Wait, stop -- that man, bloated beyond all recognition, was 42?

Wait, stop -- that man, bloated beyond all recognition, was 42?

It's what she said, yes.

Below the damage, the weeks of decomposition, all the swollen indignity of mortality -- he was 42 years old?

Where is this going?

How old are you? That's where this is going. Forty-five thousand litres of raw alcohol has left its disfigurements. What lies beneath, you wonder.

"Kim, how old do you think I am?"

"Huh?" The lieutenant isn't quite sure he heard you.

"Nothing." [Finish thought.]

"How old do I look?"

"How old? Fifty-eight."

"Maybe you're wrong. You were wrong about the deceased too, he was way younger."

"He was deceased. He had been decomposing for a week."

"You're right. I'm probably 62. Let's leave it at that."

"I didn't say 62, I said 58." He squints, looking at you for a second.

Wait! This requires scientific measurements.

I don't want to think about this anymore.

Okay. Seek not the truth. Cower in barbarism, you 58-year-old man-child.

Bring it on. I am not afraid of the truth.

To the Laboratorium!

"I feel like I've been decomposing for longer than that."

"On the bright side, you've been getting a lot of exercise lately."

"Alcoholism has a similar effect on living tissue, I hear."

There's silence.

Then a little more.

Here it comes -- mercy.

"Sure -- you're 42." He squints. "Let's go?"

"What if you're wrong? We were both wrong about the deceased -- he turned out to be 40!"

"Forty-two. And he was deceased. He had been decomposing for a week."

"You're probably right. That's about what I look."

"Actually, make that 54." He squints. "Alcoholism has severely impacted your appearance."

"And I was wrong about the age of the deceased. "

"Oh my god, that's really old -- really?"

"You asked." He shrugs.

(Turn around.) "Miss, how old do you think I am?"

"Huh?" She leans in closer. "How old do I think you are?"

She's buying time to formulate the best answer.

Look who's finally awake!

"I don't know... 40? I was like 9 when OO peaked. That was, what? Nineteen years ago? I liked them when I was 9. You couldn't have liked it when you were 40..."

"Let's say you were twenty-something. Twenty five. A good disco age. Twenty five plus nineteen is forty four. I'm gonna say you're 44."

Wow!

"Forty four? You think so?"

"Look -- at the end of the day, age is just a number, you know."

"Yes miss, but..." The lieutenant disagrees. "For him that number is 56."

"Wow."

"Yeah. I have a university degree, you know." She flicks ash from her cigarette.

"Forty four? I'm young!"

"Absolutely. Age is just a number, man."

"I don't know... As old as time itself? Ageless? Fifty-thousand years old? I don't know what I'm supposed to say? How old is an Apocalypse Cop?"

"I think I'm circa 55."

"You're not." He's squinting at you.

"Sure he is. You know, age is just a number."

"Yes. But for him that number is 56."

"That's pretty much it, but... Age is just a number anyway, you know." She extinguishes her cigarette.

"I think I'm circa 35."

"You're not." He's squinting at you.

"Sure he is. You know. Age is just a number."

"Yes. But for him that number is much larger than 35."

"Sure. Age is just a number, you know." She extinguishes her cigarette. "It's all in your head."

"I think I'm circa 45."

"You're not." He's squinting at you.