On a quiet Friday night, Officer Jake Reynolds sat in his cruiser, parked across the street from Sully’s Tavern—the kind of place where the jukebox was always too loud, and the neon sign flickered like it was barely clinging to life. It was closing time, and Jake knew the drill. Any minute now, patrons would stumble out, some more confident than they should be about their ability to drive home.

As expected, the tavern doors swung open, and out came a man who looked like he was battling gravity. He was tall, wearing a wrinkled flannel shirt, and so unsteady on his feet that he nearly tripped over his own shoelaces. Jake watched as the man pulled out a set of keys and examined them as if trying to crack an ancient riddle.

Then came the show.

The man wandered the lot, trying his keys on one car after another. First a blue pickup, then a rusty sedan, then—rather optimistically—a motorcycle. Each time, he scratched his head, swayed a little, and moved on.

Meanwhile, the real action was happening in plain sight. Other bar patrons, more composed but no less intoxicated, slipped into their cars and drove off into the night without hesitation.

Jake stayed put, waiting. Watching.

Eventually, the wobbly man located what seemed to be his car—a battered old Buick with a peeling paint job. He collapsed into the driver’s seat with a triumphant sigh and shut the door. But he didn’t drive off. Not yet.

For the next ten minutes, he put on a performance worthy of an award. He flicked on the windshield wipers, though the sky was perfectly clear. He flashed the hazard lights. He honked—twice. Then he sat, staring straight ahead like he was waiting for divine intervention.

Finally, with the parking lot now eerily empty, he shifted into gear and rolled toward the exit.

That was Jake’s cue. He flipped on his lights and pulled the car over before it even reached the road.

The driver lowered his window, blinking at the flashing lights like they had personally offended him.

“Evening, sir,” Jake said. “You mind stepping out of the vehicle?”

The man nodded sluggishly and obeyed, swaying slightly as he stood.

Jake pulled out the breathalyzer, already expecting a high number. He had watched this guy stumble through the lot like a newborn deer—there was no way he was sober.

But when Jake checked the results, he frowned.

Zero.

Confused, he reset the machine and tested again. Same result.

Jake studied the man, who now wore a grin big enough to split his face.

“Well, that’s a first,” Jake muttered. “I think I need to take you in. This breathalyzer must be defective.”

The man let out a low chuckle and clapped Jake on the shoulder.

“Oh, it ain’t broken,” he said proudly. “I’m the designated decoy.”

Jake turned toward the empty lot, realization dawning. While he’d been watching the spectacle, the real drunks had already driven off scot-free.

With a reluctant chuckle, Jake shook his head.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”