Vanity. Ares

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AA
too fast. But I followed some of what he was
saying and remembered that alleged crooked
officer's face, especially his wonky noise. As we
walked through the Prison on our way to the van,
that alleged crooked officer spoke to Coctau,
whom was still grudging from the wink fiasco —
still roughly handling my arm whilst walking. I
noticed a cockney accent in the crooked officer's
voice and assumed that he was most definitely
crooked: "You know it's all about finding a little
way round these things," he said. I felt like a
prophet being led to the van, as the cockney
officer spoke whilst staring at me: “I reckon it was
provocation, I do. A bird turning round and
telling you she is a man...” “Don’t say that Titus!
you bloody big mouth Arab!” said Coctau, firmly
gripping my arm with his nails digging in. “He’s
as bad as the rest of ‘em.” This was said just as the
van door closed and that was as far as the
complexity of my judgement went, in their eyes, it
seemed.
Now, in the dimly lit van, thoughts that I
still had a strong percentage of freedom in my
mind gave my existence less of an absurd
perspective, though I accepted that it perhaps
reduced after the stress of the court case,
exponentially. The detritus of my freedom
remained as the van drove; I gauged it had
reduced by 20% by that time, mostly from the
suppression of anger fuelled by the memory of
Brandy’s witness statement, the day before, which
seemed that he had thought of long before he
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