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While the Asian cop lectured me on the use of the thing, my eyes tiptoed over to the gun in his holster. I imagined myself stepping behind him in a swift, decisive move and snatching it from him. I imagined taking off the safety and firing round after round into the two meddlesome pricks, each bullet hurdling through the air and wreaking unspeakable mayhem on impact. Then I would dash from the scene in their car and later, commandeer a small jet, fly it out of the country, settle down on an island, maybe marry a Natalie Portman. Take that Uncle Sam. Before they stuck that intrusive piece of plastic in my mouth, I asked the officer what his name was. He shot a crooked eyebrow and tapped his name tag. Sheng. “No, what’s your first name?” Sheng the cop looked at his partner and said, “Christian.” His uneasiness was apparent, and I found it a small victory that I could make him squirm. It was comforting to see that behind his tough guy exoskeleton was a child, lost playing a game of men. At least it’s what I liked to think. The other cop stood unseen behind me as Sheng penetrated my warm open mouth with the device’s hard tube. A soft whimper escaped me. It was as if The 78

The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine  
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