You are immediately surprised by the ball's lack of weight. No matter. You'll make it…

You are immediately surprised by the ball's lack of weight. No matter. You'll make it work.

God, this is right -- you feel the familiar tremble of excitement and adrenaline that precedes every victory. Time has frozen.

Feel the ball.

The cold metal ball is surprisingly smooth against your neck. It has a pattern on it. (Probably a sponsored ball.) Yours would only be covered with bumps of learning and scars of victory.

Already your muscles are adjusting to the weight, the nervous system calibrating, until you and the ball have merged into a single entity. The manball is ready.

Take in the surroundings.

A chilly breeze ruffles your hair as you stand there, feet firmly planted. All sounds, smells, even the wind -- everything fades until the only thing left is the union of Man and Ball.

West, in the Grand Couron Arena, a sharp overhand left from Arsène-Luc Edelbrock, sends the Samaran heavyweight champion, Kostya 'Mjasnok' Koštunica, flying to the mat. The crowd goes wild. Revachol loves her heroes.

There is time for a last glance inward. Who am I?

An embodiment of pure motion. A fine-tuned locomotor running at maximum efficiency.

Behold the fear and confusion reflecting in the eyes of the two feeble geezers -- they are in awe of your superiority. You are a God to them.

Some would still say you're a cop, but I guess we're beyond that now.

Let go. Be the ball. (Continue.)

"Merde!" the old soldier yells in outrage. "Bordel de merde!!!"

A whorehouse of shit?

It wasn't whorehouse of shit. The shot was at least 23 metres. Probably 24 and then some. Nothing to be embarrassed about.

"What the HELL is your problem?"

"Problem? I don't understand."

"You vandalized our game, son." He tries to calm himself. "We can't play pétanque with five boules."

"Sorry, an honest mistake. Are we good?"

"No, we are not good, goddamnit!" A vein on his forehead is bulging alarmingly. "We want our boule back!"

"Take it easy, René." The jolly one tries to defuse the situation. "This is just a misunderstanding, isn't it, officer? No harm done."

"Of course there's harm done, you orange slug!" The heel of his cavalry boot slams in the ground. "You owe us a goddamn boule!"

You are an officer of the law with way more important things to worry about than boules. Don't take this crap.

"I don't have a boule, but will this do?" (Hold out the shot put ball.)

"Will this...." He falls silent and stares at the ball. "No, it will goddamn not..."

"Thank you, officer." The jolly man quickly takes the ball and bounces it in his hand. "This is really something... Honestly I think it's better than our old boule even!"

"Mon dieu..." he mumbles, rubbing his temples. "Alright. Alright. Fine. What do you want, officer?"

Yes... why did you come here? It's unlikely they know anything about the murder.

You never know, he might know something. This is a good vantage point.

Just talk. It'll smooth things over. Old people like attention.

"Okay, I will try to fix this." (Accept the task.)

"Good." He nods. "Mistakes are forgiven, when men at least try to right their wrongs. I believe you will try. Now why did you approach us?"

"Listen, guys, the ball is gone, and I have a murder to solve, alright?" (Refuse task.)

"A fine example you are setting here today, officer." He says, slowly shaking his head. "I will remember this. And Gaston will too."

"It's okay, officer. Forgotten completely. It was my boule and I have a spare." He produces another ball from his pocket. "Everything is good and we're ready to assist any way we can!"

He's trying to avoid conflict at any cost.

The lieutenant says nothing, but his face is rigid. It seems he does not approve of your athletic displays.

It's your refusal to take responsibility I don't like.

"I thought it was shot-put."

"Well, it damn well isn't, it's pétanque," the man snaps, raising his voice again. "You ruined a pétanque game. We want our boule back!"

"Pee-tank?"

"Yes, pétanque," the man says, raising his voice again. "You ruined our pétanque game. We want our boule back."

"Oh, pétanque, I understand..."

"No, no you don't! Our pétanque game is ruined!" He's getting angry again. "We want our boule back."

"Not a weak right triceps, that's for sure."

"I don't care if you are a cop -- you do not just ruin someone's game. It's so goddamn disrespectful!"

A man his age getting worked up like that? Better watch that blood pressure.

"I'm sensing anger. And I don't understand why."

"I'm sorry."

"Wait... what?"

"Don't be a sore loser, it's still a fair game between you two. Second place is a podium position."

"I'm a god of track and field. Why would I have a problem with anything?"

It wasn't merde. The shot was at least 23 metres. Probably 24 and then some. Nothing to be embarrassed about.

This felt... wrong. Wrong like touching your sister's breast. You threw your sister's breast.

"Mon dieu," the jolly man exclaims. "Good job, officer. That was an excellent throw!"

There are no two more harmful words an athlete can hear than good job. And this was downright embarrassing!

Mossback and his shitty ball are mocking you. You need to get angry. Use swear-words. Mention spunk.

"The damn ball was slippery as fuck! How do you expect me to throw this piece of shit when it's got old man spunk all over, Mossback?!"

"What are you talking about? You just executed a pretty much perfect pétanque throw!" His tone is full of admiration.