It was just the three of them.  The cop tied to the chair, and the two suited robbers—one bleeding on the floor, the other sitting on the back of the old car.  Just the three of them. The cop knew what came next, because his captor was far from original.
 
“Alone at last,” she said, hopping down from the car.  The tired shocks raised considerably in her absence.  Sauntering over to the tied up cop, she removed her jacket, exposing her suspenders and holster.  Reaching the cop, she cracked a smile.  “Excuse me, but I think my tag is expired.”  The cop stared back blankly.  “WAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
 
“That's wrong, though.”  The robber looked at the cop.  “It's something about his parking.  'I'm parked in the red zone' or something.”  
 
The smack from the robber echoed throughout the empty building.  “I'm not looking for answers.  I'm just going to torture you~!”  
 
“No, no no no, the setup is all wrong!”  The cop was now shaking his dirty blonde hair hard.  “The whole scene was a masterpeice, and you're ruining it!”
 
“I am an avid fan of American murder-mysteries!”  she cried back, suddenly angry.  
 
“What are you even talking about?  It's an action movie!”
 
“No, it's a mystery!  See, nobody kno--”
 
“I think you mentioned torture.”  The cop knew what came next, but listening to her for even another minute would be the end of him.
 
“Right!  The torture!”  She bounced off to the side, where she grabbed a roll of duct tape.  
 
“You have entirely the wrong disposition.”
 
“Diswhat?” she asked, stopping in her tracks.
 
“Dis-po-si-tion.  Attitude.  Mr. Blonde was cool and collected, you're way too... I dunno the word, but you're not Mr. Blonde.  Mrs. Blonde.”
 
“But I'm Mrs. Pink.”  The gears in her head seemed to be audibly crunching.  “Lilly is Mrs. Blonde, not me.”
 
“You're not supposed to know her name, either!  Look, Mr. Blonde is the guy who tortured the cop, Mr. Orange is the narc--”
 
“We don't have an Orange.  We're Red, Blonde, Pink, Blue--”
 
“Oh my fucking jesus.  Just do it already.”
 
The confused look snapped out of her eyes.  “Right!  Well then.”  She shifted her weight a little bit to take a more menacing stance, but the almost autistic smile on her face was ruining it.  “Well then.  I don't expect you to talk, Mr. Police man.  I expect you to enjoy this torture session!”
 
The cop tried to protest again, but found his mouth taped shut.  He was hoping she wouldn't fuck up the torture, but he knew to expect otherwise.
 
“Do you like Sunny FM's Totally 80's Weekend?” she said, picking up a radio.  As she started playing with the dials, she tried walking towards the cop again, where she promptly dropped it on the ground.  “Oh, darn, I broke the antenna!.”  She looked around the table, and produced a CD from under a pile of papers.  “Don't worry, I have this Tarantino mix tape Shichan made for me!  I'm sure it's got it on there...  I think.”  As she placed the CD in the drive, the cop rolled his eyes.
 
“Track four... Track... fouuurr... Here we—oh, crap, I overshot it.  Oh, the back button doesn't work... Ugh... Eighteen, nineteen, one, two three fou—CRAP.”  She looked over at the cop.  “Don't worry, I've got it taken care of!”  She turned back to the radio.  “Ok.  Eighteen.  Nineteen.  One.  Two.  Three.  FOUR.  There we go!”