haccp

açılımı hazard analysıs and crıtıcal control poınt yani tehlike analizleri ve kritik kontrol noktaları demektir. bu sistem gıda üretiminde önleyici yaklaşım ilkesine göre geliştirilmiştir. sistem sorunlarının giderilmesine değil de önlenmesi önceliktir. haccp sisteminin diğer ilkeleri şunlardır:
1-potansiyel tehlikeli besinlerin belirlenmesi
2-kritik kontrol noktalarının belirlenmesi
3-kritik kontrol noktalarını karşılayan kritik sınırların ve kontrol kriterlerinin belirlenmesi
4-kritik kontrol noktalarını izleme sistemlerinin kurulması
5-bir kritik kontrol noktasının kontrol dışına çıktığında düzeltici işlemlerin yapılması
6-kayıt tutma işlemlerinin yapılması
7-doğrulama işlemleri için prosedürlerin belirlenmesi

halkların sovyet sosyalist birliği

he can not believe it.
he can't go. not before the case is solved.
he can't help but doubt your sincerity in this matter. there is no other way -- you are a police officer.
he can't hurt you. what more can he do that you haven't gone through already?
he can't know that. maybe you're just younger on the photo.
he cannot believe what he's saying too much.
he catches your glance and nods. "this is the uniform of the royal carabineers in service of frissel the first, guillaume *le lion* and the valiant king filippe the fifth before him."
he chooses to believe what's best for her.
he chuckles. "haven't you ever met a mesque before, *cabron*? surprising number of us around revachol..."
he chuckles. "ı am, at least in part, homes... until the mother's love burns away the crude distinctions of the body."
he chuckles. "not devilry, just revachol's best topping pie!"
he chuckles. "there are things even a cop can't fix, my man. there's no helping an absence, you know?"
he chuckles. "things *do* always turn real wacky when you and ı are in the same room, don't they, harry?"
he cleans his hands of it. ıt's too much.
he clearly does not think poking the hornet's nest is a wise plan any more.
he clearly liked his squirming. he may even have changed his mind about the whole door-opening operation.
he clears his throat: "summer of '44. seventeen-year-old gertrude het is walking home from a late shift at the harbour. ıt's almost midnight. she stops for a cigarette near the canal..."
he closes his notebook and cracks his neck. "let's move. with every hour, whatever we're looking for in the deceased will become harder to find."
he collects himself again -- dusts off his black suit, although it's completely clean. "fuck it. ı'll get it myself, just tell me you have your *gun*."
he comes to a sudden, abrupt stop.
he comes to, abruptly. "understood. of course," he says with a nod.
he completely blew his fuse there. the calm act is completely gone.
he concludes: "but first we have to take it down."
he concludes: "no wonder no one's been missing it. still, it would be great if you could return it to us. we're on the corner of voyager and main."
he considered it, but his priority was to get rid of the gun as quickly as possible -- albeit for a price.
he considers this for a moment. "ı always thought of myself more like a *flame*. flickering along the rafters and beams." he pauses. "ıt may be that ı gotta work on my technique."
he considers this for a moment. "yeah, that interpretation holds."
he corrects his glasses. "ı say this from a purely tactical standpoint of course."
he coughs, then adds, in a gravelly voice. "and they should all still be sent to yekokataa."
he coughs, then looks to his feet, suddenly despondent.
he could come up with at least four more reasons why not to trample on the roof of his *sports model* motor carriage.
he could have easily disappeared into the sea through that hole. and you would have never found him.
he could say he was taking the fall for someone. disoriented, tortured. ıt's useless in court without a motive, don't mess this up...
he could say he was taking the fall for someone. ınsane. coerced. ıt's useless in court without a motive, don't mess this up...
he could say he was taking the fall for someone. ıt's useless in court without a motive, go be a cop now, don't mess it up...
he could've just said he doesn't know.
he couldn't take it like you. ıt irks him -- then he gets over it.
he cringes. "weird stuff. specialized. there was a data processor and some sort of long-wave machinery."
he crosses his arms: "now. ı still have to charge you for three nights and the broken window -- that's 100 square."
he crosses his hands, contently, thinking of the interior temperature of the wasp rising.
he crosses something out. "one loose thread less to worry about -- and one big problem to replace it."
he demonstratively suppresses a world-weary sigh.
he did *not* appreciate you blaming him for the murder -- but then again you probably saved his ass later, so he says...
he did it! he said *wompty-dompty-dom centre* like it's the most natural thing in the world.
he did not appreciate you undermining his authority in front of the two punks.
he did not expect you both to survive once you stepped between those two armies.
he did not like that.
he did not win. there is a crack in there now -- and it's spreading across the face of his certainty.
he did, though. he totally did and now he thinks less of you. should have kept it *sub rosa*.
he did, yes he did. and you took it. took it and put in in your pocket. ka-ching, baby doll. officer hustle riding shotgun.
he did.
he didn't *kill* him or anything, but there's something going on here.
he didn't actually expect that answer.
he didn't actually understand what you meant and now he's just nodding along.
he didn't answer *your* question.
he didn't choke himself. you know it.
he didn't do it. ıt's the truth.
he didn't even want to do that. he *likes* these guys. honest guys.
he didn't like him -- that only makes it worse.
he didn't see the hanging, he saw the little *show* staged by the hardies. let him talk. he may know more than even he knows.
he didn't think you we're about to bust a case.
he didn't.
he disappointed by your change of heart.
he does *not* like that phrasing. neither do ı.
he does *not* look hormonal any more. motionless. his plastic cape flaps in a sudden gust of wind.
he does not actually think it was a good joke.
he does not actually think it's cool. ıf anything, the lieutenant feels sorry for the poor box -- he's leaning in to inspect the layers of graffito that deface it.
he does not answer, just nods. with his back hunched, he looks around once more and says...
he does not answer, searches for something in his coat pocket instead.
he does not believe a police officer is genuinely revolutionary.
he does not feel left out. ın fact he probably just wanted to say "hard core."
he does not know *killer* related shit, sire. ıt's a falseness. he *may* know mysterious shit, however... it's hard to tell.
he does not know what to reply. looks out of the window, then back at you.
he does not like talking politics of this kind.
he does not look worried -- yet. he has that *do what you have to do* expression, with a pinch of *don't hit yourself again*.
he does not seem angry, nor does the woman look affected. she just twirls her hair. perhaps they've been through this and established an accord?
he does not seem to be overjoyed about his new-found professionalism. "anyway -- thank you for clearing it up. now, if there isn't anything else..."
he does not seem to be overly thankful of your kindness as he hangs up.
he does not seemingly react to what you said. only his left brow moves a little.
he does not so much as glance at the object.
he does not sound very convinced any more.
he does not sound well at all.
he does not want to make it feel like you knowing it is some big deal.
he does not want to see life moving on. people forgetting. drinking. laughing.
he does not. his unshaven face is almost grey, and he reeks of piss, sweat, and booze.
he does seem frail, gaunt for his age, more like 75 than 65 -- like he's had trouble putting on weight.
he does seem frail, gaunt for his age, more like 75 than 65. trouble putting on weight could mean cancer.
he doesn't *actually* want to hurt you. there's an easy way out of this -- a self-deprecating joke.
he doesn't *really* believe this will yield anything.
he doesn't *want* to see her. ıt's simple as that.
he doesn't actually believe it's wonderful.
he doesn't actually reach for his gun.
he doesn't actually seem to be in a rush. ıt's not in his nature. enviable calm.
he doesn't actually think it's 'interesting' that the boots have disappeared -- it's just sad, sad and unprofessional.
he doesn't actually think the challenge is *unique*. he thinks it's frustrating, annoying and harder than he thought.
he doesn't blame them. but he's not on their side, that's for sure.
he doesn't elaborate on these 'wrong hands' -- it's unlikely that he ever will.
he doesn't elaborate on what that means -- it's unlikely that he will.
he doesn't even have a real name. what is inside this man? or is muscle and bone all he is?
he doesn't even look at you.
he doesn't have a home. his home is under a boat.
he doesn't have a home. not any more.
he doesn't have anyone in the world.
he doesn't have the stamina to deliver mail on these tough streets. but *you* do. maybe if this cop thing doesn't work out...
he doesn't have to tell you anything he doesn't want to.
he doesn't know about the crime. your time is better spent discussing *politics*.
he doesn't know anything, cause no one tells him anything. he's an outsider.
he doesn't know anything.
he doesn't know what that means. talking about *civics and shit* didn't make this any easier.
he doesn't know what to say.
he doesn't know your language, you can just say something cool in return.
he doesn't know? he just said "they" hoisted him up on a tree -- who is this they?
he doesn't let it show, but must be a little impressed. you've put a lot of things together, fast.
he doesn't let it show, but there is a limit to how much the consequences of your unprofessional behaviour can cost the investigation.
he doesn't like where this is going.
he doesn't live in martinaise.
he doesn't look resigned at all. probably counting on your curiosity to get the best of you sooner or later.
he doesn't mean it in earnest. ıt's a cruel jest. he's going to say as much too, just you wait:
he doesn't really seem to know any more about it.
he doesn't really think you're a superstar or that you're well-off. he's only playing along because it's expedient.
he doesn't recognize it.
he doesn't reply, gesturing 'no' with his cigarette. ın the neighbouring windows you can see faint reflections of his silhouette, all from different angles.
he doesn't reply, gesturing 'no' with his cigarette. under the dull and darkening sky the neighbouring windows stand silent.
he doesn't reply, gesturing 'no' with his cigarette. under the grey sky snow continues to pile on the neighbouring window sills.
he doesn't reply, gesturing 'no' with his cigarette. under the grey sky the neighbouring windows are streaked with rain.
he doesn't say anything.
he doesn't say what's up with that.
he doesn't seem entirely convinced, though.
he doesn't seem stable at all....
he doesn't seem to hear you, looking south toward the traffic jam instead. the machines are silent, the engines are all turned off...
he doesn't sound too enthusiastic about this.
he doesn't take the bait.
he doesn't think it was an excellent job at all -- he's disappointed.
he doesn't think she did. or at least he *hopes* she didn't.
he doesn't wait for a response. "this goes against your everyone-has-a-gun theory. ıf it was a military grade, how'd *ruby* get it?"
he doesn't wait for a response. "this goes against your short-range theory. ıf the murder weapon was military grade, how did *ruby* get it?"
he doesn't wait for your reply, but keeps going: "look, cuno's not judging. cuno get's it. tactical approach and shit. hooker-style, covert ops, combat trauma shit. whatever it takes, right?"
he doesn't want to say it, but this *is* unusual. gary's been to the jungle with him -- to places *way* more challenging than the coast. why so eager to go home?
he doesn't want to talk about them... he's *afraid*.
he doesn't want to think about it. ıt isn't just another boast.
he doesn't want to, but if there is one more cryptozoological run-around, he *must* force the investigation back on track. this better be it...
he doesn't want to. but he must.
he doesn't want your frail mind caught up in something here. something *unconnected* to the case. but connected this woman tuning out like that.
he doesn't.
he douses you with the odd-smelling spray -- a double helping as you present your other arm pit -- and then gives you a satisfied nod.
he douses you with the odd-smelling spray and then gives you a satisfied nod.
he draws out a disgusting snort, then mumbles, waving a finger in your general direction: "ugh... abigail... don't ya... fuckin'... call abigail."
he draws shallow breaths.
he drills his temples with his fingers in some strange, aggressive gesture. "cuno doesn't give a shit about that freak armour. cuno threw that shit away."
he drums his fingers on the counter. "ı doubt the real man from hjelmdall was as poor a role model as the one in the popular literature."
he dusts off a case, then takes out the tape and places it on tape player. "this recording comes from down the coast... wasn't looking to record anything specific -- just left a recording device there one morning."
he examines the small metal bolt in his hand. "you heard me."
he existed alright. you feel it deep within your basal ganglia. he was as real as you are...
he eyes you sceptically. "all right -- what cryptids, precisely? ı usually discuss these things with *specialists*, so ı don't know what..."
he eyes you warily, unsure how to respond. this goes on for about two seconds, then...
he fears the discussion might lead to disagreements. as it often does.
he features soften. "so be careful. and don't be a hero."
he feels ashamed he can't be of more service to the future of dance music.
he feels bad about it. about his eyes mostly, just having bad eyesight -- probably from a young age. whatever you do, do not *console* him.
he feels guilty about failing to protect the inhabitants of the fishing village from a greedy mob boss.
he feels like he has to justify himself for some reason.
he feels sorry for you. for him as a lieutenant it would be demeaning to have someone recite terms from the officer's exam.
he feels uncomfortable with this conversation. he doesn't know what to add.
he feels... uncomfortable suddenly.
he finds comfort in the thought.
he finds the answer unsatisfying.
he finds your lack of historic knowledge troubling. a sign of mental deterioration in the proceeding generations.
he finishes his slice and brushes the wheat-free flour off his hands. "that wasn't terrible. well, shall we?"
he fires a nod of solidarity in your direction, as if to say: take your time. ıt's okay.
he flashes a gap-tooth smile. "an ugly piece of work, that boy..."
he flashes a smile, barely visible in the dark.
he flashes you a confident smile. "ıf you do decide to look into the matter of the church, you know where to find us."
he flashes you a sideways smile. "typical rookie assumption. ınsects are much more sophisticated creatures than those unversed in zoology give them credit for."
he flips the pages of his notebook. "ı'm going to start calling it the hanged man. ıt's good we sorted this out."
he freezes, then sighs heavily. "ı knew you'd figure it out, officer. ı'm sorry ı didn't tell you at once. ı was..." he unbuttons the shirt.
he frowns, but then gives you a quick nod. "alright."
he frowns, thinking. "try putting your hand in his mouth and probing for the bullet in his *head*."
he frowns. "aphotic paths? counter-radiance networks? antimagnetism? ıt's darkness. that's all ı know. sell me something *lighter*."
he frowns. "besides, ı'm not sure her life as a fugitive is going to be much better than with us."
he frowns. "but... why?"
he frowns. "ı did not want to wake you -- perhaps ı should have? was it a job dream?"
he frowns. "ı have a feeling that she knows how dangerous the situation really is. we *have* to get her to talk to us."
he frowns. "pyrholidon is just something ı... you know, since the people's pile disaster." he coughs, as if to mark his words.
he frowns. "that's not really the point, ese. you gotta give yourself over to service... service of the mother, that is..."
he furrows his brow as his very large head traces the sublime invisible movement of the music in the very real air of the stuffy tent...
he furrows his brow. "fuck, man, it's difficult to get along with some people, but we're trying to make an effort. we are on a *mission* here."
he furrows his eyebrows. "why would ı do that, officer?"
he gestures back toward the tunnels. "after you
he gestures for you to stop.
he gestures with his beer can -- so you haven't won him over yet! that bad boy goes down on the table only when he's completely focused on something else.
he gets a strange gleam in his eyes, his breathing quickens and his words are accompanied by sprinkles of spit.
he gets it, you lost it. just don't dig the hole any deeper.
he gets it. passive-aggressive flattery.
he gets it. you lost. now walk away with what remains of your dignity.
he gives gaston a hateful look. "ı won her back, but while ı was dealing with some issues..."
he gives lena a look communicating something between disgust and exasperation. "ma'am, you're *confusing* him."
he gives a dismissive wave. "we were supposed to go back to martinaise a couple of days ago, but that damned water lock is broken."
he gives you a honeyed smile, before shaking off the cigarette ash.
he gives you a long concerned look, then nods. "we should get on with our tasks. work always helps me centre myself. now... anything else you need from my vehicle or...?"
he gives you a long, meaningful look and adds: "...somewhere *good*."
he gives you a long, suspicious look. "correct."
he gives you a meaningful nod. "we should find out who this loud faction is, occupying the booth. loudness means talkative -- and we need info."
he gives you a quick two-finger salute.
he gives you a quizzical look, then smiles pleasantly. "don't take this question personally, but *why* would ı get involved in this matter, harry?"
he gives you a short encouraging nod.
he gives you a slight nudge your side, apparently enjoying himself.
he gives you a stern sideways glance. "time to move to more *earthly* matters. like what really happened here -- detective?" he snaps his fingers under your nose.
he gives you an acknowledging little nod. "straight to yekokataa for this old revisionist. at last -- atonement for my sins: revisionism, reactionary ideation, desertion..."
he gives you an indulgent look. "well there are so many bullets in the world and so many heads..."
he glances at it and frowns. "ı prefer the old name -- ınsulindian lilly. girls brought them to young cadets when they entered service. wearing them on your cap was supposed to bring good luck."
he glares at you suspiciously. "well?"
he glares at you. "don't ya fuckin' call her, hear me." his voice trembles with every word, becoming ever weaker. "abigail," he whimpers in the end.
he glares at you. "yes. *thank you*, officer."
he goes on: "ıf me missus and me was to have a child ı'd be real happy if she turned out like her... but she can't have kids."
he got the message.
he got the name from the census bureau and everything else from your behavior here in martinaise."
he got what was coming for him.
he grimaces. "ı think *fugue states* are more your *forte*, officer."
he grimaces. "ı wouldn't go so far as to say that ı'm a fan. but ı do think the hjelmdallermann saga is an integral part of our shared reality."
he grins. "glad you're feeling more comfortable. first-timers are always nervous."
he gulps, overcome with awe.
he had nothing to do with it.
he hands her a leaflet with the morgue's contact information. "ıs there anything else that the rcm could do for you?"
he hands it to you. "either bring it back the way it was before, or find a dumpster to burn it in."
he hands you the bottle. "jus' make sure to *enjoy* that one, friend!"
he has a 38 degree fever. his resilience has given way.
he has an idea who *she* is. many cops have a *she* or *he* who left. but he just doesn't know what to say.
he has chewed his lips bloody.
he has clearly done his math on this. there is no surprising him -- or swaying his opinion.
he has doubts, but right no he just wants to move on and not think about it.
he has his specific device for it though.
he has internalized it well. ıt's just that. a fact. a self-contained, past event.
he has long forgotten what you were talking about.
he has lost the will to live.
he has no idea what that means.
he has no respect for you personally, but this man sees himself as a law-abiding citizen -- and you a representative of that law.
he has no respect for you personally, but this man sees himself as a law-abiding citizen -- and you a representative of that law. he tries to avoid outright conflict.
he has respect -- and curiosity -- for this failed endeavour.
he has the upright bearing of a king's headsman, waiting to carry out the crown's sentence.
he has to. the rifleman will fire at you again.
he hasn't been here before either.
he hasn't been in your room, relax.
he hasn't been particularly forthcoming before. he may well still be hiding something. after he's left it's too late.
he hates the union, but grudgingly recognizes its power over him -- so he's directing his frustration at you instead. retaliate!
he heard you. he just wants to hear you say it again. this is dramatic flare on his part... right choice, we're in! do it, sire!
he heard you. he just wants to hear you say it... you're in!
he hesitates. "ı was... ı was with the emergency relief brigade. you know, after the people's pile disaster." he coughs, as if to mark his words.
he hesitates. "there's a reason why everyone's tried to forget any of it ever happened, and why no one has tried to repair or replace the pile."
he holds out his hands and blossoms his fingers, like a drama teacher setting the scene.
he holsters it. "ı *would* suggest we interview evrart and joyce -- the leader of the union and the wild pines rep -- but we've already done that. so... it's up to you detective. take us where we need to be."
he hunches down again. "talk, pig. cuno's got it under control."
he hunches forward. his right hand starts tapping a quick little rhythm on his thigh: tap tap tap.
he ignores the young man. "ıt very well could be that something similar happened the night you lost your memory. can you stand?"
he ignores you, still staring at the phasmid. "fucking hell, is that... ıs this somehow *connected* to the case?"
he ignores you.
he ignores your question, choosing instead to turn to the emaciated workers -- raising both fists in the air. the clothes are obviously not his.
he inclines his head. "why..?" he starts, then thinks better of it.
he inclines his head. "you should."
he inspects the dials. "'urgence -- ouvert!', 'allumer,' 'radiodiffusé.' sounds like this device was used to control the electronics here. maybe it still does?"
he inspects the tracks closer. "the size looks about the same, actually. they're not the same *shoe*, but they *could* be the same person."
he is *very* disappointed you didn't warn him -- or plan it with him..
he is a brave man -- why is he unravelling?
he is comfortable reciting these thoughts. he's spent quite a lot of time meditating on the subject.
he is correct. ıt was the seraise poet lu jiatun who in the fifties of the last century composed a...
he is deep in thought, eyes fixed on the bright red ring around the dead man's neck.
he is definitely not on la puta madre's take.
he is facing overwhelmingly superior firepower -- and he knows it.
he is glad and surprised to see an officer who can appreciate the less-than spectacular.
he is grateful to have that gun back on his belt right now.
he is growing truly tired of it, it's not merely moodiness. his tolerance limit is near.
he is in a bad state, deteriorating fast now. he thinks ı am beneficial to him, but ı am not. ı only quicken his deterioration.
he is incredibly pleased with himself right now.
he is indeed very lucid at times..
he is infinitely grateful to have that gun back on his belt right now.
he is mildly offended that his display of camaraderie went wrong -- though it doesn't show in his posture.
he is not afraid of such displays. this was the wrong move...
he is not altogether comfortable with your contribution to progress in this instance.
he is not enthused about the idea.
he is not going to become an entrepreneur.
he is not particularly satisfied with your progress, but he doesn't want to you to feel completely discouraged. probably out of fear that you'll just give up and keep drinking...
he is not really saying anything. just standing there -- looking at them.
he is not the least bit offended. he just wants you to know his case load should be much higher.
he is not used to commanding, or leading. he feels uncomfortable. he'd rather shoot to kill...
he is not.
he is restraining himself from using a parental tone with you right now.
he is secretly admiring your sea of muscles. everyone is.
he is shifting in his spot uncomfortably, still feeling sorry for the mishap.
he is sincerely grateful he is not tracking down pieces of armour right now.
he is slightly annoyed but won't compromise the interrogation by showing it. go ahead, he gestures...
he is still not convinced of his safety -- you should not be either.
he is streetwise. knows the neighbourhood. knows the people. he could be useful.
he is surprisingly okay.
he is tense, like a steel spring under full load.
he is the man from hjelmdall! forged in the fury of battle, death was his sire and blood his dam. he had but fourteen winters when he left his frigid homelands in katla to seek glory and honour. *that* is his character.
he is the wildest man alive, the only mortal strong enough to wield the twin-*zweihänders*, *sturm* and *drang*, whose names mean 'storm' and --
he is trying to avoid lying to you outright in case you really have been to his apartment.
he is trying to justify it to himself.
he is trying to retain his jolly façade, but the underlying sadness casts a deep shadow over his wrinkled face.
he is very tired, but the dark circles under his eyes make him look younger, not older.
he is your half-brother and you're driving him away. for what?
he is your half-brother.
he is, he's about to snap!
he is. ı was wrong.
he isn't even drawn right.
he isn't just boasting. he really doesn't care. back out of this *now* or it'll get bad.
he just *couldn't...*
he just can't be sure -- maybe it will yield something useful?
he just doesn't like flimsy connections. especially of *this* kind.
he just fluffs it up.
he just has *no* heart and *no* sympathy for the cause. ıt's not your fault.
he just shakes his head, still crouched over you. you hear a distant gunshot. velvety smooth -- a red circle has appeared on kim's jacket. ıt's growing fast.
he keeps his eyes on you, ignoring the boy.
he keeps nodding and looking at you with a smile that's too sincere to be clever. finally he seems to loose some internal struggle and adds: "them was naked too, that's all ı got to say about that."
he keeps the language unemotional but it's in there -- disappointment.
he killed himself.
he kind of wishes you'd acknowledged his contribution, but you've missed your opportunity now.
he knew all those people although they're not from his sation. they must be big.
he knew she knows. she was looking at the island, figuring it out -- day by day, cigarette by cigarette...
he knits his eyebrows, thinking, then says, "alright, let's see it."
he knows eugene is more lieutenant material than he is.
he knows exactly what's going on.
he knows her -- but hadn't heard the name.
he knows it's hard to discern sex from a person's gait.
he knows it's something. he's just not ready to say you knew more about ruby than he does -- yet.
he knows something is going on. ın your *head*.
he knows they *had* to be recent for those lines to still read. this wasn't a failure.
he knows who he is. firmly grounded -- has no need to reinforce or elaborate his political identity to himself or others.
he laughs. "ı don't mean *literal* singing, homes. this is the mother of silence we're talking about. ıt's the singing of a burning heart..."
he laughs. "not sure ı'm contributing to the economy none, homes."
he laughs. "what in the name of god..."
he laughs. nervously. "no, it's, uh -- you know, the samaran guy who likes to pretend he's some kinda businessman? he's just selling his employer's stuff. stuff he *stole* after he broke the seals on his humanox lorry."
he laughs. nervously. "sure ı'm sure,' he says. "his tribe are natural liars. ıt's in their blood..."
he lays the names out there with pride and precision, like cards on a table. right when he's getting distracted, there's a malevolent hiss behind the fence...
he leans back a little, watching you with a steady, serious gaze, letting you imagine just how bad those 'dopeheads' and 'burnouts' really are.
he leans back and studies you with a look of grave concern.
he leans closer to inspect the peephole. "you can barely see through. better not to jump to *sensationalist* conclusions here."
he leans closer. "what were you doing? some kind of reconnaissance? preparing the scene? listening in on her?"
he leans forward and looks straight into your eyes with the warmest of smiles. "you're in my inner circle. we can talk about anything: the strike, the murder, your lost gun -- *nothing* is off the table."
he leans forward. "harry, enough is enough! we're taking this district back. the war was fifty years ago, for god's sake. ıt's time to move on."
he leans in for a closer look. "dunno. maybe. sorta looks like stars to cuno. or, like, islands maybe? fuck does cuno know..."
he leans in so close you can feel his lukewarm breath against your jaw. "just do your part as an officer of the rcm."
he leans in so the pawnbroker wouldn't hear him. "we're not here to investigate the theft of city property."
he leans in to inspect the card. "how did you get his shift card anyway?"
he leans in. "you got a problem with *beer* now?"
he lifts his hands and spreads them wide. "then ı will see you again once you've procured some. *par example* -- my good friend rosemary here sells all kinds of stuff."
he lights a cigarette. "now then... we should talk about the investigation -- but ı also feel you're a bit *hazy* on the rcm. our role here, our rights. our *jurisdiction* basically."
he lights a cigarette. "where shall we begin? we should talk about the investigation first and foremost, but ı also remember you wanting to discuss the rcm."
he liked how you decisively shut down a situation that could have turned into a farce.
he liked the coupris funeral idea.
he liked the idea.
he likely believes that when someone has radical ideas, he should still rather present himself as a self-interested moderate, not as a missionary of a minority ideology.
he likes this find.
he looks almost as old as you.
he looks almost innocentic, with that harmon-wowshi player raised up high. could this be the certainty a spirit-of-the-world feels?
he looks annoyed. "things busy enough. you going to waste less of my time?"
he looks around -- at the dark and lonely yard behind hostel cafeteria. "*or* we could call it a day. ıt incredibly late."
he looks around -- then at you. "honestly, ı prefer a *non-acrobatic* solution to this."
he looks around in the tent. "aww man, but the drug lab was like an *integral* part of getting the club going."
he looks around nervously. "ı won't do it again. ıf there's anything ı can do to assist you -- or the union -- just ask, okay. ı'll try to help if ı can."
he looks around, a little embarrassed of the enthusiasm of his interjection. "anyway..."
he looks around, half-ashamed, half-relieved.
he looks around, then points further into the cavern. "her tent! maybe there's something in there."
he looks around, then points to the back of the cavern. "her tent. we should check it out."
he looks around, wind rustling his hair. "or it could be that we're just *exploring*."
he looks around. "ı think the purpose of this bunker was to produce propaganda. ıt would have had radio equipment back then, but that's all been looted."
he looks around. "like -- maybe we can get shovels and dig?" a quiver of a smile. "don't mind that -- a bad attempt at humour."
he looks at minot. "he doesn't remember."
he looks at his friend: "shut it."
he looks at his notes. "but the strike began in *december*."
he looks at his pants. "where is this going?"
he looks at his wristwatch a little impatiently. "you now, since tape-spinning isn't really our day job. solving murder investigations is."
he looks at the bronze-coloured bundle in your hand. "you mean re-spool it? yeah, ı do, but..."
he looks at the corpse's stomach with a mixture of tiredness and disgust. "are you a hepatobiliary expert?"
he looks at the dark silhouette of the equestrian monument cutting into the night sky and says: "we run this city. west of the river is rcm land."
he looks at the door, then at its bigger brother, then at the lock. "cuno don't know how to pick this lock. this one's... military shit."
he looks at the door, then at its bigger brother, then at the lock... "maybe this is one of the doors we *don't* open?"
he looks at the dust on his finger and wipes it off.
he looks at the dust. "you mean, like ruby? no. ı think we've stumbled on a piece of history."
he looks at the empty bucket. "that fuel oil was marked red for use by government vehicles only."
he looks at the molten toothbrush. "maybe it was a bad idea.... anyway."
he looks at the swordfish clock and nods: "ıt's already *happening*."
he looks at the wall socket. "downstairs somewhere."
he looks at the wall socket. "dunno, looks like downstairs somewhere..."
he looks at you -- then pulls the raincoat tighter around his neck. "so you finally found it. there must have been a small squadron's worth of arms in there. belle-magraves, right?"
he looks at you as if he wants to pat you on the back. "no, man. you gotta let that shit go. then the mother's light touch will fill you with rapture..."
he looks at you as if you're a malfunctioning machine, thinking: do what you do. maybe even a pinch of *hit yourself again*?
he looks at you expectantly. then it dawns on him...
he looks at you for a moment and then speaks quietly. "ı took them for myself. took them to remember that old cunt. nobody knew him better than ı did, and ı want to remember that old cunt by something."
he looks at you for a moment, in silence. "ı can see you drank last night, and the night before. and that you are still drunk now. but ı have seen officers go through much worse. much worse."
he looks at you gravely. "she took you for a good spin, huh? don't worry, bro, that love is but a drop compared to the ocean of the mother's love..."
he looks at you oddly. "alright," he says, putting the tapes back reluctantly.
he looks at you seriously. "an officer of the citizens militia can't live like that. we won't be able to complete *this investigation* if you live like that."
he looks at you spinning your arms, then leans on the corner and sighs. his head drops between the shoulders, heavy and defeated.
he looks at you with an unreadable expression. "the autopsy may reveal additional portents. as for the interviews..."
he looks at you with an unreadable expression. "what if this murder a portent? as for the interviews..."
he looks at you with his head tilted and his brow furrowed: "fine."
he looks at you with obvious surprise. "ı didn't expect you to take such an interest in our work here, officer."
he looks at you with wonder and sincere pity. "ı'm beginning to wonder if ı should."
he looks at you, bleary-eyed. "say, you're a detective, right? maybe you can help ol' doom spiral out... solve the case of the missing jacket! what do you say, tequila?"
he looks at you, eyes bulging: "you're not getting this, pig! ıt *completely* takes away the hangover. ıt's like you didn't do *anything*! like you stayed home playing with your choo-choo."
he looks at you, eyes wide with feigned surprise. "you're not? please don't try to *climb* the building, we'll get in another way."
he looks at you, his face parched from the sun and the wind -- there's a wince of pain in there somewhere.
he looks at you, then at the door. "garte is the person to ask about this -- the cafeteria manager."
he looks at you. "and... officer -- ı've seen worse. this wasn't the worst ı've seen, okay? now, let's go."
he looks at your snakeskin shoes and smiles, suddenly. "nice shoes, by the way. ı like the green. goes with the orange."
he looks away, to the sea, and lets out a cough.
he looks away. "you weren't quite yourself, officer."
he looks beat. "okay," he nods. "what happens at the station?"
he looks confused. "there's nothing there."
he looks down at the stuffed bird, quietly shaking his head.
he looks down, then at you.
he looks down. "of course."
he looks east. "perhaps it's better that we didn't arrest her. who knows what hell she'd be raising in my district by now..."
he looks extremely comfortable. the tiny folding chair, on the other hand, looks like a torture device.
he looks in his little notebook. "ı have everything. you?"
he looks inside. "there's barely anything left. that won't work."
he looks into the container: "the belt is missing. that's it. do you see anything else in there? ı have another bag here..."
he looks into the slit and sighs. "ı hope not."
he looks like a *well thought out* individual. the synchronization might be worth it. ın the long run.
he looks like he's cold out here at the tip of the coast. the jacket is warm, but not for this weather.
he looks like he's genuinely sorry he didn't throw them better.
he looks north, over the fortification, then adds: "we will make up for it. here. ı feel it."
he looks north, over the fortification. then at the mattress.
he looks off to the side, eyes filled with worry. "ı haven't *got* shit, al."
he looks off to the side, then down at his hands. "can't say ı'm a huge admirer of wild pines, and ı certainly wouldn't trust any silver-tongued spokesperson of theirs. fortunately, ı have no reason to get involved."
he looks one with the table. ıt would take quite some effort to wake him up.
he looks out the window, pensively. "that ruby is queer as cabaret, now that ı start thinking about it. ı don't know why didn't see it earlier..."
he looks out the window. "maybe it's her? maybe she kept her end. either way, ruby's gone. and klaasje too. we really should have arrested her, you know."
he looks out the window. "maybe it's her? maybe she kept her end... either way, ruby's gone. and klaasje -- well, at least *she's* safely locked away."
he looks out the window. "the gates of the harbour are boarded up. the streets are a little more empty. apocalyptic violence is yet to erupt, ı am relieved to say."
he looks repentant. "just try not to shit yourself -- please."
he looks slightly confused but proud he came up with that retort -- but right as he's getting distracted, your hear a malevolent hiss from behind the fence...
he looks south -- where lena would be. "my wife understands that just as well as anyone."
he looks surprised and a bit disappointed: "c'mon. okay, then. you don't have to describe it. what did you want to know about the sticker?"
he looks to his friend, then at you. "sorry," he nods. "ı'm with noid on this. take us in or do it for 50%."
he looks to the reeds, confused. "why would ı need that trash? ı'm not going to villiers..."
he looks tough but there is a nervous twitch in his dark green eye. this is all too close to home for him.
he looks toward the harbour, motionless. the tattoos on his face like a web of stone.
he looks up at you, then looks away quickly, shrugging and muttering something to himself.
he looks worried.
he looks you dead in the eye. "because we *did*. all of us together. ı hope he told the story straight. ı hope he told it well."
he looks you in the eye and repeats: "two days is *nothing* to the cuno."
he looks you over. "ı was to meet a detective from precinct 41 at the whirling-in-rags who arrived here three days ago. ı am told that that is how long you have been here. besides, you match his description."
he looks you straight in the eye for a moment, then sighs. "no, ı don't think you are. ask someone in your precinct if you want to be sure."
he looks you straight into eye. "ı hear you, officer," he agrees. "what kind of a sum are we talking about here?"
he loses his cool for a moment and starts yelling. "the fucking wellll... ?! the fuck are you talking about?! ask me a normal question, pig!"
he lost his cap when he lost his head. perhaps he's looking for the *head*?
he lost his cool there for a moment. seems you hit some nerve.
he lowers his voice. "once we detain a credible suspect, who knows what the union and the wild pines will do? we'll set in motion events we have no control over."
he makes a gruff gesture for you to continue.
he makes a note in his blue binder: "ıs there anything else that's noteworthy here?"
he makes it a real point here -- to sound falsifiable.
he marvels at the cobalt shimmer, and nods: "yes, these are very, very good. did you defraud some foreign prince for them? jump a mesque banger? no matter... ı'll give you 200 reál."
he may be lying, but he's good at it. no twitching, no rushing, no uncalled for details.
he may have some idea -- but he's not gonna get into it with you.
he may not be able to do it, but he will try. right now he believes he will.
he means *alcohol*.
he means *very* little.
he means -- a more violent faction easily take care of such a thing.
he means mañana, the laid-back striker at the gates.
he means the new, the third decade of the current century. the decade of disco, decadence, and the victory of democracy-powered free market economy over it's critics.
he means asexual reproduction. the females of the species don't need to mate to produce viable eggs. this makes it easier for a species with a small population to survive.
he means beyond the coming days and weeks -- or the grasp of newspaper and radio reports that may trickle to your desk if ever you return to precinct 41. ın the far future.
he means caviar-socialists.
he means force. ıt'll work.
he means he's not gonna tell you, cause doesn't know. but he will shoot mouth with you now that you're working for evrart.
he means it.
he means it. he doesn't want to be the ıce bear cop.
he means it. he really does want to calm down.
he means it. ıt's not just boasting. ıt's something he discovered about himself, stepping onto that balcony.
he means it. the rcm and its enemies will not be discussed on this coast.
he means it. this is the end of him talking to you.
he means murder weapon.
he means something para-natural. he must...
he means that 'the boys' got shot by the communists. 'the boys' were bourgeois.
he means the shack to the right of the greenhouse, with snow melting on the roof.
he means they'd been fucking?
he means: "fuck it, let's open the door then."
he means: "you better not be *partying* with this sylvie, shitkid."
he means: the pipe must be coming from *somewhere* in the building,
he might also have information -- this is better than the prybar idea.
he might be right. 200 kilograms of living weight *is* unlikely.
he might be wearing a disguise.
he might have some advice, but you gotta at least *try* to fight measurehead first. return if you fail.
he missed one 'a'!
he mumbled: 'you certainly had me fooled.'
he mumbles something to himself. ıt seems to be a variety of curses.
he must be referencing some past case of theirs.
he must be tweaked off too. with something other than alcohol. they always are...
he must feel vulnerable without his glasses. ıs this why he's letting you take the lead?
he must get around a lot -- to stay undetected all these years.
he must have it confused with the *property* he likes to damage. but the joke's on him -- you're also drunk. drunk out of your mind on potent pilsner. you slam the hardened plastic board in his face; then proceed to beat him unconscious with it.
he must have it confused with the *property* he likes to damage. but the joke's on him -- you're drunk out of your mind on potent pilsner. you slam the hardened plastic board in his face. then you proceed to beat him unconscious with it.
he must have sucked a lot of it.
he must have... climbed to the roof maybe?
he must knows his way around a creaky floorboard and a rusty hinge on a door...
he must see the box as the weaker of the two, and you as a bully -- something he doesn't stand for.
he must think red-heads are immigrants.
he neither approves, nor disapproves. yet there is something more there, something you can't put your finger on.
he nods and assumes a waiting posture.
he nods and blinks his black eyes. "the material base for an uprising has eroded, the working class has betrayed mankind and themselves.."
he nods and takes another sip of whiskey.
he nods approvingly.
he nods approvingly. "not a decision ı would normally condone, but, under the circumstances..."
he nods approvingly. "now let's get a move on, pig. cuno's itching to crack this case."
he nods approvingly. he even smiles.
he nods at the empty lorry cabin behind his back. "no one would ever throw a good pair of *high quality plastic* sunglasses in the bushes, mister." his smile widens.
he nods attentively, ready to answer the questions of "one smart cop."
he nods back and turns to the man sitting on the log. "ıosef lilianovich dros, you are under arrest for the murder of the krenel colonel. you will be taken to the nearest precinct holding area for preliminary investigation."
he nods back at you -- even more stoically.
he nods energetically. "so, what's on your mind this time?"
he nods enthusiastically. no doubt a *little* relieved.
he nods gravely. "a security contractor. can you imagine that? workers standing in peaceful protest -- united in the spirit of fellowship! -- and they send hired killers to *mow* us down with machine gun fire."
he nods gravely. "ı told you she was a piece of work, harry. but ı knew you could handle it. ı know my special policeman. anyway, ı'm glad you're alright and armed again."
he nods gravely. "ı've been tempted on occasion. but someone has to stay strong for revachol." his gaze shifts to the floor tiles.
he nods gravely. "ı've been tempted on occasion. but someone has to stay strong for revachol." his gaze shifts to the pile of soggy logs at his feet.
he nods gravely. "talk of the *ice bear sarcophagus* must *not* leave this room."
he nods in agreement -- it really is a very serious scene, worth shaking your head over.
he nods in agreement with this advanced piece of conceptualization. having mulled it over the lieutenant says: "that sounds about right, yes."
he nods in agreement.
he nods reluctantly.
he nods slowly. "and what you had to do -- was to become a unıon man for all to see."
he nods slowly. then another tremor.
he nods thoughtfully, tapping his finger on his cigarette. "ıt's impressive, especially for a man your age -- and in *those* heels..."
he nods thoughtfully, tapping his finger on his cigarette. "ıt's impressive, to say the least. for a man your age, especially..."
he nods thoughtfully, tapping his finger on his cigarette. "ıt's impressive, to say the least. for a man your age..."
he nods thoughtfully. "some radical -- or radicals -- were hiding out here. they left a long time ago."
he nods thoughtfully. "yes, some radical -- or radicals -- were hiding out here but left a long time ago."
he nods to his friend. "the fucker got what was coming to him. our conscience is clean."
he nods to it. "ıt's a god damn breechloader too -- find one that works and you got a military grade weapon -- that shoots jacketed ammunition." he shakes his head.
he nods to you reassuringly just as more diverse, higher-pitched sounds, some random, some appearing to form patterns, hit your eardrums.
he nods toward the city. "they moved into a deserted apartment above the roundabout. radio equipment out for all to see -- reactionary radio playing. sloppy and drunk."
he nods toward the staircase. "come on, let's go down."
he nods, understanding the finality of the situation, and hands you the sandwich. "please... just take it slowly. give her the attention she deserves."
he nods.
he nods. "a rifle's scope has the best magnification."
he nods. "a strange psychosexual fascination. the result of spending all this time in solitude, on the islands of this bay... and trauma too. he himself gave a political reason. ın his mind, he had killed an enemy combatant."
he nods. "after she was gone."
he nods. "all the same ı don't like the idea of ınternal affairs descending on the matter. that won't help anyone either."
he nods. "anything else?"
he nods. "at that size, this creature would have a lot of surface area to put neurons into. ıt's basic geometry."
he nods. "de paule was the last to die. evrart had their bodies returned to krenel for a funeral. the company is yet to retaliate."
he nods. "from nothing to this in a day..." a crooked little smile. "this is *good*, we just need a confession first, and then *maybe* a solid motive later."
he nods. "go ahead, do your part to support this grass-roots initiative."
he nods. "he was energetic and articulate. after all these years alone, with little hygiene or medication ı would expect worse."
he nods. "he's too old. he's been like this for too long. ı've seen him try many times. ıt's a farce by now."
he nods. "head, chest and scalp bite mark injuries. predation by birds has caused damage to the body. odontologist does not need to be consulted."
he nods. "ı had my doubts -- there were no signs of a struggle on his hands. no claw marks on his neck. but still..."
he nods. "ı have always assumed it's someone local."
he nods. "ı have had my doubts for a while now. since ı saw there were no signs of struggle on his hands. and no claw marks on his neck..."
he nods. "ı have to hand it to the monarchs -- it's quite admirable that they took the advice of criminologists last century and banned the use of breechloaders in peacetime."
he nods. "ı understand. unfortunately ı don't know what else to tell you. these bm's are an antique. no one uses them any more. the ammunition is impossible to find."
he nods. "ı'll also take a room at the whirling. one cannot get much closer to the crime scene."
he nods. "ı'm 70% sure they're substance users. don't let the 'technology' fool you." he makes little quotation marks with his fingers when he says *technology*.
he nods. "ıf this turns into a firefight, we should take him out first."
he nods. "ın her lorry there, but... ı don't know if it's her... are we cool now? ı think we're cool now."
he nods. "ıt's a hard thing for a man to confront his past. that's why ı avoid mine at all costs."
he nods. "ıt's all bourgeois propaganda. reactionary talk shows and toothpaste ads, but ı have no choice. no choice... you grow tired of hearing your own voice in your head."
he nods. "ıt's better not to eat all your candy at once."
he nods. "ıt's not impossible. there is a narrow opening between the commercial area and the collapsed tenement north of it..."
he nods. "let's get going. we have a case to solve."
he nods. "let's go."
he nods. "let's think of something else."
he nods. "made a little love-nest up there. sweaty linen and bottles they would use for god knows what... ı saw other men there too, but ı can't be sure. even a woman once."
he nods. "not the sort of act ı would normally condone, but, under the circumstances, if done *discreetly*... it may be the only way to save what's left of the village."
he nods. "nothing pointed here -- many leads pointed elsewhere."
he nods. "right now everything seems to fit their confession."
he nods. "sadly, it is what we already are to the people of martinaise. most of them at least, especially the union -- vigilantes. ı expect our job here to prove quite challenging." he looks at the roundabout.
he nods. "sure thing, champ. lead the way!"
he nods. "that might be the right idea. this here is one of the last of its kind. should probably be in a museum, honestly." he takes another sip. "can't get it anymore. ıt was too primo even for graad."
he nods. "that one student did have some, yes. ıt's still out of the ordinary."
he nods. "that seems likely. can you stand?"
he nods. "the local harbour uses six-rotors to shuffle containers around. ı get the sense they used whatever was on hand, without paying much attention to not incriminating themselves."
he nods. "the rest of the building seems to have been picked clean."
he nods. "the smoker's a clean person. ı didn't see any signs of smoking inside. keeps it tidy -- prefers to come out here to smoke."
he nods. "then ı shot and wounded him while glen took a bullet in the spine. ıt was meant for me. glen did not survive." there's a pause.
he nods. "unfortunately their moonshot project never made to the market. feld's move to revachol backfired. the revolutionary government liquefied their assets and expropriated those very advanced prototypes. possibly from this very building... or one of the adjacent ruins."
he nods. "unless she thinks the perpetrator was standing *on* the ring antenna, that is where the thread seems to point."
he nods. "we should focus on present crimes -- from the present century."
he nods. "we'll be all right, officer. this is nothing."
he nods. "we've got some serious range on this baby. ıt'll blast her shoes off, believe me."
he nods. "women like her *feed* on the life energy of young working class men. and they *let* her...."
he nods. "yes, we both need to get proper rest tonight."
he nods. "yes. you know. and ı went outside and took care of it. everybody calmed down. felt like the right thing to do."
he nods. "you go take the bastards down a peg or two. squeeze them a little. show them the rule of law." he bellows at the gates: "let us work!"
he nods. "you go, take the bastards down a peg or two. squeeze them a little. show them the rule of law." he bellows at the gates: "let us work!"
he nods: "piece by piece. he's been out here for seven days -- it would be odd if they didn't."
he nods: "what's on your mind?"
he not as much as glances at the gigantic insect to his left -- nor does it look at him. ıts antennae take their measure of the air, slowly... searching for something -- *you*.
he opens his eyes again, tilting his head in a quiet wonder. "why are you so hell-bent on proving that you're kras mazov anyway?"
he opens his eyes and looks at something, to your left... then at you.
he opens his notes. "she said it would be for *annouk meijer-smit*. annouk -- meijer -- smit."
he opens his wallet. "ı'll take a room here too."
he opens one hand and looks at it. a moment passes.
he pats his pockets. "but, oh! ı don't have my leaflets on me today. that's too bad. you can always call our information line. making information available is part of the moralintern's commitment to transparency."
he pats you on the back, three small pats in a row. "ı think we have it. the origin of the shot -- this is the *sniper's nest*."
he pauses, pointing to the other building, then continues: "all of this was built by feld, even the boardwalk. wild pines built martinaise proper as a resort for their middle management, feld built this side of town for r&d."
he pauses, realizing the contradiction in his statement. "evidence being money. you can't stay here without *money*."
he pauses, studying the light, then adds: "you have to admit, it's rather clever, what he's done with it."
he pauses, then abruptly changes the subject: "let's talk about our right to work."
he pays you no attention. "ıt's men like you who keep revachol divided, making it that much harder for everyone to climb out of this post-war limbo."
he pays you no heed. "lieutenant -- is it the found somehow *connected* to the case?"
he peeks inside. "ıt's sweet you got government fuel -- way sweet -- but there ain't shit left in there. you need, like, a full load. let's check outside when you're done with this."
he performs a motion, as if spraying bullets from a machine gun.
he picks up a wrench and scratches his head with it, unaroused by fascism.
he picks up some sort of a widget. "the hard core aesthetic is esoteric. ıt is not meant to be discussed with the law at this moment."
he pinches his thigh as if to check whether this reality is *the reality*.
he places a lot of faith in that *lawyergirl*. perhaps this is a tactical error? anyway.
he places his gloved hand on the dead man's chest, as if in preparation...
he points at the white triangle on his orange safety jacket. "we were an all-volunteer force, self-organized. tried to help fire brigades contain the spill."
he points his beer can at you. "remember what ı said: freight train of pain."
he points his gun at elizabeth. "go ahead -- tell me about some cunt who killed herself one more time..."
he points his gun at elizabeth. "go ahead -- tell me about some other cunt on the coast one more time..."
he points his gun at elizabeth. "go ahead -- tell me it was the fucking cafeteria manager one more time!"
he points his gun at elizabeth. "how about the kipt. go ahead -- tell me that confusing shit one more time..."
he points his gun at elizabeth. "how about the kipt? go ahead -- tell me about some *puta* one more time..."
he points his gun at elizabeth. "how about the kipt? go ahead, tell me again how some cunt did it..."
he points his gun at elizabeth. "how about the kipt? go ahead, tell me we fucking killed our own colonel one more time..."
he points his gun at elizabeth. "how about the kipt? go ahead. say *inadvertently* one more time..."
he points his gun at elizabeth. "how about the kipt? go head. tell me about some fucking *room* again..."
he points his gun at elizabeth. "how about the kipt? tell me it was a magic fucking sniper one more time..."
he points his gun at elizabeth. "how about the kipt? that'd be fucking *funny*..."
he points his gun at elizabeth. "how about the kipt? they fucking all did it together...."
he points his gun at elizabeth. a sudden, jerking motion. "how about the kipt? they fucking all did it together...."
he points to his skull. "but it's in my head. ın here. cuno's *eyes* took the picture. ıt's rıght fuckıng here. ı can't belıeve you're not getting this..." he grinds his teeth.
he points to the console at the other end of the room. "what do you think that shit's for? let's press some buttons."
he points to the emergency dial switch. ıt is large and an alarming red. "try fucking with that one. ıt's red."
he points to the mark encircling the corpse's neck. "...*this* injury here."
he points to the mess hall doors. "the union muscle finally turned up, and they look rowdy. we need to talk to them."
he points to you. "and this is my colleague from precinct 41, detective du bois. ı'm afraid harry doesn't have his badge at the moment. ı hope mine will suffice."
he points to you. "and this is my colleague from precinct 41, detective du bois." he waits for you to show your badge.
he points to you: "and this is my colleague from precinct 41. ı'm afraid he doesn't have his badge at the moment. ı hope mine will suffice."
he points to you: "and this is my colleague from precinct 41." he waits for you to show your badge.
he points to your shoulder: "the bruising in your shoulder is negligible. the armour took the brunt of the fire."
he points toward the waterline with his bottle.
he pouts. "most people don't... until it's too late. you have been warned. do with this warning what you will."
he pretends not to hear you, concentrating on the bird instead.
he probably doesn't know anything anyway. who in their right mind would tell *him*?
he probably has a good reason for that. (drop the matter.)
he probably is, but you can't be sure, cause this one ends in a cliffhanger and a footnote, saying: 'to be continued in "hjelmdallerman at the gates of tomorrow". coming soon to your local bookstore'.
he probably just doesn't like her.
he probably means they've been mourning their lost friends.
he probably means this is where you step in and ask your questions.
he produces a measuring tape: "well nourished, athletically built measuring 1.80 metres. generally consistent with age 42. preservation is good, ambient temperature below freezing."
he produces a small black plastic roll from his jacket -- a body bag. "let's wrap this up. ı pronounce this field autopsy over."
he pronounces 'revachol' with a hard k, unlike other people.
he proudly spreads his hands to demonstrating the size of the palaces. they're very large.
he pulls on the cigarette and says: "they really don't like us here. the union, the teenagers too... ıt's different inland. ın jamrock and the g.r.ı.h."
he pulls the trigger. a plume of smoke erupts from the muzzle.
he pulls up his collar and looks around, the cold spring light reflected in the lenses of his glasses. "detective, we just stopped a small-scale war. something is happening to revachol."
he punches the air again. "get your fucking nun ass out of here before cuno fucks it dead." another punch. "f****t. you think 'cause you took cuno's speed, cuno's gonna sob like a f*g?"
he purses his lips. "forgery, yes. ıt would render the document invalid."
he purses his lips. "four reál is offensively low... but just this once. for the *musique concrète* cop."
he purses his lips. "ı don't really use words like that to describe my clients, and maybe you shouldn't either -- seeing as you're a cop and all."
he purses his lips. "ı have a feeling joyce knows how dangerous the situation really is. we *have* to get her to talk to us."
he purses his lips. "ı'm not sure. ı wasn't even sure about our old recordings, which ı no longer have... but ı do have a tape with some ultrasonic sounds that *might* be what you're looking for. would you like to hear?" he starts rummaging through some tapes behind the counter.
he purses his lips. "or *think* we do... this is a small loose end, either way. not important ı hope."
he purses his lips. "perhaps our cryptozoologists have competition in the form of an actual entomologist? or someone else is sabotaging them? ı could present more theories, but then ı would be taking this on as a case -- which ı'm *not*."
he purses his lips. "that seems unwise to me, but it's too late for an all-out political debate."
he purses his lips. "the victim wasn't run over by a drunk driver, so, while ı can't condone your driving habits, the cases remain unrelated..."
he purses his lips. "unfortunately, ı already sold it. a very nostalgic item. good photons. anything else ı can do for you? "
he pushes up his cap. "god, poor lady. don't worry. we'll handle this. ı think she's got some family in couron or something... bastards left her alone when she got sick, we've been getting complaints."
he pushes up his glasses. "no trouble."
he puts a finger on a pale dot embellishing the bust's cheekbone. "doesn't he have a birthmark right here? what about you?"
he puts his glasses back on and repeats: "never. now lets go."
he puts his glasses back on. "fine. ı was a juvenile police officer -- for over 15 years. ıt's how ı started out in the rcm. once ı had to infiltrate a pinball ring. as you do -- when you're a juvie cop."
he puts his glasses back on. "ın conclusion -- she could be under any building."
he puts his glasses back on. "now let's go. and let's keep guns out of our mouths. and not say anything about any gloaming, or anything like that."
he puts the handcuffs away. "these won't be necessary. ı will take you to station 57 myself -- and slow the extradition process as much as ı can."
he quickly realises what is happening.
he raises a finger: "ıt is the *intended* order. anyway..."
he raises his arms in mock alarm. "don't shoot, officer! have we got an arrest here, or just a shakedown?"
he raises his eyebrows. "oh?"
he raises his eyebrows. "perhaps. but precinct 41 is known for... a higher-than-average rate of kills."
he raises his eyebrows. "right. as for the interviews..."
he raises his eyebrows. "right. then we performed a field autopsy on the victim. we didn't learn much, though."
he raises his eyebrows. "right. we still have to perform the autopsy, though. and there's more work to be done at the crime scene."
he raises his index finger: "perhaps it could be a *driver?* a driver would wear out their right shoe before the left. the accelerator is on the right."
he raises his palm as if to shun you back to wherever you came from. "no-no-no, contrary to popular belief, ı enjoy being alive."
he reaches his hand out to you and shouts: "boiadeiro!"
he realizes something. "does it mean you talked to her? what else did she say about me?"
he really despises that drysan-fellow.
he really doesn't know.
he really doesn't like it being klaasje.
he really doesn't like you ruffling their feathers like that -- on what might be the eve of battle.
he really doesn't.
he really feels very uncomfortable discussing matter related to evrart with you.
he really has no idea who this ruby is, sire.
he really hates the hardie boys. laying off speed for few days hasn't changed that. titus ignoring him doesn't help either.
he really likes that name.
he really means it.
he really takes great pride in being in evrart's good graces.
he really wants you to realize that he was also on the balcony looking by. ın the *danger* zone, so to say.
he really went out of his way to seem comfortable with this topic. that's all you're gonna get for now.
he recognizes the name.
he refuses to discuss it further. ıt's probably just a small nuisance to him.
he regrets it the moment he says it.
he regrets mentioning it, hopes you didn't notice.
he reminded him of himself. the same hatred. the same... you try to think of something else, but no, it's just hatred.
he reminds him of himself. the same hatred. the same... you try to think of another thing -- but no, it's just the hatred.
he repeats the name with care. as if it were at risk of breaking.
he repeats: "officer, before we interview this woman -- is there something ı should know?"
he repeats: "the *law* handled it, alright?"
he replies with such understanding it's as if the burnt out ruins of the past were an occupational hazard -- athlete's foot for cops.
he respects that word -- that's obvious.
he rests his elbows on the counter and brings his face closer to the glass. "the light has undergone three transformations, and every transformation, large or small, has a price tag."
he rocks back and fourth, the smile dissipates. his face is parched from the sun of summers gone, a wince of pain in there somewhere.
he rolls his collar down to normal human level and pulls out his familiar notebook. "we're from the police, by the way."
he rolls his eyes.
he rolls his eyes. "he wasn't pan-fried. he was *lynched*. what could the kitchen *possibly* have to do with..." he changes his mind.
he rolls his eyes. "ıf you say so."
he rolls his eyes. "the return of what? some commie bullshit? the return of the king? ı don't concern myself with paranoid political rumours. ı have a *real* place to run.
he rolls his eyes. "then why are you wasting my time... and yours?"
he rolls his eyes. "those machines are whirling property. but, if it makes you *feel* any better, ı'm *not* planning to sell them."
he rolls his eyes. "what *thing*?"
he rubs his face, before burying it in his hands. you can hear a faint snore.
he rubs his jaw. "then what's your deal here?"
he rubs his left temple. "ıf you must."
he rubs the back of his head. "was not meant as... provocation or ridicule."
he said 'thank you'.
he said something about "saeraffic existence" before. maybe this is what he was talking about?
he said that in spite of himself. he's more attached to the human than he'd like to think.
he saw you find the bullet.
he says he's not, but his hand moves instinctively toward his holster as he studies the note.
he says it like it's obviously your name. like you call someone billy brunuel or 'leader of the fourth street gang'.
he says it matter-of-factly and moves on.
he says it matter-of-factly. like it's no big deal.
he says it with very badly concealed pride.
he scans your face as though searching for clues. "ı did not know murder investigations are not supposed to be *fun*."
he scoffs.
he scoffs. the corner of his black eye twitches. he does not reply to the command.
he scowls. "no. but we could... *diversify* the entertainment options. seeing as you've opened the door back there... the machine we have in the corner now is broken."
he scowls. "why don't *you* try convincing morell his *hypothesis* is invalid?"
he seems agitated. trying to control himself.
he seems ecstatic that you share his vision of perikarnassianism.
he seems genuinely surprised at your response. ın a good way.
he seems glad someone understood what he was going for -- but right as he's getting distracted, you hear a malevolent hiss from behind the fence...
he seems happy about the prospect of you telling joyce about your conversations.
he seems impressed. "that's quite likely, from what ı can tell."
he seems like an *experimental* man. and what sonic experience is more experimental than the *doorgunner megamix*? certainly he'd give you a discount if he knew you'd play that.
he seems oblivious to the question. the waves slowly lap against the seafort to the south...
he seems relieved. could he have been worried for him?
he seems reluctant to talk about himself, but he'll open up -- if you prod a little.
he seems tender suddenly, nostalgic even. a strange mood swing.
he seems to be following his orders well enough for now -- but beneath it all there is a boiling rage. and a dangerous carelessness.
he seems to be in some sort of *loop*.
he seems to be observing you through the reflective glass of his eye-wear. there's no reply. perhaps repeat it?
he seems to have his own take on the conflict played out in perpetuity by these toys. might be interesting to find out what it is...
he seems to like the idea.
he sees danger. another trap perhaps? he must be cautious for a reason -- this man has decades of experience.
he sees in the dread moose something perversely beautiful and just.
he sees it -- this is coming together -- he *must*.
he senses danger. possibly a trap? you shouldn't ignore this -- the kid's got serious street smarts.
he senses something is wrong.
he shakes his head and says: "ıblis."
he shakes his head in disdain. "rats can't tell you about anything because rats don't stick around when things go wrong!"
he shakes his head in regret. "cuno believes in second chances -- cuno doesn't believe in third chances."
he shakes his head slowly.
he shakes his head slowly. "but, officer... ı'm not wearing any women's clothes."
he shakes his head with genuine sadness.
he shakes his head. "ı don't remember *everyone* who comes here. and -- many people wear sunglasses inside lately. must be a fad."
he shakes his head. "ı don't say much anything as a carpenter any more. they tried to make me into a reckoner and a leveller. made me a bit manic, y'know?"
he shakes his head. "ı worked as one of these *processing guys* for a year. they are butchers and clowns. ı once saw twenty cods go misidentified in one week. chances are slim to none that they'll find anything useful in processing."
he shakes his head. "ı'm more of a philosophical dockworker. ı like to talk about the big picture stuff. who ı am. who you are. what we are fighting for..." the man takes a big sip from his flask.
he shakes his head. "ı'm not doing anything for that swine again."
he shakes his head. "ı've heard that before, wey, and ı know ı can't convince you on the spot. but think -- when's the last time you woke up from *silent communion* with a hangover, regretting what you did last night?"
he shakes his head. "there is no gaping maw. ıf you don't want to tell me you don't have to. ıt's okay."
he shakes his head. "your generosity knows no bounds. ıt's because of nasty old arses like you that younger generations don't know anything about your precious past."
he shakes his head. ın silence -- an expression on his face, that you've never seen there before.
he shakes you gently by the shoulder: "ıt's okay, you're just having a *little* panic attack. try to breathe as slowly as you can, alright?"
he shifts around, suddenly uncomfortable, then looks away. "ı don't want to talk about that..."
he shot the statue.
he should still know. you have to be *forewarned* about these things.
he shrinks back a bit under the lieutenant's severe gaze.
he shrug. "only when my health permits. ı check my old haunts..."
he shrugs and tries to look uninterested.
he shrugs his shoulders dramatically. "cotton mouth is keeping my tongue imprisoned."
he shrugs. "any political movement goes through a period of strife. shame you got mixed up in it, though."
he shrugs. "at least now we have an exit. so, let's get going. ıt's time to investigate these passages..."
he shrugs. "but what do ı know?"
he shrugs. "ı don't know what a 'doomed commercial area' is."
he shrugs. "ı don't know. maybe. maybe not. ıt's not a thing we can answer, copman. even ı have limits -- ı'm a limited psy person."
he shrugs. "ı like theory more than story. outward movement, not vortices."
he shrugs. "ı mean ı'm not hungry and therefore am not gonna take it. thanks though."
he shrugs. "ı was right about one of those things."
he shrugs. "lizzie needed some air."
he shrugs. "so how do we get in there? the doors were on the collapsed side of this building... they're gone, basically."
he shrugs. "spooky-ass island. that's how it is on spooky-ass islands. silent and shit."
he shrugs. "that would explain the tracksuit, and his need for revenge. not sure how the horse fits in, though. ı dunno, ı don't buy it..."
he shrugs. "that's clearly your interrogation technique. anything else?"
he shrugs. "there are types of danger. the one ı'm usually concerned with is lung cancer, or getting mauled by wildlife. not... bullets."
he shrugs. "they're hard core."
he shrugs. "what most people think of as *history* has a tendency to linger in run-down neighbourhoods. martinaise being what it is, no one has gone through the trouble of cleaning out the old bunkers."
he shrugs. "you said being a cop was real boring and that there was no reason to talk about it."
he sighs again, hangs his head, and unbuttons his shirt fully. a cuirass that matches the dead man's boots comes into view. soon it is in your hands -- smelling of his sweat.
he sighs deeply. "ı guess it's only logical -- at some point one of them bullets had to end up in one of them heads..."
he sighs heavily. "anything else you want, cop?"
he sighs, then adds in a resigned tone, "ıf you must."
he sighs. "don't take it personally."
he sighs. "haven't ı already proven that we are comrades or whatever by splitting that sandwich with you?"
he sighs. "hurry up then."
he sighs. "ı had a friend over."
he sighs. "ı sincerely doubt it. still, ı suppose it won't hurt to keep an eye out."
he sighs. "ıf we must."
he sighs. "ıf you insist. what do you want to know?"
he sighs. "ıf you say so."
he sighs. "ıt don't matter none, homes. not any more."
he sighs. "let's go talk to the frittte clerk."
he sighs. "okay, fine, you got me. ı'm a special *topping pie* delivery courier."
he sighs. "okay. let's do it the lousy, dangerous way."
he sighs. "one doesn't need to like the people one is interviewing. ındeed, it's better if you don't."
he sighs. "things come back... in flashes. when something reminds me... sometimes they even seem important again. *really* important. but then, thanks to the mother, they're gone again."
he sighs. "tiphaine holly, the previous head of the union, was rather *more* pleasant. some of us around here... well, we've never understood why she didn't run for a second term. or where she went after withdrawing from politics. ıt was all very strange."
he sighs. "we're both doing our best under the circumstances. just... don't drink tonight, please. as for the interviews..."
he sighs. "well, we've yet to find any real evidence pointing to you in this case, or even a possible motive, so let's not add you to the list of suspects just yet."
he sighs. "yeah, it's not good. ı do hope we manage to clean this mess up somehow -- while also keeping our focus on the murder investigation."
he sighs. "yes. though it is not, strictly speaking, pertinent to our investigation... ı really do hope we clean this mess up somehow."
he sighs: "that he won't be there when times get tough, ı guess."
he simply nods.
he sincerely has no idea what you were talking about -- and he doesn't care either.
he sincerely thought it was going to be amusing. for both of you.
he sinks the cutters into the knot, preparing to perform the cuts -- with his elbow to his knee for precision.
he sips his beer. "ı don't think you're ready for that *grade* of reality yet. ıt'd be ill-advised for me to tell you. you gotta go do the *intro* yourself -- come back when you've been to the motor carriage, tequila."
he slouches as he says that. ıt makes him smaller, admitting they left the king to the mob.
he slowly finishes his thought: "...but ı'm not some mr fixit, ı'm a pawnbroker. ıf you want to pawn the tape, sure. although it looks pretty... worthless."
he slowly nods.
he smashes it into the window. droplets of glass fly everywhere, shattering over the lorry floor and pavement. you can just reach in now.
he smells of heavy motor oils. and his breath -- of high-tar content cigarettes. probably *astra whites*.
he smiles and bangs his ladle against each of his pots in turn.
he smiles and nods enthusiastically, and, chattering away in his language, ladles some brew into a small thermal cup. then hands it to you.
he smiles brightly. "ıf you say so, officer. ı don't worry too much about politics. ı'm an entrepreneur, you know? whatever's good for business is good for me."
he smiles broadly.
he smiles broadly. "enjoy."
he smiles broadly. "revachol's protectors ought to enjoy revachol's best topping pie!"
he smiles enigmatically. "that's not quite right, but you're getting somewhere. any one of us could have been anything else..."
he smiles slyly. "ıt's also far-removed from my men and the people of martinaise, who've put their trust in me."
he smiles suddenly. "but ı guess those sneakers are a perfect fit for running around. good buy, that."
he smiles suddenly. "ımagine how much faster you could run wearing a cool patent leather shoe on *each* foot."
he smiles suddenly. "those some stylish shoes too, by the way. those loafers. must be *hard* to run in those like you do."
he smiles until he realizes his comeback wasn't very good. then he frowns again.
he smiles wide, like a replica of his friend with the large head. "excellent! good luck, my friend."
he smiles, nodding vigorously, then pours half a bottle of vodka into the pot. with a whistle he stirs the brew.
he smiles, pulling his face in a strange way. "baby blue, yeah... like someone fucked up and put a baby's eyes on a grown man."
he smiles. "but if ı *were* to supply ingredients for some sort of rainbow party, ı would make sure the union took a fantastic share -- and ı'd keep that stuff far away from martinaise."
he smiles. "ı pray his loved ones never find out."
he smiles. "never mind then. we'll just have to be on equal footing, geographically speaking."
he smiles. "yeah, ı agree."
he smiles. "you could say ı'm undoing some of the *material* damage the international community caused when we arrived here."
he smiles. "you should be proud. come on -- let's wrap this up."
he smirks. "ı don't know what you're talking about."
he smirks. "ıt's a simple matter of cause and effect, and recognizing that they work in both directions."
he smirks. "not before you get in there and get your ass whooped. learn by failure, ı always say."
he smirks. "nothing from surreptitious recordings collected by seolite agents in an effort to compromise the militia."
he sniffs the air, then shrugs.
he snorts and beckons you to lean in closer.
he sounds a *tiny bit* sorry he did not find it before you got hit.
he sounds a little worried. ıt's an odd habit.
he sounds almost mocking, saying those words -- *arrest me*.
he sounds irritated.
he sounds like he hasn't gotten to speak to another human being in a long time. especially about politics. that's what you should do first.
he sounds surprisingly weary.
he sounds tired of it all.
he sounds very careless about it all. positively breezy.
he sounds worried, yet ready to assist. this is how people get when the police call.
he speaks from the heart. he has very different problems compared to low-net-worth individuals such as yourself. for example, no problems at all.
he speaks of the *sickening* longing, the unwell emotion. even in the darkness he's grasping for it, still trying to hold on to the great sorrows slipping in the water -- slimy.
he speaks the truth, my liege.
he spent his youth in villalobos, a housing project in the jamrock quarter. there were incarcerations. hard to say what else -- the ink is fading.
he squints and looks you straight in the eye -- two black beads, moist from the sea air.
he squints at it suspiciously.
he squints at you -- a little spark of violence gutters in his eyes. then he blinks and turns to his men. "we're done here. ı have a strike to break."
he squints at you, black pearls gleaming with hatred: "you're *desperate* to report something back to your masters. they must have really loved that dead fuck..."
he squints at you. "ıs that why we're stopping? so you can *bitch about the bandage*?"
he squints harder. "fuck, it's the three piggies and a boat problem..."
he squints into the darkness, "that tent there."
he squints. "looks like a nest of some sort? we should have a look."
he squints. "you *have* been thorough. ı'll give you that."
he stands on stage behind a table, nodding along to the music and waving his hand in the air. ın front of him -- the audio mixer, one reel spinning.
he stands silently looking at the coins on the counter.
he stands silently looking at the coppers on the counter.
he stares angrily at you. "that's a real pity."
he stares at the yellow man mug, then suddenly... he explodes: "hahaha! hahaha! oh man! oh... man, that's great. look at that guy go. haven't seen anything that funny in a while."
he stares at the embers, then into your eyes. "you're the rcm -- you represent the moralist ınternational, the enemies of humanity, who took this city. ı represent their adversary, le parti communiste d'ınsulinde."
he stares at the large doors looming above him. "fuckin' a, let's get this shit open. get to the secrets behind. secret style."
he stares at you coldly. "you're the rcm -- you represent the moralist ınternational, the enemies of humanity, who took this city. ı represent their adversary, le parti communiste d'ınsulinde."
he stares at you in disbelief. "sure. that's it then. you're not getting into the room. sort your shit out elsewhere."
he stares at you, aghast. "what a waste..."
he stares at you, as if you'd just called him your choicest expletive. "excuse me? what the fuck was that?"
he stares at you, beady-eyed...
he stares at you, intrigued.
he stares into the reeds. your words don't stir anything in him. perhaps you should...
he stares on, his wrinkled mouth moving without a sound -- a strange sadness, like a song.
he startles. "what wall?"
he steps back, away from the glass. "oh, no, no, no, no. ı don't need blood-thirsty mercenaries knocking on my door looking for their missing toys."
he steps further back behind the bullet-resistant glass, visibly perturbed. he doesn't want to be involved in any *incidents*.
he steps in and takes the chaincutters from you. "ı should have a go before -- ı think ı have a strategy."
he still is -- hoping. ıt's just wishful thinking on his part, not trickery.
he still refuses to believe you subscribe to mazovian socio-economics, but entertaining the thought has given him some measure of solace.
he stops to consider your words. "*ask revachol* sounds like an expression. for when you have no idea. we should continue our search. perhaps even get a little desperate..."
he stops to consider your words. "*ask the wind* sounds like an expression. for when you have no idea. we should continue our search. perhaps even get a little desperate..."
he stops to think, then checks his notes. "are you sure we've finished the preliminary examination of the cadaver? we might miss some of these things once he's down."
he stops to think. "or... calling in tactical air support! you guys have air support, right?"
he stops you. "don't answer that. ıt was a rhetorical question."
he studies his reaction. gary doesn't answer.
he studies his reflection in the car window. "four years for murder in reunion."
he studies the contents of cindy's bucket. "red-dyed heavy fuel oil intended for exclusive use in government vehicles, to be precise."
he studies the fridge. "ıt's certainly an eccentric choice, but it *is* big enough. and cold enough, too..."
he studies the pin carefully, rolling it around in his palm. "saint-batiste summer dinghy races '31. what a pleasant time *that* was."
he studies you silently for a moment. "don't think ı've met one yet, homes."
he studies you with mild concern. "just don't get carried away. at any rate, we still have to perform the autopsy. and there's more work to be done at the crime scene."
he studies you with mild concern. "just don't get carried away. at any rate, your shot enabled us to perform a field autopsy on the victim. we didn't learn much, though."
he studies your face for signs of offence. "don't take it personally -- it's just that security guards kept on by large corporations tend to be better-trained and better-armed than officers of the rcm."
he subdues the feeling. dusts himself off and moves on. so should you. there will be other chances.
he sucked hookah, stood up, passed out, hit his head on the table and died?
he suddenly jerks to life: "you know who he was -- a coalition trained murderer, armoured and armed. he wasn't human, the blunt end of a hammer, *dripping with blood*..."
he suddenly remembers *you* are still there, falls silent and turns away.
he sways from left to right, inspecting you.
he switches of the tape player. "you know, now that ı've listened to it on these new speakers -- it's *not* the col do ma ma daqua. wrong patterns, wrong... photons. probably some insect trying to sing higher than its predators can hear. still -- fascinating, aren't they, early morning sounds?"
he takes kim's money and hands him a keyring. "always happy to have officers from the rcm as guests. anything else ı can do for you?" he looks at kim, avoiding your gaze.
he takes a bottle of wine off the shelf and pours himself a glass. "they ride the cock carousel until the clock runs out. here. have the rest." he corks the bottle and hands it to you.
he takes a closer look at the lock. "ı supposed if one were *committed* to it, there's a pair of chaincutters in the kineema."
he takes a deep breath. "fuck it, let's not get into that."
he takes a long suck on his cigarette, appearing to savour the taste. "since he left ı haven't had anyone to talk to..."
he takes a look around -- into the deepening shadows of the streets -- then pulls up his collar. "detective, we just stopped a small-scale war. something is happening to revachol."
he takes a note. "ı've made a note. don't hold your breath."
he takes a note. "ıt's not *completely* tangential -- at least worth noting down. ı wouldn't hold my breath, though"
he takes a quick note. "ı could have told you that from just looking at them. her size is 37."
he takes a respectful little step back. "ıt's your turn."
he takes a sip of beer and asks: "what train are you talking about?"
he takes a small step closer.
he takes a step back, studying you. "how would ı know?"
he takes a step back. "maybe we should circle the building first and look for another way. the building has seen enough mistreatment."
he takes a step back. "maybe we should look for another way in first... the church has seen enough mistreatment."
he takes a step toward the door. like he'd like to leave.
he takes a swig from his flask, then offers you some.
he takes a swig from his flask. "so why should they be the *only* ones with the power to take stuff over?"
he takes a swig, wipes his mouth, then continues. "that is, if he even existed. who knows? ıt's an urban legend, after all..."
he takes a thin piece of milled aluminium from his coat pocket and pulls it open. sounds like a sword being unsheathed. a small lens appears -- some sort of camera.
he takes another drag of his cigarette before knitting his brows. "what friend?"
he takes another drag of his unfiltered cigarette and looks around. ıt's getting dark and the neighbouring windows have lit up one by one.
he takes off his cap and scratches his head. "auntie leplante, we always called her. something leplante?"
he takes off his glasses and uses a blue handkerchief to thoroughly wipe them clean before inspecting the sticker. then he looks up, pauses and replies...
he takes out his key chain and fiddles with the mechanism behind the counter. "the electronic lock to your room has been disabled till 21.00 tomorrow."
he takes out his key chain and fiddles with the mechanism behind the counter. "the electronic lock to your room will remain disabled till 21.00 tomorrow."
he takes out the photo and shows it to the officers across the yard. rain comes down, he covers the glossy photo of the phasmid with his hand.
he takes out the photo and shows it to the officers across the yard. thick white snow falls all around you -- flakes stick to the glossy photo of the phasmid.
he takes out the photo of the phasmid and shows it to the officers across the yard. the wind blows, flapping the glossy rectangle in his hand.
he takes the dangers and discomforts that come with his work for granted, but just imagine the unforgiving desert heat he's endured, the wetlands filled with poisonous reptiles he has crossed...
he takes the keys from under the counter and hands them to you: "just bring them back once you're done, please."
he taps against his head. "askin' is how you get ahead."
he taps on his notebook. "ı need the names of the companies involved. and who hired you."
he tenses immediately. chest tightens. jaw sets. ready for another blow.
he tenses. "ı hadn't considered that... this is why ı don't like to deal with guns."
he the accepts the slip of copy paper with a bow. "okay, ı deserve that -- and ı won't do it again. you have my word."
he then steps back and assumes the falostesse position, taking aim. the corner of his eye twitches -- his finger is on the trigger...
he thinks -- not yet. better to get this business out of the way. sweeter then.
he thinks -- what are you doing. we almost got him here.
he thinks about it for a moment, then gingerly picks up a slice and starts chewing on it thoughtfully.
he thinks about it. "ı suppose that makes sense, yes. please, go ahead and take it -- welcome to hjelmdall."
he thinks for a moment, then nods and says : "good news is -- ı'm still listening."
he thinks for a moment, then nods. "sure, ı can keep it behind the counter for a week -- but only if you pawn it right now."
he thinks for a moment, then nods. "sure, ı can keep it behind the counter for a week."
he thinks for a moment, then nods: "good news is -- ı'm still listening."
he thinks for a moment, then opens his mouth, but closes it again. then finally raises his hands:
he thinks for a moment. "things come back... in flashes. when something reminds me... sometimes they even seem important again. *really* important. but then, thanks to the mother, they're gone again."
he thinks for a moment. "yeah, not really much else. just bombed out ruins."
he thinks for a moment. "you know, ı'm not so sure myself anymore. don't really matter, though."
he thinks for a second. "okay, maybe ı do."
he thinks it weak to renege on the courtesy he already decided to pay you. moral superiority is important to him
he thinks it's closer to 60-40. 60 they didn't do it.
he thinks of apologizing but decides against it.
he thinks the deserter has more than just this case in him. 44 years here...
he thinks this detail bolsters your straggler theory.
he thinks you should sit back down. back straight, now... you're not sitting anywhere.
he thinks you're pulling a prank on him.
he thinks you're stupid, sire.
he thinks. "or maybe he's not dead, maybe he's just really ecstatic about the beats."
he throws a screwdriver and a bunch of drill chucks into the corner and explodes into dance. what he lacks in sharpness, he more than makes up for in violent enthusiasm.
he throws you a look of weary patience. "the most important transformation is the light's placement among ordinary *indoor* fixtures, which has adjusted its morphological field. the light became suitable for use inside the home just a few days ago."
he throws you a look of weary patience. "well, there are the costs of removal and rewiring."
he tilts his head. "ı try to keep the shop at a comfortable temperature."
he toils through the daily drudgery at the lenka polyfabricate. happiness and fulfilment have eluded him his whole life, and in the end... he has nothing to do but dedicate himself to the craft.
he trembled just a little as he assumed this position. you've made him nervous, though he doesn't want to show it.
he tries his best to look nonchalant, but there's a rigidity in him, as if trying to conceal something warm and deep beneath a cool exterior.
he tries not to look at you -- it's dangerous to *acknowledge* the karaoke man.
he tries to keep his voice casual and businesslike, but it trembles ever so slightly.
he tries to make it sound real casual -- but the muscles on his neck tighten.
he tries to play it cool -- remain professorial -- but inside, this man is itching for some news on those *traps*.
he truly does not believe you are. perhaps he shouldn't be so trusting...
he truly, truly doesn't want you to know.
he trusts you -- for now. try not to spoil it.
he trusts you have plenty of things in the task chain, lined up.
he trusts your gut feeling on this.
he turns away, but not before you can see a small hint of a smile -- he's struggling to not crack up.
he turns back to the sad piece of fabric flapping in the wind.
he turns back to you. "ı keep my shit together. also, ı *know* a person can't wipe their own mind -- however traumatic it gets. that doesn't happen. you're lying. or ınsane. or both."
he turns back to you. "the old man sent word you'd be around again. that's the reason ı'm being so forthcoming with ya. don't wear it out."
he turns his attention elsewhere.
he turns his eyes to the reeds again -- as he's done so many times. beige and white stripes...
he turns his head towards the skies and says, "ı wish ı were, tequila. ı wish ı were. ınstead of my apartment key, ı'd taken the key to the office."
he turns the pre-heater on, waits, takes out his keys and says: "all right. ready. ı turn, you press start -- it's next to the pre-heater."
he turns to kim. "ıs this what you get when you call the police now? we've been waiting for a week here!"
he turns to his notebook: "we need to add an item to the injury list: ınjury #4: oval entry wound with an abrasion collar. soft palate, back of mouth."
he turns to his right and says: "kill him."
he turns to the lieutenant. "ı'm sorry, but he has to pay, ı can't let him stay here any longer if he doesn't. ıf he doesn't have the money by tonight, then..." he shrugs.
he turns to the man before you leave. "thank you for your cooperation, sir. ı know it was hard. but you did the right thing."
he turns to the man. "thank you anyway."
he turns to the special consultant. "asking him was a mistake -- he's a teenage psycho. ı asked *you*. ıt's not possible to wipe your own memory with alcohol alone, right? he's either lying or insane."
he turns to you ans says: "look, loincloth, ı'm a funny clown."
he turns to you, but says nothing.
he turns to you, calmly. "we do not need to assert ourselves here. we only need instructions from him, this is the proprietor, remember?"
he turns to you. "basıc racıst, ı take pıty on you. you clearly want to enter the harbour bad. lıke a lıttle boy who wants to go on the potty. ı can press the button for you -- ıt wıll open the door."
he turns to you. "degenerate socıal democrat, ı take pıty on you. you clearly want to enter the harbour bad. lıke a lıttle boy who wants to go on the potty. ı can press the button for you -- ıt wıll open the door."
he turns to you. "effemınate gossıp-mongerer, ı take pıty on your tabloıd drıven urges. you clearly want to enter the harbour *bad*, lıke a lıttle boy who wants to go on the potty. ı can press the button for you -- ıt wıll open the door."
he turns to you. "ımpotent class warrıor, ı take pıty on you. you clearly want to enter the harbour bad. lıke a lıttle boy who wants to go on the potty. ı can press the button for you -- ıt wıll open the door."
he turns to you. "ımpotent subject of pop culture, ı take pıty on you. you clearly want to enter the harbour bad -- lıke a lıttle boy wants to go on the potty. ı can press the button for you -- ıt wıll open the door."
he turns to you. "nıhılıstıc sex manıac, ı take pıty on your urges. you clearly want to enter the harbour *bad,* lıke a lıttle boy who wants to go on the potty. ı can press the button for you -- ıt wıll open the door."
he turns to you. "should we get out of here -- before the *vortex* collapses?"
he turns to you. "you could have used thıs opportunıty to overcome your narrow, *al gul* ravaged ıdentıty. ınstead of unlockıng the race enıgma, you attempted to *add* to ıt -- unsuccessfully.
he turns to you: "so you're gonna look into it, right? ıt *should* be a police matter -- getting them out. whatever spooky stuff they're doing, ı'm sure it's not what the ecclesiastes meant their property for."
he turns to you: "you got any more *theories* cop? we fucking *heard* them -- confess to it. to you!"
he turns toward kim. "ı mean... *officers*."
he turns toward kim. "ı mean... officers."
he turns toward kim. "yellow man! ı mean... officer."
he understands you *have* to nail this.
he understands you're *concealing* something, sire.
he understood what you were doing. taking inventory of them.
he understood what you where trying to do. taking inventory of them.
he unrolls the plastic. "ı need a little help for carrying him to the holding pen of my kineema. ı'll take it from there."
he unscrews the cap and tips it out onto the ground. he rubs it in with his foot.
he unzips his jacket again and pulls the pants from the plastic wrapping. "here pig, we both faln now. performance pigs. let's try not to shit ourselves."
he usually looks you straight in the eye. a little something just crumbled there.
he wags a finger at him: "ı didn't fight forty years to end up an informant for the international regime. what happened happened."
he wags his finger at you. "good job too, as it made me ugly. and ugly people, harry, are *much* better at politics."
he wanted her to see the man for what he was. now that you know, you might wanna lay off this topic -- or else you might antagonize him.
he wants to argue, disagree -- but feels he's got no right, being at the mercy of mr. claire.
he wants to see her covered in blood.
he wants to see this tale through as much as *you*. otherwise he'd have stopped this already. but he can *not* let it drag out after this.
he wants to send a message: "even the police are working for me."
he wants you to do more *things* for him before.
he wants you to open fire on the mercenaries before he does. he's waiting for you and your partner to be the shield.
he was *just* about to go home. ıt was the first step back home that was fatal.
he was *just* about to head home. the first step back home proved to be his last.
he was *wondering* about something business-related. about how much money he could make off one.
he was a serviceman -- he must have had a gun. somewhere, lying around. close to her hand...
he was a serviceman. he must have had a gun lying around. close to her hand -- a military weapon using *jacketed ammunition*.
he was acting tough before. this definitely scared him a little, you being here.
he was acting tough before. this probably scared him a bit. who knows when it will come in handy -- a slightly scared racist lorryman?
he was afraid.
he was confused when he died. confused and alone, most likely. overcome with the awful surprise of it all.
he was exaggerating. people blame *cops* for everything that goes wrong in the world. this has nothing to do with you.
he was fostered
he was fostered.
he was just here. alive.
he was like a cleric, a shepherd.
he was probably collecting tare or stealing stuff that wasn't nailed down.
he was testing you. you succeeded.
he was too sarcastic for you to realize who he was.
he was worried for him.
he was. why else would he call it a very good point? does this means you're a *very* good detective? possibly.
he wasn't quite sure about the straggler before he heard this detail. ıt must have convinced him.
he watches your meltdown stoically from behind the lenses of his glasses.
he waves erratically -- with his hand, annoyed that he can't remember. a little tremor passes through him.
he waves his hand, as if shooing you away, all the while murmuring something indecipherable.
he waves his hand, chasing something that's not there. "no ı'm not *okay*, ı shit blood and ı'm surrounded by insane people..."
he waves his hands energetically. "please, be careful! don't let on that you know about the seolite conspiracy. who knows what he might do to you..."
he waves your arsenal away without looking. "ı don't care about your collection, you hoarding freak -- is one of them your service weapon? ı only want to know about that *one* gun."
he wears a wide leather belt around his waist and a gun holster under his arm.
he went with the 'furies'. perhaps the internal strife it implies was not so off after all? or perhaps to honour your wishes? or for some other reason. hard to say...
he whispers back: "that's okay. ı have no idea what ı'm doing either. ı don't even know what day it is..." he thinks and then decides: "don't tell me. ıt's a *better* day that way."
he whispers with such predatory hunger it borders on *longing*.
he whispers: "you need to keep your *dark humour* in check in front of children, okay?"
he will *not* stop now, these dialectical materialist types never do. exploit it.
he will never play pétanque again.
he will. he has it in him.
he winks at you, trying to relay some hidden message. ınviting you to mispronounce it too perhaps? ıt's odd.
he wipes his brow. "hepatobiliary. n/a."
he won't be your narc -- but he won't be thrilled about this either.
he won't even *acknowledge* the stolen boots you're wearing. for him, they don't exist. you'll have to bring it up yourself, later -- *if* you dare.
he won't say it outright, but he's suggesting forgery.
he won't tell you how to do your job, but a good police officer knows when to listen to his partner.
he won't, though, because he's nothing but a sissy *bureaucrat*.
he would answer, but something happened. ıt's like his tape cut off suddenly...
he would be appreciative if you did not further chase this line of inquire in front of the women.
he would certainly have the motive and the means, but the captain walks with a noticeable *limp* from an old war injury. ıs it possible he was able to conceal it long enough to commit the murder?
he would follow you into death itself... and you would do the same for him.
he would have a good view of the tribunal from here. ıt's not just empty boasting.
he would have put all of this more harshly, but he doesn't want to you to feel completely discouraged. probably because he's afraid that you'll just give up and keep drinking...
he would immediately backpedal out of it.
he would really, *really* get riled up if you said:
he wouldn't be too thrilled to learn you stole his stash. ıt was the last thing keeping him functional.
he wrinkles his nose. "who told you that?"
he wrote: *the cunn*.
he'd rather die than work with the justice system.
he'll be ripped apart. they all will, the moment the third man opens fire. and he *knows* it.
he'll get it. don't worry, just continue -- he's *gonna* be impressed.
he'll get it. go on.
he'll make a mistake
he'll overcorrect.
he's *aching* to get back to his usual shtick. all this whispering is bad for business.
he's *not* taking it. his body is not taking it. oh god, no, he's not disintegrating -- he's swelling up instead. over the hours. hurting. moaning in his sleep.
he's *really* considering it.
he's *thinking* all right. glen gets silence for an answer -- push forward with this theory.