(no subject)
He heard the words and he heard his own arrest, each click and draw and every accent a language takes in the linguistics of authority. He absorbed the abrupt interruption, as an arrest is always intrusive, pervasive even, and felt the shock on his senses. He drew and experienced the entire 180 degrees of emotion and terror of how an arrest affects both the criminal and the unfortunate.
He had to hold on to all this shock and terror, force himself to panic and paranoia.
When they allowed him his phone call he ordered out for pizza. He hadn't had pizza in years. In his mind his crime was homicide and he hadnt had pizza in years.
He had no idea that he could be arrested for reckless behavior. He had assumed that the consequences of such would be served by more personal and social elements.
He thanked the pair of police for their consideration and selflessness in barring him in such self-afflicted harm. Their pair of pair of eyes shared the same monotone of color that spoke "used to this sort of shit."
Beyond the bars he watched a six inch antenna television that was placed among finger-print ink and carbon copies of misdemeanor civil offenses. pink, green, yellow, white. black print. Each bureaucratic organization assigned a different position on the optical color spectrum. The justice system narrowed down to ROYGBV and a rainbow of filing cabinets.
The television was playing half snow static and half local news. amateur hand-held camera footage of a twentysomethings riot. Angst in intellectual prime aimed at any general perceived injustice.
all t-shirts and jeans swarming as a comfortable cotton and denim fashion bent on destruction of windows and anything easy enough to topple. The volume turned up enough to catch the collective crowd voice and fragments of raised vocal commentary.
When he called out for pizza, his gave his address as "behind bars."
"Is that an apartment complex?"
"its an artists loft."
"Okay, and the address?"
"talk to the warden."
The camera, shaky and naturally never fixated on any particular element of the chaos, hardly dodged flung debris and desperate, scrambling participants. When he saw the tear gas, he decided to judge the cameraman's true resolve. He would judge him as a man by how much he would cough or how soon he would flee.
He counted a stifled yelp, once. A haggard gag. twice. The camera barely budged.
He felt this man as timeless and then considered his options for toppings.
The guard had hung up returned to his pens and hip flask. He brushed aside enough paperwork to cleanly write what was imagined as a grocery list. The criminal records now piled on either side of his concentration. Carbon copies of a weeks worth of sought and caught. Every mans' crime came in four different colors. Each offense unable to escape the scrutiny of even science and photons. In this way, judgment and personal records travel at the speed of light. In hindsight, he thought, criminals should beg for shades of grey and grainy black and white of an obsolete media.
He had to hold on to all this shock and terror, force himself to panic and paranoia.
When they allowed him his phone call he ordered out for pizza. He hadn't had pizza in years. In his mind his crime was homicide and he hadnt had pizza in years.
He had no idea that he could be arrested for reckless behavior. He had assumed that the consequences of such would be served by more personal and social elements.
He thanked the pair of police for their consideration and selflessness in barring him in such self-afflicted harm. Their pair of pair of eyes shared the same monotone of color that spoke "used to this sort of shit."
Beyond the bars he watched a six inch antenna television that was placed among finger-print ink and carbon copies of misdemeanor civil offenses. pink, green, yellow, white. black print. Each bureaucratic organization assigned a different position on the optical color spectrum. The justice system narrowed down to ROYGBV and a rainbow of filing cabinets.
The television was playing half snow static and half local news. amateur hand-held camera footage of a twentysomethings riot. Angst in intellectual prime aimed at any general perceived injustice.
all t-shirts and jeans swarming as a comfortable cotton and denim fashion bent on destruction of windows and anything easy enough to topple. The volume turned up enough to catch the collective crowd voice and fragments of raised vocal commentary.
When he called out for pizza, his gave his address as "behind bars."
"Is that an apartment complex?"
"its an artists loft."
"Okay, and the address?"
"talk to the warden."
The camera, shaky and naturally never fixated on any particular element of the chaos, hardly dodged flung debris and desperate, scrambling participants. When he saw the tear gas, he decided to judge the cameraman's true resolve. He would judge him as a man by how much he would cough or how soon he would flee.
He counted a stifled yelp, once. A haggard gag. twice. The camera barely budged.
He felt this man as timeless and then considered his options for toppings.
The guard had hung up returned to his pens and hip flask. He brushed aside enough paperwork to cleanly write what was imagined as a grocery list. The criminal records now piled on either side of his concentration. Carbon copies of a weeks worth of sought and caught. Every mans' crime came in four different colors. Each offense unable to escape the scrutiny of even science and photons. In this way, judgment and personal records travel at the speed of light. In hindsight, he thought, criminals should beg for shades of grey and grainy black and white of an obsolete media.