[Cont.]
Now, realizing what I have done — although the boulder is so large that nothing can be seen beneath it except the the man’s unmoving legs protruding, it’s fairly certain that the weight of the rock smashed the overseer’s skull and killed him on impact — I think to myself:
“Nobody’s going to believe that you did this in self-defense; you need to get out of here as fast as you can, or the justice system will sentence you to death, and then you’ll never be able to fulfill your dream of expiring naturally from overwork.”
So I run from the field until I come to a fork in the road. I take the path less traveled, and that makes all the difference:
There is a taxi waiting with its door open; so I climb in. The vehicle speeds forward upon the dirt road. Its driver explains that she is a big fan of all my fake novels, that’s why she parked here, in the middle of nowhere — for she was able to deduce, by paying attention to this present story’s plot, that I would end up running away from a job as a fieldworker at about this time; and she also knew that I have a propensity to end up in the middle of nowhere, during my adventures.
Soon, the police cars are seen approaching us in the rearview mirror; and we begin to hear the familiar whine of their sirens. Dutifully, my driver pulls over to the shoulder of the road. The foremost officer in the long line of vehicles pursuing me parks his motorcycle directly behind us and approaches the driver’s side of our taxi, while the rest of the multitude of cop cars all slow down and come to a stop in pyramid-formation behind this initial officer’s bike.
My driver rolls down her window. “Good afternoon,” she sez.
“Yes, a fine day,” the officer replies, pressing two fingers to the side of his helmet’s opaque silver face-shield and performing a firm nod, in lieu of tipping his hat.
“Do you know why you pulled me over?” asks my driver.
The officer places his hands at his sides and sez, “No: you tell me.”
My driver smiles: “It’s cuz I was speeding.”
The officer shakes his helmet slowly side to side. “Are you being smart with me?”
“No, I’m serious; I was going at least fifteen miles over the posted limit,” sez my driver. “Look at the sign on the roadside, and check that against the number on your velocity radar gun.”
The policeman looks up and sees that there’s a speed-limit sign only a few paces away from our vehicle (this is one advantage of filming in a studio, as opposed to on location — you can place the needed stage props wherever they’re convenient for the shot); so the cop steps over and pencils the number down on his mini detective’s notepad. Then he holds up his gloved finger as if to say “Just a moment — I must head back to my motorcycle to retrieve the handheld laser gun,” and he walks over and opens the storage compartment at the rear of the bike. He pulls out a speed gun, aims it at our taxi and pulls the trigger. The side of the gun prints out a number, which he tapes next to the number on the same page of his notepad that he was writing in earlier.
“Everything checks out,” sez the cop as he leans one elbow on the driver’s side door of our taxi. He holds forth in his free hand the mini notepad, so that my driver can see it. The pad is open to the page where two numbers are displayed.
“I like what I see here,” remarks my driver, and she nods confidently. “I think we did a good job.”
The cop probably smiles proudly, but we cannot say for sure because, as I mentioned before, his helmet’s face-shield is opaque silver. He places the notepad back in his blue uniform’s breast pocket and fastens the button of the pocket’s flap, so that the object is secure. Then he leans back down upon the window frame of the front door and attempts to look inside the cab. “Any passengers?” he sez.
“Yes, one,” my driver tells the truth: “this man here: Bryan Ray.”
The officer’s helmet jerks keenly upon hearing this, and one of his hands reaches for his holstered firearm. “Bryan Ray? The Abomination of Desolation?” The cop is all nerves.
“Yes, yes, but he’s now some sort of physician, or half werewolf samurai horse-donkey combo. It’s hard to keep track.”
The police officer visibly relaxes. He takes his hand away from the firearm and places both arms back on the door frame. “Ah, so we’re just having a joyride, are we? Maybe planning on mauling some people in a choo-choo train?”
“No, I already leaped off the train — that was in my other book,” I say from the back seat.
The cop tenses up: “Who said that!?” He unholsters his weapon and fires six bullets into the back seat, mere centimeters away from my left elbow.
“That was me,” I wave; “sorry, I should’ve introduced myself earlier.” I extend my hand for the police officer to shake. “I’m Bryan, the escaped farm-laborer. I just murdered my master. The act was premeditated — I had drawn up elaborate plans, which you can find in the shed where I slept. (That was back in the days when I still allowed myself an occasional hour of slumber — so that’s how long I’ve been planning this crime.) I left on foot, after beginning to fear that the law would catch up with me and kill me. You see, I really would prefer to either die from working overtime at some white-collar job, or else just drink myself to death. You know: vodka, gin, absinthe…”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the cop seems truly to mean his words; “I only opened fire because I assumed that there might be a vicious animal loose in the taxi, like a possum or aardvark. The other day I saw a young deer by the side of the footpath near Thomas Lake Park when I was walking, and I thought to myself: ‘The trees should be able to sense the presence of wildlife, so that the poor creatures do not need to lift their heads to eat the leaves: the trees instead should lower their branches and serve them like waiters in a restaurant.’ Anyway, that was my thought — perhaps you can use it in your next novel, to fill up a little space. (I understand that you get paid by the word.) But, yeah, I highly recommend death-by-alcohol. I’ve seen a lot of people expire in a lot of bad ways, but alcoholism is one of the very finest. Just think: you get to sit there drinking and drinking, feeling warm and happy and loved, until the world changes you into a butterfly. I hope that helps. — Here, take my card.”
The officer leans into the cab and extends his arm as far as he can reach, in order to offer me his business card. He waves it before my face, as if to entice me to take it, but I sit patiently and keep my hands at my side.
“What? You don’t want it?” sez the cop.
I give no answer but only smile serenely as if I can’t hear him or see the card that he’s jiggling before me. I am hoping that the man simply goes away.
“Jeez, fine,” the cop draws back his arm and re-pockets the card. (I can tell that my driver is annoyed by this scene, because she must put up with the officer’s body pressing against her when he tries to make this handoff to me.)
The cop stands up and touches his helmet again politely, in a sort of salute. “You folks have a nice day.”
“You, too,” sez my driver, and she blows him a kiss. I then see in the rearview mirror that the cop mimics her motions with his gloved hand, touching his helmet and then moving as if he’s blowing a kiss back to our taxi, as we speed away.
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