The Night Wasp

The police cruiser crawled past, slow and low, sinisterly somehow. He figured it was the connotation; perhaps in the far future, the “common” people would respond to the black and white with an instinctive recoil of cerebellum terror usually reserved for spiders, snakes, and other scrabbling things with fangs, spines, and lightning reflexes.

He was ambivalent towards the police, now that he had nothing to hide. Sure, they kept the peace, but were sometimes rough in their dealings of small matters. He never forgot the summer warmth of steel on his wrists, a tight and cruel gift for attempting to communicate with his hands. You can’t expect a deaf man to spotanteously engage in verbal dialogue after a childhood of skipping speech class.

Blatant bigotry wasn’t something he easily forgave. Such people were to be distrusted, their illusion of status denied. Position is just a mantle and a badge just another bauble to enthrall the public into submission. He couldn’t believe such flimsy foundations justified oppression.

As the cruiser dwindled into a pair of red smears in his rearview mirror, a strange relief, which he resented immensely, washed over him.

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