Conversation · Racist lorry driver

"I've told you everything I've got." He looks around nervously. "Can you please stop talking to me now?"

"Let me see the soles of your boots."

"Been admiring the stompers, eh?" He grins. "Sure thing, check 'em out." He lifts his left foot, then the right.

(Look at the sole.)

You can just make out a familiar pattern in the intricate tangle of treads on the rubber of his soles. It is the map of your city!

"That's a map of Revachol."

"It sure is!"

"But...why?"

"You'll see when the time comes, officer," he grins and caresses the side of his boot. "True patriots carry Revachol in their very soles."

"Technically, you're stomping on Revachol every step you take."

"Heh." A condescending chortle. "I knew you people don't understand poetry."

"For when the Invasion comes..." He glances at the lieutenant. "The last thing they'll see before the lights go out is illustrious Revachol."

It doesn't look like the lieutenant cares. He just makes a little note.

"Whatever, these aren't the boots I'm looking for anyway."

The man bites his lip and drops the near-finished cigarette lingering between his fingers. He reaches for a new one.

"What is this Invasion anyway? Sounds like more immigrant-bashing."

"Hey man, you know. There are all sorts of Invasions... " He looks at his boots, then you. "I thought we could rely on the cops. We're in this together, whether you realize it or not."

"You do understand you're stomping on Revachol every day, don't you?"

"No. It's not like that." He looks at his shoes. "You don't get it, it's... when I kick them you know? Fuck it. It's too complex for you."

"Welcome to Revachol. I like it."

"Aces! Good to know the law's got our backs." He gives a quick two-finger salute. "For Revachol, the Suzerain! The world is our Suzerainty."

"When the next wave of the Invasion comes -- the last thing they'll see before the lights go out is illustrious Revachol."

"Where did you get boots like that?"

"Custom-made. Cost me a pretty penny!" He rubs the back of his balding head.

On the bottom of the man's boots you see an intricate tangle of treads with no immediately discernible pattern.

The wind howls over the Bay of Revachol -- a cascade of cold air, flowing through the city streets. Those same streets have left their share of scuff marks on the underside of your green snakeskin shoes.

"Hm, thanks. Not the ones I'm looking for."

"Is that... a map of Revachol?"

"What's up with your soles?"

"It's Revachol!"

The wind howls over the Bay of Revachol -- a cascade of cold air, flowing through the tangled city streets.

"What was that argument all about?"

"It's about... biological determinism. Natural law. The sorting of the races." He spits on the ground.

"Not the most popular topic nowadays, with the Coalition in charge and all. You might want to change the topic -- that is, bury your head under the sand like common sheep."

Change the topic -- the way he says it makes it almost sound like a threat.

Not sheep -- ostriches.

Actually, neither ostriches or sheep bury their heads in the sand. It's just a saying.

"I get it -- someone has to be the unpopular guy."

"I'm not the only one. Look, I've read books," he gestures with his cigarette for emphasis. "The science of racial theory has all been proved, even if some people don't want to accept it."

"People who've studied these things say that we are superior by design. So, naturally, we Occidentals should be in charge. Obviously you can see the merits in that."

If this guy's all the Occidentals have, well... let's just say he's not exactly ripped.

"You just look at people and make arbitrary judgements."

The lieutenant tries to remain impassive but the slight arch of his eyebrow tells you that he's liking it.

"As arbitrary as any judgement. That doesn't make it less of a fact. We all have to use facts. Once you accept it, you'll gain the clarity of understanding."

He is comfortable reciting these thoughts. He's spent quite a lot of time meditating on the subject.

"Right. I've already made up my mind. Wanna hear it?" (Jump ahead.)

"Oh?" The man seems mildly disappointed that you don't want to hear more of his lecture.

"Okay, sure, whatever. I'd really rather talk about something else."

"Go right ahead." The man scratches his heavyset stomach. "You may be a cop, but that won't help you avoid the calamity to come."

Lieutenant Kitsuragi's stern expression remains unchanged -- but you sense something there. Below...

Not a lot of moral fibre on this one yet, he thinks. Wriggled out of it.

What happened? Did your balls shrivel up? You had plenty of chances to get off this road, but no, you let this guy keep talking. Then when the time came to make your choice you tried to split the difference. Weak.

Sure, sure, but that guy -- you wouldn't tell it by his looks, but he is definitely a bröther and a kingsman. Ask if he knows how to turn back time!

Nope nothing. You're sure it's okay. You wriggled your way out of a tight one there. Didn't tell him to fuck off, or join his cause. Well done.

"Yeah, I'm not down with this -- why don't you go fuck yourself?"

"Don't push your luck, runt." The man gives you a disgusted look, then turns his attention elsewhere, ignoring your presence.

Why would you tell a bröther off like that? He clearly knows things! Probably knows how to turn back time too. Try to get back on his good side.

"Yeah. I think I can get down with racism."

"Good. If we, the Evening People, pull together -- we can form a bulwark against these troubled times!" The man grins at you. "Root out the forces that seek to undermine the well-being of our people."

Lieutenant Kitsuragi's stern expression remains unchanged -- but you sense he can't be happy about this turn of events.