Conversation · Man with Sunglasses

"No, you wouldn't cramp my style at all."

"Okay... how about you stop wasting my time and get on with whatever you were doing then?"

"Okay, actually you probably would cramp my style."

"Oh god, I'd hate for that to happen... you know what might help prevent that though?"

"Me doing my fucking job and not pestering you anymore?"

"You doing your fucking job."

"Yes."

"No."

"Actually I shouldn't have called you my partner. Kim's my partner, he's going to know."

"I'm not your partner." He says quickly. "This... this union is temporary."

"A little premonition for you, lieutenant. Sooner or later -- probably sooner -- your new friend tells you he doesn't need you. He will then suggest you should fuck off."

"When that happens I suggest you take his advice," he adds bitterly.

The lieutenant merely bows his head in response.

"Perfect, great, I don't give a shit!" He shakes his head. "Now leave us alone and do your thing... and I don't mean get drunk and piss yourself, right? You realize that, don't you?"

"Kim's cooler than you."

"I'm sure he's fucking flattered, but Kim is not part of this thought experiment. In this one -- we're partners."

The lieutenant is silent.

"Like partners in crime, or...?"

"No!" he exclaims excitedly. "'Cause in this thought experiment we are police officers. In a police station. We don't do crimes -- we're not crime bros."

"C'mon, stop it," she says quietly.

"Who is the Far Out Son of Lung?"

"Oh, it's you, you eccentric genius." He winks at you sarcastically. "I mean with your unorthodox approach to police work it has to be you."

"Want to tell me more about him? Or her?"

"Not even a little bit."

"It's an urban myth," the lieutenant says quietly. "About an officer who is so far undercover he can't remember who he is. As I said -- just an urban myth. You're not the Son of Lung."

He's trying to protect you from further rough handling dished out by this sun-glassed man.

Okay, yes -- you get the joke. Leave it at that.

"Do you... have a crime to solve?"

"Oh no, NO, NO! You see, I enjoy watching other, better cops solve crimes -- and let me tell you, it's been quite a privilege seeing you work..."

"This isn't helping," she says, shaking her head and looking at the man with sunglasses disapprovingly.

"I can't imagine it anymore." (Conclude.)

"Neither can I, partner. Neither can I..." His grey eyes suddenly flash above the glass frames. They feel sad.

It's a mere second, but it feels like you saw something... a gram of compassion in that sadness.

"Who else is in our imaginary police station?"

"You're not going to believe this, but..." The man pauses for dramatic effect. "... police officers!"

"Yes sir, solving crimes, locking up bad guys and... AND get this... and not getting their drink on at two o'clock."

"Just some regular boring motherfuckers in suits and uniforms. Nothing spectacularly extravagant like you -- the Far Out Son Of Lung."

"Got some questions for you. I'm a cop."

"About what? You don't look like a cop..." He inspects you. "You know what you look like?"

"Like Guillaume Le..."

"NO!" The man in the sunglasses raises his fist. "You will not start blabbering about that asshole."

He didn't answer your question.

Who does this asshole think he is -- a cop?

"Like... Kras Mazov?"

"Yeaaah..." He's rubbing his chin as he drags out the yeah. "Sort of. Okay. I get the reference. Like after he got run over or something."

"Like a revolutionary?"

"No, not like a revolutionary." He looks away.

"Like a prophet?"

"Not the prophet shit again..." He looks away.

"I don't know -- you tell me."

"I don't know..." He taps on his forehead, thinking. "A sad stack of shit?"

"Like a megastar?"

"Yes." He nods. "A superstar cop. Of course. This again."

"Like a man down on his luck? I'm trying real hard here, man."

"Oh..." He seems taken aback for a moment. "Well, go solve your case then. That would count as trying hard."

"Like a sack of shit?"

"Exactly." The man nods excitedly in approval.

He might be wearing a disguise.

"You look like shit." Your ruffled face reflects in the man's sunglasses.

"And I don't mean that as a metaphor."