Brooklyn 99

A Hot Summer Night in Brooklyn 99

The air inside the 99’s holding cell was so loaded with testosterone and Axe body spray that Amy could practically see the haze. Still, she was riding high: third time this month she’d put away the Donegan boys, and the paperwork was going to look delicious.

Yes, they were three slabs of Brooklyn-grade beef with a collective IQ that wouldn’t cover the tip at a diner. But it was still satisfying nonetheless, especially after the cussing out they’d given her.

The cell door thunked shut behind them, and already they were at each other’s throats. This was standard. Less standard: the argument was about grammar.

“I’m telling you, it’s ‘Donegan’s Rulez’, apostrophe S!” barked the eldest, Mickey, who was only distinguishable from his siblings by a slightly less tragic haircut.

“Bro, you’re such a moron, it’s plural—no apostrophe!” chimed in the middle brother, whose name Amy could never remember because his face was so generic it practically reset itself between bookings.

The third Donegan, the runt, piped up, “Wait, but if it’s our gang, shouldn’t it be like, S apostrophe?” His voice cracked like an overcooked cannoli shell.

Amy’s ears prickled. She couldn’t help herself. The call of incorrect grammar was too strong, like a spelling bee buzzer straight to her amygdala. She spun on her heel and fixed the trio with a look she reserved for people who said “irregardless” or used “literally” to mean “figuratively.”

“Gentlemen,” she said, drawing out the word as if it were a challenge, “it’s ‘Donegans Rule’, no apostrophe, unless you’re talking about something that belongs to you, like your complete lack of self-awareness. Plurals don’t get apostrophes. This is basic stuff.”

Mickey squinted at her, lip curled. “Oh yeah? Then why does my tattoo artist always put the little comma thingy on my name?”

Amy felt her blood pressure spike. “Because your tattoo artist has a criminal disregard for punctuation and possibly an undiagnosed head injury.” She mustered her most withering glare, which by her count had a 73% success rate in silencing perps.

But the brothers just blinked at her, their collective brain cells grinding away like a rusty bike chain.

She huffed, turned, and started to walk away—but the graffiti on the cell wall caught her eye. Scrawled in thick blue marker, it read: DONEGAN’S RULEZ. The offending apostrophe glared at her. Amy’s left eyelid twitched. She reached into her pocket, fished out a Sharpie, and marched back to the cell.

“Watch and learn,” she said, uncapping the marker with a flourish. She crossed out the apostrophe, then added a helpful note: (NO APOSTROPHE FOR PLURALS). “There. Now the whole precinct can learn from your mistakes.”

She turned to leave, but the metallic clang of the cell door made her freeze. She whipped around. The three brothers were suddenly very close, their faces looming above her like a wall of denim and questionable dietary choices.

Uh-oh…