Talk to nicely.

My face collides with the wet pavement as the cop tackles me about the waist.

I can feel the skin on my cheek shredding as we slide for a couple of feet.

Get your f***-up.

The cop is already back on his feet, screaming in my ear and grabbing my arms.

Did you hear me? Get the f*** up!

My arms feel like they are going to be yanked out of their sockets when he hauls me upright.

Pain radiates everywhere. My face bleeds.

The cuffs are on my wrists before I can say a word.

Not like I will say a word. Words are not my friends. And what would I say anyway? This?

Sorry, officer. You have the wrong guy.

Or this?

Messages? What messages?

Maybe this?

23 people dead? I know nothing about that. I could go on and on, but it'd be all b-h-one one way or another.

I know about the messages, except I call them scribbles, and I know about all the dead people.

And if there is a wrong guy, it's not me.

I have been deep in this shit for a long while.

The cop drags me back to his partner, who is leaning against a lamp post, his chest

heaving up and down as he struggles to catch his breath. You gonna make it?

The cop stops at the lamp post. My arms pulled halfway up my back, pain telling me that

if he lifts even an inch more, then things in me that shouldn't tear will tear.

...