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I grabbed my keys from the bedside table and headed outside. No sooner than I turn onto the road that from my rearview mirror a pair of howling red and blue lights signaled the presence of a fucking shiteater (that’s “cop” for those unfamiliar with the improv vernacular of those in an Oh Shit mindset). Turns out what I had previously assumed to be a gradual ramp from a parking lot onto the street was nothing less than a slab of sidewalk jutting from the side of the road. Needless to say, I was promptly pulled over as feelings of dread, fear and loathing basted my brain like gravy. The cop—hereafter discarding invective references to coprophagia—exited his vehicle with a wide step, and approached my car, taking it slow as if to show that, yes, he was in control here. As he neared, I looked forward, towards dead road, conscious of the severity, but aware of the possibility of escape, if composure remained. Steps on loose gravel. Threat imminent. A pale round light. Scene replete with red-blue repeating. Bloated delay. Suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my window-door. This was no raven though, but a man in raven uniform. He was standing in my blind spot and was ticking on the glass 73

The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine