Heat

The detective set his too-large briefcase down on the metal table across from Dylan, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Dylan slid his shoe back and forth through the puddle of grease accumulating on the concrete floor.

"So Mr. Smith," said the detective, pulling a notepad from the giant briefcase, "your official statement—your official legal statement—is that they tried to...fry you."

"Yes," said Dylan. A box fan buzzed somewhere in the bowels of the station, but otherwise, it was silent.

Dylan regarded his elbow, where the pink, raw skin was exposed beneath a giant burnt hole in his sweatshirt.

"You said that, due to an Internet rumor about human temperature converting..." he referenced his notes, pushing his glasses up his nose, "converting flesh into....diamonds? That they tried to fry you? To turn you into...diamond?"

They had, in fact. Grabbed him from the fast-food station, pulled him into the alley, dumped the grease-trap contents over half of his struggling body, and almost got him onto what he'd assumed was an industrial sheet-printer, before he'd kicked his way out and ended up here at the police station, smoking and covered in oil.

"Well," began the officer, removing a large object from the case as Dylan's jaw went slack, "just because it's on the Internet doesn't make it false, does it?" He leveled the flamethrower at Dylan.