“What’s in a name?”
“Look at your plate.”
“You’re equating me and you?”
“No”, he took a deep breath. “I’m just stopping you from making me do that.”
The commissioner stared into his face. Whether or not into his eyes was tough to tell because black in black can cause illusions. An equal match of power, shameless to say, had both of them agree against the prospect of participation by entities other than themselves in this discussion-to-be, and it was indeed unorthodox on the policeman’s part having wanted this in the first place. A drink refused citing reputation more than poisons, he found he had to spend the interstices of conversation staring at his counterpart down the only thing that could ever get him anywhere close to ‘vulnerable’. And although not a Sean Maguire idea, the commissioner did attempt to replace his moments of silence with rhetoric.
“You won’t do it?”
“I just don’t see why.”
“For once…” began the policeman, fighting to keep himself subdued.
“Hmm”, he smiled. “You’re not getting me interested.”
The commissioner heaved again. “Do you know-”
“So I’m going to stand trial?” he asked, testily, with more than just a hint of sarcasm.
There was silence where the commissioner’s face turned menacing, his anger being confronted by the battle he staged to channelize it to something constructive. The opponent took another gulp.
“If I weren’t representing the interests…” he began, his hand moving instinctively to an empty holster.
“Why can’t you, even for a second, admit”, he raised his voice much higher than the commissioner to ensure that the latter stopped with his remark, “that what is, is, and there’s nothing you can do about it, like there’s nothing you have ever done anything about it before?”
There was no bang on a table simply because there was no table in between, but there indeed was a pause that could be compared to the aftermath of such a deed.
“You”, he gestured, “are so flawed…”
“No I’m not”, the commissioner shook his head. “You have no-”
“Oh yes you are!” he laughed. “You farm dogs, you great Danes…”
“That’s enough.”
“Is there even a you to you?” he bit his lip, narrowing his eyes. “You’re moving the shit that moves with you only because you’re let to, and that’s only about the shit!”
The echoing room could be a cliché, but it still was so. The commissioner squeezed his nose and looked down as he, calm as he forcedly was, spoke again.
“Look”, he gesticulated to the ground. “I’m not here to discuss your philosophy of wrongdoing and you’re not signing my picture-book!” he shouted, anticipating interruption. “I’m here with a proposal… their proposal, and-”
“Get down”, he cut him short again. “On your knees.”
He took out the antique lighter that was a gift, took out the cigar he had on him, put it in his mouth, lit it with the loudest click, snapped it shut and took a puff as the policeman obeyed orders: a sight in itself.
“Now…” he said, blowing a hefty amount of smoke around him. “Beg.”
No comments:
Post a Comment