“One, please,” you say to the severe-looking police officer behind the Explosives Licensing desk.
The cop regards you with an unamused and slightly inquisitive gaze. He shakes his head slightly and shrugs. What?
“Oh, sorry,” you say apologetically. “One explosives license. Yes. How much?”
“Sir,” says the officer, breaking his silence, “what is the purpose of your application for a destructive device permit?”
“Nutria,” you answer without hesitation.
The cop leans back in his chair and covers his mouth with a hand. “Nutria.”
“Nutria. They’re everywhere.”
“Sir, you don’t need explosives to kill nutria.”
“There’s that word. It’s always that word. Need. Sure, I can kill a nutria with a gun, or poison, or a hammer and god knows I have, but can I ask you one question, officer?”
The trooper, wanting to see where this goes, nods silently.
“Yeah, you can kill the water rats any old way you please, but don’t you wanna be sure they’re dead? Don’t wanna take any chances, know what I mean?”