In a small office behind the Old Military Hospital, hunched under the green glow of his desk light, officer Hans Blau browses through a test print. Of his futurist magazine. It's called "The Futurist". The typeface on the header is too small...
You've found some common ground with this man. Even impressed him. The next time you look in the mirror, though. Remember those words...
"Fuckin' A! Seems I got you all wrong. Cops aren't much known for their artistic sensibilities these days."
"It's good to meet a fellow poet -- someone with an appreciation for real text. The others here, see, they don't really get it."
What gall he had to admonish you earlier for your prejudice, yet here he is, saying cops are usually dull-minded. Are you going to let him get away with being a hypocrite?
"Yeah. I guess I owe you an apology for thinking otherwise. And again -- great shit." He gives you a thumbs up.
"I get ya. When they really click it makes the world seem manageable. Good to be on the same page." He gives you a thumbs up.
"No matter. Great verse is like that sometimes -- ephemeral. You might not look it, but seems you have some literary chops. Maybe there's hope for me yet!"
No. Just no. I can already see it's failed and I'm stopping it now. Until you have good poetry -- you have no poetry.
This guy has amazing willpower. Honestly, he's the only one of that intellectual bunch I trust.
Your best verse? You don't even have a bad verse in here. Just tumbleweed and liquor stains... wait, no! What are you DOING?!
(Continue.) "I will never be the same again. She's always there. Fuck the case. Fuck everything. Total doom."
"Yeah..." He doesn't know what to say, so he just repeats: "Yeah-yeah. I get it. These are your rhymes, they're from your life. Doesn't matter if they're robust, they're honest. So... thanks man."
"Yes. And I also thank you -- for stopping." He looks at you. "We have a drug investigation to return to. How about we do that?"
"Yes. And I also thank you -- for stopping. We have a murder investigation to return to. How about we do that?"
"Know anything about the dead man? The one hanging behind the hostel there?" (Point at the yard.)
"He ain't one of us drivers -- I know that. All accounted for. Otherwise, I haven't really asked about that. Been wastin' time right here. Keepin' busy."
"Analysin' the fundamental structural and psychological conditions of being stranded in the midst of a sea of motor lorries and their sad, despondent chauffeurs."
He crosses his arms and turns his head away, a disappointed look in his eyes.
"Hah, no. I'm joking, my man." He grins. "FALN runs a nice, clean business. This haul of cargo is mostly sporting goods. You know, tracksuits and that kinda thing."
"They usually get shipped to Graad and the Occident. Though we've been making headway in the Iilmaraan market lately."
"We're pals and all, but I can't just freely hand out the merchandise. The bosses won't be happy."
Empathy
Interfacing
Logic
Pain Threshold
Physical Instrument
Encyclopedia
Suggestion
Reaction Speed
Electrochemistry
Perception (Smell)
Endurance
Shivers
Composure
Half Light