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better way. The ride to the station was unbearable, or would have been had it not been for the tranquilizing liquid that festered in my stomach. Riding on the less-comfortable side of a police car is a very strange experience. After the tumult of arrest that leaves you with a farrago of emotions, the ride to the station is eerily tranquil. It also leaves you in an odd state where your thoughts are your biggest enemy. They stray into the hole of ideas about all of the possible consequences. My biggest concern was how to get home, hours away, without a ride. No, this night was not going well, and it was probably not going to get any better in the foreseeable future. The bastard swine had confiscated my car and taken my phone (which was in my car). To echo a previous sentiment, I was fucked. I walked into the police booking station as the last remains of my luck walked out. The place was a small sterile-white room with colorless lighting and a bench on one side, a few computers and devices lined up on a long desk, and another area with a mug shot camera separated by a glass divider. Sheng the cop asked me whether I wanted to take a breath test or a blood test. I mulled the option over 80

The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine  
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