Officer officer! I think I can solve... the Red Suburban Cases!

The voice, eager yet panicky, like a bratty kid's. It rang in Mr. Zaman's ear until now.

It was a night patrolman named Leo. Night patrolmen. Not a part of the police force, just some watchmen for small areas.

Mr. Zaman have always thought that night patrolmen are unnecessary in a place like Fleece Suburban (aka Red Suburban). It's a suburban for fuck's sake. Night patrolmen are for rough neighborhoods of dense slums resembling a beehive. Hives of petty criminals. They're not for suburban areas.

The seasoned policeman thought of them: young officer wanna-bees who are too soft to hold a gun. So instead they get to hold a baton.

He knew that these fuckers are trying hard to be relevant, it's their suburban after all, and it's bleeding red. If they couldn't protect a small suburban, then how can they even go to the criminal hives?

They want to be relevant. Especially when the police basically took over their place. Patrolling the suburbs at night as part of the new curfew.

They're useless, soft, and idiot. Then there's this Leo boy.

Officer officer! I think I can solve... the Red Suburban Cases!

Who is he to say that? Night patrolman Leo? Not even slightly a lion. He was tall, yet thin, like a stick. Wearing a black hip-hop band shirt like it's gonna make him look tougher. And his voice... how he announced it at the station. The whiny, panicky quality of it.

Lion? Don't make me laugh. You haven't even seen...

The bodies. The fucked-up state of the bodies. Not even his 4 decades of career can mentally and emotionally prepare him for that.

Case 1 was a lawyer named Horace. Guy looked like a cheap corned beef. Dripping with oil, shining with preservatives and fats. The mere thought of the food made him throw up. He looked like a bloody corned beef. Ground flesh in bleak crimson color, fading into black as it reached the ground. Located under some trees, the pile of mashed-up flesh was hungrily absorbed by the soil. He was only recognized through a patch of hair and a piece of eyeball. He was found a dozen steps from his own backyard.

Case 2 was an old man. Apollo. His body bloated, as if he drowned. But the most confusing was how his entire fat body was squeezed into a ball about 2 feet across. His limbs were entangled and curvy like they're tentacles. His head was deflated like a popped balloon. His entire body was grey. Like he's a horror movie prop.

Last case was the one that was actually assigned to him. Reported a day after the first two cases did. It was a daycare worker named Ben. Apparently, the guy was missing for a day already. Found at his own workplace. At the women's restroom to be exact. In one of the toilets to be more exact. Barely a flesh in him. He looked burned, but strangely wet and shining with yellow color. Acid, probably. But he never saw anything like it. The pile of bones, jumbled and crushed, with bits of flesh and organs, filling the toilet bowl like a wicked soup...

It's been almost a week. And what they found only made them more confused. The surveillance cameras showed nothing out of ordinary. There were vines covering Apollo's entire bedroom - even his family were shocked. The "bug" Horace's wife was compulsively talking about during interrogations. The pee samples found in the first two bodies: case number one was drenched in his own wife's pee, while case number 2 was drenched in their dog's. The third body, the one found in a fucking toilet bowl got no trace...

And now they're monitoring one missing person. Another night patrolman, of all people!

What does he know? What does this Leo boy offers? An inconvenience, probably.

He sighed and went back to the lobby, where his coworkers were surrounding him. Leo the lion was looking down, even trembling a bit.

"Oh Mr. Zaman is here," his coworkers scrambled into arranged lines.

"So, what is it that you want to tell us, mister?" Mr. Zaman said.

The boy looked up and faced him, "I saw it first hand."

*** *** ***

Mr. Zaman and the other policemen listened. It sounded like a pure stinking pile of bullshit, but they listened. What narrative makes sense about these fucking cases anyway?

It was a late evening of October 25, Friday. Second day of the new curfew. So aside from those useless night patrolmen, the suburban was swarming with a few policemen as well. Perhaps equally useless policemen.

It happened at a rather deep corner of Fleece Suburban. The place, according to Leo, reeks of cow shit and as dark as a cave. It's at least five streets away from the crime scenes, Mr. Zaman noted.

On that particular night, the corner wasn't as dark as a cave. And it stank, not of cow shit, but of alcohol.

There was a drinking session - led by an old man called Captain. Mr. Zaman - and pretty much everyone else - know him. Thin and almost frail, yet bustling with vulgar energy. Wearing oversized tees like a cloth hanger. One wouldn't think that it's a relative of Fleece Suburban's owner. But that's him - a relative of someone who literally owns the land that they patrol on. Both the patrolmen and the policemen cannot just stop their late night merrymaking.

Leo waved at them, even having a shot of their whisky. It was a typical sight of a drinking session. Cheap monoblock chairs, a small wooden table, some nuts and meaty dishes. Captain and other men, half-naked and letting the October chill cast away the pinkish warmth of the alcohol. At the middle of the table was a portable speaker, as small as an apple. Beside it was an electric lamp, exuding light in the dark corner like a lone star.

Leo described them all. He couldn't just forget it.

And while the policemen and patrolmen didn't dare stop Captain's little fun, somebody else did.

The chatters of them men, the thumping of the shot glass, the crickets in the trees - it sounded perfect. A whistle of a door hinge isn't something that Leo expected to hear. But then he saw a dark figure emerge from the door at one of the houses.

It was a young woman named Jean, living two doors from Captain's house. Her chestnut colored hair glowed in the lamp light, it was messy. Her face was droopy and she moved in intermittent heavy steps, like a zombie. He pink lips - thick, just like the rest of her body - glowed too. Leo couldn't forget the white shirt, revealing her smooth, fair skin at her back and shoulders. She folded her arms on her plump breasts, blocking her bra-less chest. And her shorts were neon orange, silky, and most notably, thin. It flashes against the lamp light. The slick shorts could barely hold her huge ass and thighs. It was so cramped the shape of her panties were visible even in the dim light.

Leo admitted it when they asked: he found it hot. A young woman, appearing out of nowhere, walking in rough yet elegant sleepy walk...

Even Captain and his drinking-mates stopped chattering and looked at her. Jean smiled, her lips thinning into a small U shape. She asked the men to be quiet, as she couldn't sleep. Of course that offended the Captain.

Lots of useless questions were hurled at Leo at that point. But in the end, it was clear: Jean may be a sassy girl, but she communicated her request respectfully... and perhaps even sexily. As a response, the drunken old man stood up and vented his anger in a pervy way.

Mr. Zaman couldn't help but think of Apollo, aka case number 2. Jenny, case number 1's daughter actually babysits for Apollo's family. She described him like he was Captain's twin. Grumpy and arrogant, the old man would always scold her for her alleged laziness, and he would always seek opportunities to touch her in places where he shouldn't.

Jean, being a sassy girl that she was, went full rage at what the Captain did. She yelled:

I've been tolerating you for two whole hours!

Commotion slowly unfolds, and Leo decided to step in. He grabbed the girl by the shoulders, his hand on his baton. The girl resisted, shouting and jumping like a child on tantrums.

The men laughed at her, making crude sexual comments. This enraged Jean, who stood there, eyes fixed on the pervy men.

Leo told them in careful detail what he saw next: the Captain fell on his knees, as if he got struck by a lightning. It became fairly windy, as if the trees - the river - were blowing on them. The Captain fell to the ground on his stomach, his fearful eyes trying to reach Jean's. When his drinking mates tried to get him up, he wiggled. As if his body was made of jelly. It was like picking a cat, Leo said. He became liquid-like.

Not only that. He slowly shrank. Shrinking and shrinking until he's the size of a dog.

Panicking, Leo tried to get the girl back to her house, but to his horror, he too felt like jelly. He raised his baton as well as his voice. He threatened to call for backups, his other hand on his walkie talkie attached to his chest.

Jean stomped back to her house, like a little girl who got told to go to her room for misbehaving. But, as Leo noted, she was smiling. From ear to ear, the usual small U now a big confident crescent.

When she's gone, Captain heaved for air, as if he was just strangled. He was now normal -sized. Leo went to him to check him out. He told him he felt like jelly.

After telling his story, Leo looked at Mr. Zaman, as well as the other policemen. He was clearly worried they wouldn't believe him.

They asked him a lot of questions, which are all rooted in one: is this true, or is it bullshit?

A trick of the dim light? A hallucination? A dream? A made-up nonsense?

Mr. Zaman asked how will the information help them. As a response, Leo asked if he could share his "theory".

Mr. Zaman could barely hide his giggles, a theory, really?.

But he let him share it.

Apparently, the mountains possesses the people at the suburban. Playing with their body - turning their body into jelly, corned beef, or mummified mass in a toilet bowl. The winds that suddenly emerged that night made him think of that.

Most of the policemen couldn't hide their laughters and annoyance. But Mr. Zaman was serious when he declared that they will look into it. He filed the patrolman's report.

Mr. Zaman looked at his peer, Marky. A relatively new recruit, Marky boasts spontaneous and aggressive ways to solve his cases. Mr. Zaman was genuinely scared that people like him get to hold a firearm, but he liked his carefree, no-bullshit approach. He's the one who was handling cases 1 and 2.

Marky looked back at him, equally serious. Mr. Zaman knew it's one of those rare cases where they're thinking the same: possession of mountains didn't sound as bullshit as it was. As all the suspects that they interviewed reported being mesmerized by the mountains, or the river. But it's the suspects, not the victims who reported being mesmerized by the mountains.

Considering mountain possessions ironically felt like they're moving forward. The cases get less confusing, the puzzles get less puzzle-y, though the policemen involved get less sane.

*** *** ***

"Mountain possessions," Marky said, looking up as if the words are sprawled across the air in shiny letters. As if staring at it will remove the bullshit quality of it. It's like trying to erase the make-up of a clown's face.

Across his desk, Mr. Zaman was staring at the floor, the opposite of his gaze. His forehead was wrinkled, forming three squiggly lines. Marky respects the man, but even in their simple gazes he saw that they're like water and fire. Opposing forces. Marky being the fire: the compulsive the-sooner-it's-done-the-better boy. While Mr. Zaman a water. Calm, reflective, and collects itself before making an attack.

Like a hurricane.

Oh, yes, the hurricane! It ravaged here right before the first case was reported. Heck, he wouldn't even be surprised if that shit is the one which started all the fuckery in Fleece Suburban.

"The hurricane," he said, making the older officer look up. It's still hard to believe that they were teaming up right now. Merely because their current cases are in the same place?

"Correct," Mr. Zaman said, "the hurricane. It left a massive landslide in the mountain."

"Yes yes! Do you think that..." he trailed off.

"That the people are curious about the landslide? Yes. And that explains them staring at the mountain right?"

Marky nodded. He's glad that the man kept being rational amidst all these madness.

"So no mountain possessions, right?"

Marky nodded again, but more slowly. He couldn't help but feel like a dumb kid. Not that Mr. Zaman sounded condescending. It's just that he clung too much on the intriguing idea of mountains possessing people.

"Who are most likely to be suspects if it is a possession though?" Marky blurted without thinking too much.

The three lines in Mr. Zaman's forehead came back, "most... likely?"

"Right? For Horace we have his wife. Her pee wouldn't just teleport to his body right? For Apollo..."

"The dog? Because the dog's pee wouldn't just teleport to his body?" Zaman said, now condescending.

"No... er... What about Ben. He's your case right?"

Mr. Zaman didn't answer.

"Definitely Chloe right? Guy was found in the women's restroom a day after she took a shit. It makes sense."

"Don't jump to conclusions, Mark," he said.

"I'm not concluding. You always tell me that. So I'll tell you again: whatever comes off my mouth that's not written is nothing but a what-if."

Both fell silent. Even Marky realized it's far fetched. After all, the most mesmerized one was Jenny, Case Number 1's daughter. And she's not even in their suspects list. Wait... Jenny Young babysits Case Number 2's family...

"Jenny," he gasped, "Jenny Young. She babysits the family."

Mr. Zaman looked at him. To his surprise, he seemed like he's taking him seriously this time.

"She... doesn't like the victim Apollo... and she was mesmerized by the mountains..."

"River," Mr. Zaman corrected him, "she was staring at the river because she thought it'll overflow."

"Yeah yeah I know I know... like it's gonna attack!" Marky said, a bit irritated at being corrected at his own case.

"For fucks sake Marky!" the older officer grunted.

"Fine! What do you have?" he yelled.

"It's better to be empty than brimming with bullshit, Marky."

He stood up, ready to strike him. The older man didn't flinch, he even wore that bring-it-on face. He sighed and sat again.

"But what's up with Jenny and Charlotte Young though? Both of them seem to be involved... and... they're involved in the first two cases after all."

"First two recorded cases. Who knows if there is a hidden body somewhere there."

The thought chilled Marky.

"But I can see your point," he said, "but they're the descendants of the past owners of that land right? Do you think it's relevant?"

Marky knew. The Young family are among the few remaining descendants of the past owner of that land. In fact, it was the Case Number 1 himself - the lawyer, Horace - who arranged the terms of selling the land, making sure they get compensated. That's the biggest reason his wife hated him...

Marky suddenly stood up. The realization hitting him via a tsunami of thoughts.

Zaman, you're a fucking genius!

He was about to blurt that out to his confused companion, but he found himself running across the police station, to the telephone. He was calling Charlotte Young, Case Number 1's wife, for an interrogation.

*** *** ***

Charlotte Young had a bad feeling that they knew. That it wasn't a bug. She kept her word to the cops, however. As she recalled her peculiar experience last Sunday, October 20th, she still narrated that it was just a bug. An insect that she was abnormally angry at. A nasty looking cockroach the size of a fist, to be specific. That's exactly what she told the old cop when he asked him about what kind of insect it was.

But it wasn't a cockroach. And even if Charlotte decided to tell the truth, she probably wouldn't end up in jail but in a mental institution. It was her husband, Horace. No, it was her husband's clone.  Charlotte kept convincing herself that. It can't be her husband: a piece of origami paper, folded into a one inch tall person. A moving one inch tall person. That wasn't her husband. It wasn't her who killed him, mashed him into paste. But deep inside she knew, she knew it was him.

She have always loved origami. And thought for too many times how cool it would be if her husband was as vulnerable as a paper. One blow and he'll be gone.

They've always hated each other since he sold her ancestors' land. She despised him. Divorce was out of question a long time ago. It's a tricky thing in this country, plus it's probably not a good idea considering her husband was a lawyer. A successful, perfect lawyer he was.

But her anger piled up like thick magma that Sunday night. It was raining a bit due to the hurricane. The river was raging - so was she. She was mad at her husband for staying late outside. What could he possibly up to at a stormy Sunday night? She was so mad that tears form in her eyes while she did last minute laundry that evening. Power was out for the second night in a row - an unusual thing in this suburban, even during hurricanes. She handwashed the clothes, and hanged them indoors to dry.

In the first interrogation, she told the cop about the river in their backyard. How it raged. And the mountains, how the trees there hiss at the strong winds. She told them how she wanted to run to the mountains and let out her rage.

Weird details she knew, but those were the parts of the day that she wouldn't forget. The bug... the bug was obviously a slip. And she hoped that the cops would consider it as another unimportant detail. But as her interrogation went on today, she knew they didn't think so.

The "bug" appeared about 7 in the evening. When her husband's car arrived, her daughter opened the garage and let it in. Then her daughter went away, running back to her room, Charlotte immediately went to the garage, ready to lash her husband's face off as soon as he steps out of his vehicle. Her raging words accumulated in her throat, ready to shout them all: his late arrival, the lies he told her, him gaslighting her with technical legal details, him selling her ancestors' land, him sacrificing their relationship for money, him flaunting his "success" at her...

At that point, she thought of it again: she wished he was as vulnerable as a mere paper. She would run to the mountains and use all her rage to blow his arrogant ass off like a paper he was.

Her silly wish came true, as soon as she glanced at the window. She angrily opened the door - it was unlocked.

A big cockroach, sitting on the driver's seat. That's what she told the cops, but in reality, it was an origami art. A thin paper folded to resemble a person. It was in kneeling position, moving... moving! Crawling towards her as she stare. Charlotte immediately knew, for some reason: it was her husband crawling to her.

She leaned closer to it. It was really just paper, and seeing it grovel slowly was surreal. It looked up at her, it has two tiny holes for eyes. It made gestures with its hands. Charlotte frowned and suddenly grabbed it, crumpling it in her sweaty hand.

She got out of the car and looked at the paper in her hand. The crumpled person's shape was almost unrecognizable. It twitched and moved a bit, as if it was in pain. Thinking about it now, she realized it's easy to dehumanize someone and let out your rage at them at that form. Lightweight, faceless, and incredibly vulnerable.

She picked one twitching limb, grabbing it with her thumb and index fingers. Slowly, she teared it off. The crumpled paper-man flailed its body in protest. Frankly, it made no impact in whatever Charlotte was doing then. The limb, a mere strip of paper, was teared off easily. She crumpled the paper person again, despite its continued flailing. She closed her fists tightly, reducing the strange creature into a tight ball.

She looked at her fist. She had long, elegant fingers. In The Good Old Days - before her husband's profession poisoned his head - he would describe them as candle-like. He would kiss her hand, smooth and mildly smelling of hand lotion. Her nails will always be manicured and painted bright red.

Now, those little manicured fingers of her were surrounding her husband's whole body - his whole being. The entirety of her husband, right inside her fist.

She marched into her house, then out to the backyard, her fist tightly holding the paper-creature. She told the cops that she was holding the cockroach by its antenna. The purpose will remain the same: to dispose the disgusting creature.

Outside, the strong wet winds dominated the evening. It was as if a giant water spray was above them, spraying intermittently. The river raged from a distance.

She threw the paper with all her might into the ground. It bounced along the concrete floor, settling on a corner. The water sprays were not enough to reduce the paper ball into a sagging wet mass. It moved a bit, maybe due to the wind, maybe due to its own motions, fighting for it's own paperthin life.

She slowly walked to it, not minding the wet strikes of the wind or the cold wet concrete on her bare sole. She stopped and looked down at the struggling mass of paper near her feet. She raised her right foot's big toe, setting it on the paper. She has big feet with toenails also painted the same bright red. As she pressed slowly, she couldn't help but grin. The pathetic origami creature tried to flail more under her big toe, its crumpled movements looking like seizures.

She stopped and squatted, looking at it. Gently swiping strips of her blonde hair to the back of her ears.

She removed her toe on it. Then gently, she uncrumpled the paper. The combination of sweat and rainwater in her toe created a big wet mark in its torso and face. It's entire form was somewhat crystalline, due to the crumpling. It struggled to move, slowly groveling towards her. It stopped near her opened legs. Her husband had always loved those legs. Smooth and thin, yet meaty enough to get that plump appearance. The trembling paper-creature looked up, craning its neck upwards, to those cotton-clad majesties.

She loved how it had to crane its cracked head as far up as it can to see her face. Her giant face was practically hovering over him. She felt like a Goddess to him, ready to strike Her judgement. Ironically, her husband used to comment on how she looked like a goddess. One of those corny stuffs that happens in The Good Old Days. Her small nose had always been her insecurity, but he would tell her that it magnified her beautiful red lips and her sharp eyes.

As it craned to her face, it bowed. Again and again it bowed.

She giggled. She couldn't help it. She was a Goddess, and this paper mortal was begging for Her mercy! Unfortunately for him, She'll cast Her judgement now.

As the paper man bowed again, she hocked. She let out all the toxic bile inside of her as she gathered her pleghm from her throat to her mouth.

Noticing something wrong, paper man's tiny head quickly shot up. Then those lips, those sweet slick lips he'd kissed for so many times... released a bile yellow-white mass. It fell so slowly, forming a long line from her lips. But no matter how slow, the poor paper mortal didn't escape.

The spit was thick and disgusting. With few huge bubbles that pop loudly, and an almost solid jelly-like form. She could barely see the creature's face and torso, pinned beneath the mass.

It's feet and remaining arm protuded from the mass, flailing wildly. One of its legs got stuck on the pleghm. Now he was only flailing with two limbs. His motions were quickly deteriorating, as his paper body absorbed the spit.

Charlotte had never felt so high in power. To think that her mere spit can paralyze and dissolve a whole person...

She squatted and positioned herself right above the spittle - there was more spit than paper, more spit than a person. She pouted her lips as she prepared another mass, this time to shutdown those pesky remaining limbs. But she had a better idea. It was so good she swore she'd been thinking about it for a while.

She stayed there, squatting. Then she looked around. The garden is a solitary place, even if it is outdoors. It's especially true during stormy nights.

She grinned and grabbed her shorts and panties at the same time. She was wearing a thin cotton shirt that night, the lightweight type that fiercely wraps her massive thighs. She pulled them down for a bit, exposing her pussy. she shivered as the cold wind caressed it. Horace Young may be a cerebral man who is so absorbed in his profession, but they had quite an active sex life. That pussy hovering over the him now felt his fingers, his lips and tongue, his thighs, and of course his dick...

At that moment, Horace Young's beloved pussy will be the one that would finish him.

A warm stream erupted from the depths of her bladder. It felt like a release - both physically and emotionally. A release of anger, of ill memories, of long hidden dark secrets.

The stream glowed yellow even under the rainy night sky. It wiped off her spittle and pinned down the paper person into a wet and helpless spot on the ground. The ammonic smell warmed up the spot. She stood up after peeing, grinning at her mess. There was a long line of yellow water along the ground. It came from a big circle. In the middle of that circle is a sagging, flattened paper. Barely moving.

She raised her bare foot on it and stomped. Hard. She rested her feet on it. It was like an APPROVE stamp in a document, or a gavel in the courtroom. It was a finality, a FINISHED gesture. Now, her husband was beneath her foot. Finished.

Of course, she omitted the spit and pee part when she talked about it to the cops. In her story there, she jumped right into the FINISHED part. She simply dumped the cockroach on the ground and stepped on it.

After that, she picked up the paper creature/murdered cockroach with two fingers, her face scrunched in disgust. Even at arms length, she could catch its disgusting smell thanks to the winds. She then ran to the edge of the backyard and threw it as far away as she can. Towards the raging river. It sounded like it's hungry for something like a cockroach, or a ruined origami art.