Saturday Morning

Just out of the academy. A boy. A rookie. He came sauntering down the street teeming with pedestrian traffic. A vision of respectability. Of law. Of order. A strange and inscrutable machine behind him. This half god. The black peak of his officer cap gleamed in the sun. His uniform neatly ironed: the seams sharp enough to cut men, to spill their blood. Down the street someone shouted: Pickpocket! Too quickly he reached for the gun, holding it ineptly and nervously in the air. A frightful, ridiculous scene. We all too felt sorry for him: this half god, overwhelmed by the sudden and heavy power of death he held in his hand…

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