Young Cop: "Noooooo!"

Your ears are ringing and the room is spinning, Young Cop is frantically attempting CPR on the limp body of Old Cop as your vision blurs with tears, but it's too late. You feel your head violently rocking back and forth and realize Young Cop's face is now inches from yours and seething with rage. His blood-streaked hands clench your lapels and flecks of spit hit your skin as he screams in your face.

Young Cop: "DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU DID!? LOOK AT WHAT YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR! BIG TOUGH GUY LIKE YOU BROKE HIS SPIRIT AND IT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU. HIS DEATH IS ON YOUR HANDS! CAN YOU LIVE WITH THAT!? CAN YOU!?"

You can't. You just know you can't, it's too much. You break down and you spill everything. You tell Young Cop the truth. You rigged your cable box to get Cinemax for free. You just wanted to see the new hot season of the UK-based spy drama Hunted, may God have mercy on your soul.

Young Cop: "Ha! Works every time. Boys, call the morgue. And while you're at it, get this sorry excuse for a human being out of my sight and book his criminal ass. I'm outta here...I've got a city to protect."

Today, the Museum learns who fornicated Wax Patrick Stewart.

Say you didn't make it so.

You're standing in a neat line with the rest of your co-workers at the Wax Museum. The Museum air is frigidly cold, the thermostat being kept always at an arctic 67° due to the paranoid obsessive-compulsive command Hugo desperately maintains, despite the sculptor's assurance that the figures wouldn't melt below 99°. 

Hugo, the museum director, is pacing the front of the staff room with tiny quick steps, clearly trying (and failing) to contain his own impotent rendition of anger.

“These wax figures TRUST us,” Hugo explains, finally breaking the silence. “They trust us to care for them, just as the respected public figures who lent their likeness to these wax figures trust us to not use their likeness for anything but to give the public an afternoon of diverting, slightly eerie entertainment.”

Hugo has clasped his sweaty hands behind his back, and tries to create what you're sure he feels is a suspenseful silence. Standing next to you, Eric covers his mouth and fakes a yawn in order to toss back an indeterminate number of percocet. He stiffens as Hugo resumes his address with a theatrical shaking of his head.

“Do any of you know what nearly every celebrity asks before giving their consent to add their wax replica to our museum? 

Janet opens her mouth to reply, only to be interrupted when Hugo whirls around to answer his own question.

"They ask," He wails. "HOW DO I KNOW THAT YOU'RE NOT JUST GOING TO HAVE SEX WITH IT?"

Some of the staffers drop their heads in shame. It doesn't feel good to know that the worst fears of a celebrity have been confirmed. That a celebrity put his or her trust in you and you dropped the ball.

Jon raises his hand and asks how Hugo knows that someone had fucked Wax Patrick Stewart.

“I don’t want to get into it,” he says. “Suffice to say, there were some indentations. What's more, is there were stains! Now the sculptors tell me they can fill in the....disruptions to Wax Patrick Stewart's figure. But first you must be aware that the stains carry DNA!

Someone gasps.

"Now...I don’t want to have to ask everyone to provide me with a DNA sample. We’re a family here and we’re supposed to trust each other. So instead, I’m just going to turn my back for 30 seconds. If the perpetrator who violated Wax Patrick Stewart will simply walk up here, lay their museum-issued vest and cummerbund on the table here and walk out the door...then there will be no further questions, no prosecution.“

Hugo turns his back. For thirty seconds, everyone on staff looks to each other, trying to see if the culprit will come forward. No one steps forward. When Hugo turns back around, the disappointment on his face is palpable.

You raise your hand with a question.

“Wait, why would anyone try and have sex with the figures anyway?” you ask. “When you take off their clothes, it's not like there are any orifices or holes or anything for you to put your...your..."

Instantly you feel two dozen eyes scrutinizing you. Hugo looks at you and pauses with his mouth open in an "O" shape, as he begins to speak.

Before Hugo can ask you how you could possibly know Wax Patrick Stewart or any of the other figures in the Museum have no naughty bits, you make a break for it. 

You hightail it out of the glass double doors of the museum, startling the throng of overweight tourists who have no idea that the reason there is one wax figure missing is because he is lying in the back room, decorated with your shame, glass expressionless eyes gazing at the ceiling.

You round the corner into an alley and drop your vest and cummerbund in a dumpster, and once you're certain you haven't been pursued, you will end up in the park miles away, hiding in the bushes drinking sprinkler water for three days as you wrack your brain to try and figure out just what the hell you're going to do with your life, now that your dream of being a Wax Museum guard have been shattered forever by one night of erotic bliss.