Conversation · The Deserter

"Yes, I bet you've killed a lot of people with it..." His eyes narrow. "...you fascist fuck."

"Have you come to make me one of them?" His grip on the rifle tightens.

His right eye twitches -- with what? Fear? Rage?

"We have come to ask you questions, nothing more." The lieutenant puts his hand on his holster.

"If you do not comply, we will take you in. Do you understand?"

Another spitball lands in the ashes. That's all the answer he gives.

The danger levels here are hard to read. One moment he's a fire, the next -- a fire gone out.

"Fuck yeah, this is happening," he comments breathlessly, in awe of the potential violence implied.

He's high off the fear.

Like an untrained fighter he leans forward, back hunched, ready to spring.

An old man wearing tracksuit trousers leans on the frame stock of his rifle. He gathers a big ball of spit in his mouth...

...then spits it out into the extinguished fire before him. He raises his black eyes, hooded by creased eyelids, to meet yours.

Unclouded by cataracts -- his eyesight is sharp.

He's practically tearing up from spite. Hatred got the best of him a long time ago. This man hates everything.

"Loyalist clown uniform..." He clears his throat, pointing at your coat. "I see they sent the full fasces. Royal treatment."

"No, I really am a communist. I have communist thoughts in my head."