“I don’t believe you”.
Inspector Graves leaned back on his metal folding chair. Across the bare table the suspect sat, calm as could be, not even brushing the energy bar crumbs from his admittedly feeble attempt at a mustache. At 23, Junior was not embarrassed about anything, not his facial hair, not the smiley face tattoo poorly sketched on the side of his neck, not even at the short and scrawny appendage that always stuck out at attention between his chunky thighs. Junior knew, deep down in his heart, that all of his physical shortcomings served him well as distractions from the mastermind lurking behind those pale, near-sighted eyes.
“Cameras don’t lie,” the inspector continued, pushing a piece of paper across the table. Junior barely glanced at the image clearly showing him pocketing the can of diet cola in the not-so-darkened corner of the gas station convenience store.
“Deep fake,” he scoffed. “That shit’ll rot your teeth.”
A wide smile spread across his face. Teeth don’t fail me now, he thought. They’d gotten him out of even tighter scrapes than this before.