“Another one!” the sergeant shouted, exasperated, as we pushed the silent perp into the cell. He glanced briefly at the folder we handed him. “’The Weasel!?’ Where do the names for these assholes come from?”
“Internet says he’s got some crazy bionic gene-therapy thing going on with his spine – super flexible – and the shovel hands…for digging, I guess? Caught him trying to burrow into a jewelry store on Ninth.”
The sergeant chuckled. “I thought weasels were supposed to be clever…”
And then, suddenly, we weren’t holding him anymore.
“We are,” the Weasel hissed. “What I wanted was in here.”