Extend the Story - Add a Room

"Aye, hooliganism , that's what's going on," the disgruntled old cop replies with a thick Irish accent that's just oozing from every word and bodily orifice. "Hooligans and punks and fishmongers and dust mites and circus clowns and midgets and arabs.." He stops for a second and appraises you with an arched eyebrow and suspicions of your motives mirrored in his thoughtful, weathered eyes. "Look what I can do!" he suddenly announces with a childlike delight that truly does warm what's left of your tattered soul. Then performs a silly little dance he must have learned in the Old Country, all just for you.

Your eyes narrow. "Did you say...punks?" The cop nods. "I think I probably did. And don't forget the circus clown, too."

You grit your teeth and tighten your buttocks in mounting rage. "I hate punks," you mutter disdainfully. You groin aches in anticipation of slaughter. Your bowels seem to grumble, impatiently awaiting the carnage that will ensue. You pancreas seems to spasm involuntarily. Might want to get that check out by a doctor. Anyway...

"What about clowns?" the cop questions you. "Don't you hate them too?"