Conversation · Jean Vicquemare

"I know who Jacob Irw is. I wanted to give you a chance to stop fucking me. How naive of me. You drove a 45,000 reál police vehicle into the ocean -- what did I expect?"

"I don't know. I don't know what it's doing there."

"I do. You drove it into the water. Everyone on this street saw you do it. It's going to be a local landmark too -- on the brochure. Thank you for fucking us, Harry."

"The time had come. Tequila Sunset."

"Ha-ha-ha, ho-ho-ho." He grabs his stomach in mirthless laughter. "Tequila Sunset -- not Sunrise, because you're almost dead. So funny, Harry. Thank you for fucking me."

"I drove it into the ocean when I was drunk."

"So refreshing. He just admits it. Thank you for your honesty. Thank you for destroying 45,000 reál of police property that's coming out of everyone's payslip."

"Hold on, in the ocean?" (Feign ignorance.)

"Yes. In the ocean. Under the sea. Our work vehicle -- with fish and clams and other sea-shit."

"Fuck all of you, I don't want to be in your unit."

"No, Harry -- FUCK YOU. You already fucked us -- I've already explained this shit to Pryce twice. To Berdyayeva -- four times. I'm your partner. I answer for you when you're not there."

When you clocked out, I became responsible for your cases -- and your special task force.

"I'm ready to lead again."

"No one even mentioned that." He looks at you, then at Trant. "I misphrased my question. It should have been: Is he able to put his clothes on, and use the potty, or do we need to get him on a disability pension?"

"He's wrong. I'm too far gone for work."

"Agreed, Harry." He nods. "Just don't expect us to get you a disability pension. Cops who actually gave a shit are waiting in line. You're not gonna hog their seat."

"Okay, Trant, thank you. That's... absolutely meaningless. I'm glad we brought you. Will he or will he not be able to work in the Major Crimes Unit? Is he a cretin now? I want to know that."

"He has hinted at the possibility before. I have trouble believing him, of course, but he seems to want to convince himself of it. And I've seen him work. His methods are... unorthodox."

"Yes. It's really, really hard to believe. Because it's idiotic and not true. It's not possible to wipe your own memory. Even with the amount of Potent Pilsner you down every hour."

"You're simply lying. Or insane. Or both."

"Who's Son of Lung?"

"It's an urban myth -- a police detective who employs highly experimental investigative techniques. It's a cultural reference, detective."

"This is all pointless. I have completely TRANSCENDED all of this. You have no idea what I just saw!"

"Shut up! You didn't wipe your own memory. We're not even considering that option. It's not possible. Even with the amount of Potent Pilsner you down every hour."

"I have accomplished things no normal detective ever has. I have detected a..."

"I made it all up. It was a fantasy, a stupid joke. I know what I am."

"And what is that?"

"A heartbroken drudge."

"That is what I thought -- at first. That it was a fantasy. But... I've seen him work. It's not. He really is experiencing something out of the ordinary. He really does not remember."

"Lieutenant, I'm sorry, but you've been bewitched by the shitkid. It happens. I know it's hard to accept, but he made it all up -- because he's a psychopath. It's a simple explanation."

"Detective Vicquemare... he has blacked out before. We should take this seriously."

"Pig's lying. He's clearly got something real fucked up going on up in here." He twists his index finger at his temple.

"Got that right, kid -- he's a psychopath, and he made up this whole amnesia story to fuck with us."

"I can believe that. Shitkid made it all up to fuck with us -- because he's a psychopath. This is typical Harry behaviour. A sick joke. I told you, Jude."

"A police detective."

"A drunk and a loser."

"Something so sad happened to me that I couldn't be me anymore. It was a defence mechanism."

"Psychotraumatic amnesia? Trant?" He turns to the special consultant. "I can go for that -- shitkid is a broken man, always has been. Who isn't? I know I am. But you know what?"

He turns back to you. "I keep my shit together. Also, I know a person can't wipe their own mind -- however traumatic it gets. That doesn't happen. You're lying. Or insane. Or both."

"But, Detective Vicquemare," she interjects. "He has blanked out before."

"I drank so much I lost my memory. And I'm now slowly recovering it."

"He is -- he's getting better. And I can confirm that he drank a lot of alcohol prior to it happening."

"I believe he drank," he turns to you. "People do that -- especially this one. What they don't do is forget their whole life because of drinking."

"I believe you drank. People do that -- you especially. What they don't do is forget their whole life because of drinking."

"Capitalism. Capitalism fucked me beyond all recognition. Trant is right."

"Look at F. Booho here! Victim of the ethanol-industrial complex. What are you, an inva-communist now? You think this is a joke?"

He turns to the special consultant. "Asking him was a mistake -- he's a teenage psycho. I asked you. It's not possible to wipe your own memory with alcohol alone, right? He's either lying or insane."

"Wait, socioeconomically? You think I'm so poor I lost my memory?"

"Not when you phrase it like that. But I don't think critical theory -- I know everyone thinks this is far-fetched, pink academia, but still -- I don't think it should be off the table here."

"What?! He lost his memory because of capitalism?"

"No, not like that, I'm not talking Vredefort School here. But, Harry, I asked you -- what do you think happened?"

"It might have something to do with an anomaly in the church. A two-millimetre hole in the world."

"Corresponding to the twenty-centimetre hole in your brain? Sure. This theory has great symmetry. I see how it folds into itself neatly."

Precisely, Satellite-Officer Vicquemare. It's Martinaise.

"I knew you would be too closed-minded to understand the anomaly."

"This sounds odd -- but I was there. The church on the coast was shaking from an audio-spatial anomaly. It may have been entroponetic, or perhaps related to radio waves..."

"Either way, it was real. I've even put it in my report -- you should read it. I do not, however, think it has anything to do with him drinking himself to the point of brain damage."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Kitsuragi. Just to clarify -- I do not think isolary entroponetics are a hoax. Pale produces global phenomena -- it's proven. However..."

"...what has not been proven is total memory loss after drinking too much Commodore Red. Honestly, I think he's just lying to us."

"Yes-yes. Anomaly. Look, I get it. In your delirium you came up with an entroponetic explanation for why you're such an insane drunk. And I understand."