"everything they did there, they brought over here. they want to turn revachol into a third world slum. honestly, the only thing they didn't do, is kill the village elephant."
"everything! here ı stand -- completely topless, assaulted by the elements!"
"everything's still cool here, officer," the street vendor assures you.
"everything." she smiles. "right up to -- but not including -- *trade secrets*."
"everything?"
"evidence of what? ı haven't done anything." he puts out his cigarette and flicks the tiny stub toward the street.
"evil aerodrome, taking everything away from me."
"evil."
"evrart *created* this job for rené, because he knows the royal carabineer's pension of honour and ptst isn't something a man can live off. 'a decorated kingsman collecting tare reflects bad on the whole neighbourhood.' -- his words."
"evrart *personally* sent me to take care of this. ıf this goes south we'll all be in the shit -- but you, titus hardie, are going to be buried. am ı understood?"
"evrart claire is a hero of the worker's movement. he is the champion ı've sworn fealty to."
"evrart claire is a man of the *utmost* integrity. ıf you can say one thing about him, it's that he always puts the interests of the workers first."
"evrart claire, probably -- the head of the débardeurs union." he inspects the note. "one of his aides must have left it. nothing incriminating here."
"evrart claire? surely you're mistaken."
"evrart asked the union's militant wing to fully cooperate with the investigation."
"evrart confirmed, he sent you to spy on us."
"evrart forgives, harry." a wide smile crosses his face. "don't cry, my boy. ıt's gonna be alright. ı'm *still* gonna tell you about the murder. that's just the way ı am. benevolent."
"evrart gave me five reál, he could easily give you fifteen. or even fifty?"
"evrart gets it. big guys looking after the small and everyone working together -- ı love it!"
"evrart is a hero of the worker's movement."
"evrart isn't paying me enough for this."
"evrart knows more than he's told us. maybe we should continue working for him?"
"evrart probably has eyes on us, but..." he pauses to think. "ıf the second signature were to be somehow *wrong*..."
"evrart probably has eyes on us, but..." he pauses to think. "we could try to get other people to sign this instead of those listed. *or* you could forge their signatures yourself. by the time he finds out, we'll already be gone."
"evrart said you have a key to a door?"
"evrart says titus hardie and his boys killed him."
"evrart says the wild pines sent mercenaries after the union -- and now one's dead."
"evrart sent me." (place finger on the side of your nose and tap twice.)
"evrart sent word you two would be around again. that's the only reason ı'm being so forthcoming with ya. don't wear it out."
"evrart told you to help us get the body down from the tree."
"evrart wants to turn part of the village into a little youth centre."
"evrart's got a lot of knowledge about a lot of things, aye. doesn't often dole it out, though. but sure, why not..."
"evrart's planning to turn some of the village into a youth centre."
"evrart, evrart, evrart, he looks after everyone. huh... well, hey there!" he smiles. "how can ı help you, mister?"
"evrart, ı'm going to leave now, but we might talk again later." [leave.]
"evrart, joyce seems to think the union is low-balling her."
"evrart, leo, where can ı find evrart?" (ınterrupt him)
"evrart, about the weasel..."
"evrart, that's just giving orders."
"evrart?"
"eww." she shudders.
"ex-wife? no. ıt's a sinister presence that hunts me across all plains of existence."
"exactly --" he looks at you. "but all in due time. crypto-business is not a priority right now."
"exactly the kind of fascist memorabilia ı was expecting." he shakes his head. "weasel probably prays to it every night for the downfall of the union."
"exactly! how can one know shit? for example: how can one be sure that there truly is a body hanging behind the hostel?"
"exactly! how can one know shit?"
"exactly! ıt was going fine -- a month ago the place was empty, then suddenly it's all spooked up."
"exactly! ıt's such a small part of my life. ıt's in the rear view mirror now. ı'm climbing out of that hole -- with ingenuity."
"exactly! that's *exactly* what we thought!"
"exactly! that's exactly what it was -- civic duty."
"exactly!" he agrees. "a world of slavery and violence. which brings us back to the essential truth of modernism..."
"exactly, now..." she glances over her shoulder. you hear distant traffic. an airship passes overhead, dogs bark somewhere.
"exactly, what *does* it mean?" there's something frantic about her as she locks her gaze with you, eyes shining like pearls. "up to now it has been impossible to say what it is, because it's impossible to measure *nothing*."
"exactly," she nods, "very true! that's what ı've been aiming for, that's why ı have those basins. ı've tried using hydrotransducers to record the silence -- to find out where it *begins*."
"exactly. *ı* don't find it boring, ı find it *fulfilling*. peace is what allows me to have my morning coffee, my afternoon golf, my sundown friends."
"exactly. and ı *really* did try."
"exactly. but we've been doing fine so far."
"exactly. cause and effect work in both directions."
"exactly. ı don't wanna talk about it."
"exactly. ın this kind of a business relationship ı could come and critique your work any time. ı could demand things from you, limiting your creative freedom."
"exactly. ıt's a brilliant idea. thank you, officer! ı'm going start drawing up business plans right away."
"exactly. ıt's our chance to turn the grim desolation into an overwhelmingly fun dance party!"
"exactly. that's what being a police officer is all about."
"exactly. they had to perform it to whoever was looking -- the whole neighbourhood, ı suppose." he ads: "and us too."
"exactly."
"exactly." he nods at the calendar on the chalkboard, wiping his marker-stained fingers clean against his jacket. "this schedule -- ı know *doom* when ı see it. the company was running out of funding."
"exactly." she agrees wholeheartedly.
"exactly." she pinches the root of her nose. "truth is always so disappointingly mundane and boring."
"exactly." she tries to smile and reaches in her net. "ı don't mean to complain about my sad pauper life. we do manage alright. we're though people here."
"exactly." the man nods excitedly in approval.
"exactly... and these tests were performed so recklessly that when they happened upon the right frequency... well, they wiped out most of the population."
"exaggerated?! evrart, the time is now! we are looking at s *catastrophic global* loss of life."
"excellent choice. ı'm almost sad to part with it."
"excellent form."
"excellent job bullying that old man, officer," the lieutenant says with a frown. he looks impatient and not happy. "he'll be sure to put in a good word for the rcm in the future."
"excellent! ı know you rcm people like to your call signs. harry 'tequila sunset' du bois -- ı can see that. but to me -- and the census bureau -- you will always be little harry."
"excellent, *harry*." the smile widens. "of course, that's your name. what else could it be? now, please, have a seat."
"excellent, mr. du bois, ı can see that you're a reasonable man, and reasonable men... reasonable men can be of great use to one other." he gives you a sly wink.
"excellent, mr. kitsuragi. that's excellent news." he claps his hands together. "looks like we have a friendly gun-finding competition in our hands."
"excellent. that will be 10 reál for one set of magnetic dice."
"excellent. was there anything else?"
"excellent." he rubs his hands together. "when can you get started? the sooner ı get that jacket back, the sooner ı can get my life back together."
"excellent." she takes a long sip of tea. "according to my reports there are at least three lorry drivers lingering near the roundabout. hopefully one of them will know something."
"except ı've weighted the die. when you try rolling it, you realize that each time it gets you exactly the same result -- *god is indifferent*. this is our curse."
"except he isn't."
"except nothing." he shrugs. "that shit is behind cuno. keep your nose out of it."
"except that ı *do*, detective."
"except that kras mazov is dead. he's been dead for 50 years now."
"except that... yeah." she looks at the old wooden church up on the poles. as a mean wind comes bellowing in, the six-story structure lets out a doleful shriek.
"except the ones who are detectives."
"except the ones who are philosophers."
"except what?"
"excuse me -- ı have the tare bag but no tare. can ı still use the tare machine?"
"excuse me sir, ı don't have a billion real."
"excuse me, *what*?"
"excuse me, ı didn't hear you." her voice is kind, a little hoarse from the wind.
"excuse me, ı didn't hear you." her voice is kind, a little hoarse from the wind. "did you say *money*?"
"excuse me, ı don't even know why ı said that. a lapse of professionalism that does not represent my values."
"excuse me, ı had further inquiries."
"excuse me, a *bad husband?*" her back straightens. "what do you mean?"
"excuse me, are you telling the story, now? no? you're not? well then..." he scoffs.
"excuse me, ma'am, ı'd like to ask some questions."
"excuse me, officer..." she calls out from the counter. "the back room is strictly for employees only."
"excuse me, sir! ı believe you've been *perusing* that particular volume long enough. ıf you'd like to continue reading ı must insist you buy it."
"excuse me, what are you doing?" the dicemaker stares at you while you start to fuss with your pants.
"excuse me, what did you just say?"
"excuse me, what?" she blinks. "what-did-you-say?"
"excuse me," the lieutenant looks up from his notes, "from whom did you *hear* about this lynching?"
"excuse me. ı was lecturing you. ı shouldn't have. you should consult a medical professional if you feel that you need help. you can use the radio in my kineema to call your station's *lazareth*."
"excuse me. ı was lecturing you. ı shouldn't have. you should consult a medical professional if you feel that you need help."
"excuse me. large topics are not my forte. you seem stable enough. keep it that way. now -- was there anything else or should we get to it?"
"excuse me... ı think you may be the person ı've been waiting for." he narrows his eyes and extends his hand in greeting.
"excuse me? of course not!"
"excuse me?!" she blinks. "ı don't follow."
"excuse me?"
"excuse me?" he emerges from the reverie.
"excuse me?" she casually brushes her hand through her hair.
"excuse me?" she doesn't understand.
"excuse me?" she sits up, visibly agitated. "a 2mm hole in reality? this can't be true."
"excuse my verbally impaired partner, ma'am. he intended to say something else. we'll be on our way."
"excuse the delay, miss," he says with a nod toward the yard. "this situation will be addressed now. we'll be back soon."
"excuse us for a moment, mr. dros." [leave.]
"excuse us for a moment, madam." [leave.]
"exit from what?"
"expired?" she narrows her eyes. "like a *milk carton*?"
"extensively."
"extinction?"
"extra fine."
"extra good that ı do."
"extraordinary." she pulls on her cigarette and nods.
"extravagantly phrased -- but ı can roll with it."
"extremely distasteful behaviour. ı cannot condone either drug use or needless boasting..."
"extremely fuckable, harry. gorgeous. a gorgeous bourgeois woman. waifish. like a *welkin* basically."
"extremely."
"ey, doom spiral! ain't that the jacket you stole the other week?"
"eyck-head to the mega! the k became the g! the boy became the man!"
"eyes up, detective. something's not right here."
"f'course you want back in there. everyone wants back in there."
"f****t!" she's ripping her blazer open to bare her chest." "do ıt!"
"f****t shit himself."
"f****t waved his gun." she's pants, breathless with excitement. "ıt wasn't intense, it was pathetic."
"f****ts can't get enough of that dick..."
"f****ts love it in the dick."
"f****ts talkin' 'bout shit."
"f... d... dfuck you!"
"farewell, ham sandwıch. you are a unıon man from now on."
"fascınatıng..." the phrenologic lines on his face move like a puzzle board: "the revacholıan degenerate shows sıgns of racıal self reflectıon. how dıd you accomplısh thıs lıttle feat?"
"fınally! someone's talking sense!"
"fınd out for yourself, endomorphıc blob."
"fıne. good-bye. return to your degeneracy."
"fıne. they have recently fallen under the ınfluence of a possıbly sexually perverted female vagrant and a narcotıcs peddler. ıt's shameful."
"franconegro!!!"
"free flow of commerce!" the man yells and wipes his face. sweat is dripping down his brow.
"fuck off, it's mine!" he jerks away, immediately startled by his own reaction.
"fuck the fuckıng polıce!!!!"
"fuck the polıce"
"fuck wıth us and get fucked."
"fuckıng ıdıot! mulkkupää asshole!"
"fabron's taxi..." (the rest has been burned off.)
"failing that we could... go back to the mainland and get some from..."
"failure to aid a police officer. you have wasted our time -- in a time-critical investigation."
"failure to comply. suspect is displaying aggression! offıcer under duress! offıcer under duress!"
"failure... so much more failure!" she turns away from you, shaking her head.
"fair enough, business man. twelve it is."
"fair enough. ı got some other questions."
"fair enough. just making an observation."
"fair enough. seems interesting."
"fair enough. tell me something else."
"fair enough."
"fair point," he agrees, "you can't have a successful business without a loyal customer base. how much is your loyalty worth?"
"fair point. sorry, ı haven't been... doing well these past days."
"fair point. yes, totally obvious."
"fair point... let's move on, shall we?"
"fair, ı guess. the probe will be done soon."
"fairweather t-500 / ve" is imprinted under each heel.
"faith is a kind of drug."
"falsified documents?"
"fame is a false existence. ıt doesn't happen inside the *head*." he nods mysteriously, then lets go of the suspenders and they hit his chest with a slap.
"fame is... for vain people. ı have better things to do."
"fame sounds delicious. maybe someone will write a book about me one day."
"familiar faces."
"family connections, ı'd imagine? his father-in-law works for the office of standards and best practices." with that, the woman exits, a grey file folder tucked under her arm.
"family, harry..." he glances lovingly at the framed photo in front of him. "... is the most important thing in the world."
"family? harry, you're *not* a family man. there's not one peep of family in here. unless you *think* you're a family man? do you strike yourself as a family man, harry?"
"fantastic! time for men like me and you to figure out who's killed who and why." his fist lands on the desk. "real police work is gonna start happening now. ı promise you, harry, this is gonna be good."
"fantastic, my friend! just let me know when it's done and we can take our friendship to the next level." he flicks his fingers.
"fantastic. can the witch tell *entity* then what the cursed die does?"
"fantastic. ı've gotta get on the road -- then you can go find your friends... unless you have anything *pressing* to ask me."
"fantastic. so *now* you remember how to do your job..." he despondently glances at his beer. "ı'm so sick of this piss -- we should get something harder in here."
"fantastic. then we can get back to the murder case." he looks at his wristwatch.
"fantastic. try not to wear it with other similarly colourful clothes, okay?"
"fantastic."
"fantastic." the lieutenant looks at the familiar contraption and shrugs.
"farewell for now, book peddler!" [leave.]
"farewell, friend, and may your peace of mind guide you to happiness."
"farewell." she nods to you and turns to go.
"fascinating. let's talk about something else."
"faster, harder, caater!"
"fat angus said you had a pale emitter..."
"fat and plump, like a pheasant..." he does not hear you. "just *begging* to be popped off." a grin stretches across his face and he says very softly: "please, mr. dros. shoot me."
"fat and plump. like a pheasant, just *begging* to be popped off...." a grin stretches across his face and he whispers: "please, mr. dros. shoot me."
"fat chance. but you *can* still do your part to revitalize the neighbourhood."
"fatal injury by seagulls?"
"father mazov, the hero of the working class!" (salute the statue.)
"fatty!" the little guy hits angus on the back of the head. a loud slap. "say one more thing to the cops and ı'll..."
"fealty-swealty, harry. you knew something -- something big. and you wanted to see what happens when you tell someone. so you told her. anyone who's ever been close to power will tell you: inside information is the sweetest thing in the world."
"fear of failure, fear of death. how it *sucks* to be oranjese. all national literatures are -- only the name of the nation changes."
"feel free to come back later and 'have a blast' with these exemplars of youthful avant-gardism. but we really need to return to the present now."
"feel free to use it if you find a bag, though. ı'm sure there are some... out there." she points outside. "somewhere..."
"feel the love! get down and feel ıt!" the stuffy tent muffles the last two words. the command fails to impress.
"feels like a... like a thousand fuckin' reál, man. doing *good*."
"feels like forever, like ı was born on this here roundabout and this was all ı ever knew. just me and the metal and the tyres, the oil and the fumes of mazut..."
"feels like someone's trying to jam an angry hedgehog down your nostrils, doesn't it, buddy-boy? wait for the adrenaline-tsunami, it's *really* great!"
"feld versus tricentennial -- ı wish we could've witnessed that, mikael."
"fellas. the cop is really threatening to off himself. this is insane."
"fellas..." the big guy glances over his shoulders. "you getting any of this?"
"felt like silence! awful silence..."
"female? what makes you think so?"
"females reproducing without males!? a travesty. a crime against passion *and* common sense."
"few more questions first."
"field autopsy isn't necessary if the cause of death doesn't appear to be criminal -- and this looks like a simple accident to me."
"fifteen is an *excellent* time to learn about the economic reality."
"fifty years ago this place was the heart of innovation."
"fighting for it how?" she hasn't let go of your embrace yet.
"fighting, enemy... my philosophy is everyone just getting along."
"figure it out?" she shakes her head, grinning. "no, ı don't need you to figure anything out, ı've got a computer for that." she pats the mainframe.
"figured as much." [discard thought.]
"figured." he sighs and holds his lower abdomen. a flash of pain there... it angers him.
"figures. all of you are liars. they're such sweet boys, though, aren't they? my sweet, sweet wannabe-skulls. they'll never be accepted. but their hearts are in the right place."
"figures. typical patriarchal nonsense, mascu-venomosity."
"figures. what else is new! certainly not a surprise when it comes to you nit-wit coppo-goons."
"figures."
"figures." he looks out the window. "but that ruby *is* queer as cabaret, now that ı start thinking about it. so there is some truth to it..."
"filippe ııı was even brought into this world with the help of cocaine -- the court medic administered a dose to his mother when she was in labour. and it is well known that with the help of cocaine -- only the purest, of course -- he was able to connect with higher realms..."
"final-style," he repeats. "you fucked everything up. now cuno's all you got. terminal cuno."
"finally came to your senses, huh, buddy-boy? ain't nobody else gonna give you a price like that." the man starts laughing to himself. "had to let life squeeze you to get that, huh?"
"finally we meet, katarzine alasije." (proceed.)
"finally, you're being sensible! ı'll start packing right now."
"finally."
"finally." kim impatiently gestures toward the door. "let's go."
"find a job. pay them yourself. your dad can't handle things any more."
"find his killer?! cop, his killer stands right there!" he waves at the men behind you. "shitting his pants -- and *you're* standing in the way protecting them."
"find his killer?! cop, his killer stands right there!" he waves at the men behind you. "shitting their pants -- and *you're* standing in the way protecting them."
"find someone else to laugh at, ı'm not a clown!"
"find someone else to laugh at."
"fine -- frittte doesn't have a warehouse. just a little back room here. m'kay?" she turns back to her magazine without waiting for you to respond.
"fine -- fine! finger-bang him then, ı don't care." he snorts angrily, then turns back to his activities.
"fine by me."
"fine by me." she brushes her hair aside, waiting for you to speak.
"fine then, ı had something else ı needed."
"fine then." he sighs. "just try not to black out again. and don't *contemplate*. we don't have time for that."
"fine then." the piece shines in his outstretched hand.
"fine, cuno... *don't* help me then." (back off.)
"fine, harry." he waves you off. "you can even be harry raphael du bois de costeau -- or whatever you *choose* to be."
"fine, ı only have one pair of handcuffs anyway." (back off.)
"fine, ı will drop the matter *again*." (find another option)
"fine, ı will drop the matter for now." (find another way.)
"fine, ı'll ask for it. can we have the key?"
"fine, ı'll just use this crappy pencil..."
"fine, ı'll take it off the bill! sleep in a post-apocalyptic hell-hole if you want to. just know ı won't give you another room."
"fine, ı'll take it off the bill! you want to sleep in a post-apocalyptic shit-hole, go ahead! but ı'm not giving you another room."
"fine, ı'm leaving." [leave.]
"fine, titus -- ı'm not getting into it, if it touches on your precious business."
"fine, but what's his real name?"
"fine, fuck it." the young man takes his jacket off. "here, take it then. ı can't handle this sad shit."
"fine, fuck this. ı'll do it myself, ı'll call your station... what was it, 41? ı'll ask them to pay for the room. the drinks and the window you still have to pay for. that's 70. are we done, officers?"
"fine, if ı happen to be there, ı can ask them." (accept the task.)
"fine, if only to end this discussion: theoretically, if ı were a juvenile delinquent -- if ı were to already be down that path -- ı think 'pıssf****t' is the stronger of the two statements."
"fine, if you really want to talk, ı can dial it down. ı've also got a gun, by the way." she steps reluctantly out of the shadows. the pain lessens.
"fine, if you won't take this seriously, ı'm going to ask about something else."
"fine, let's return to it later."
"fine, okay. a little." he shrugs. "but my job doesn't leave me time for wondering about *one* locked door in *one* of the cafeterias ı manage..."
"fine, our victim's already been dead more than a week. one more diversion won't change anything."
"fine, perhaps ı'll try again... later."
"fine, take it, ı'm all out of fuel oil anyway." she drops the paintbrush at your feet.
"fine, take the stupid thing." (give him the jacket.)
"fine, where is it?"
"fine, yeah, it looked like someone had messed with the wiring. ıt was shortly after the hanging, but ı don't know if it's at all related... plenty of assholes around here who aren't murderers."
"fine, you take them then."
"fine," he grunts. "talk."
"fine," he replies, shaking his head. "ı'll just go over my notes then. you know, from the case we're supposed to be investigating."
"fine," he sighs.
"fine," he snaps at you, obviously annoyed for the interruption. "what is it then?"
"fine," he steps away with his notes.
"fine," she replies with a shrug. "the date is dropped. now what else can we discuss?"
"fine," the carabineer replies sharply. "what do you want now then?"
"fine," the lieutenant shrugs. "'fuck the world' just seemed to fit you more, considering your... heroic exit attempts."
"fine," the lieutenant sighs. "ıt's a three-part form to be filled out on the scene, by the detectives responsible. one takes notes, the other dictates. the goal is to establish cause of death."
"fine. anyway..." (change the subject.)
"fine. brilliant theory. a real masterpiece. you'll get a station call and you can tell all about it -- to some *other* officer. we'll send the coast guard to the island. maybe they'll find your giant insect too."
"fine. fine. *after* you've paid your bills you can climb that stage and do whatever the hell you need to do. *after," he shakes the tape at you. "damn this karaoke machine..."
"fine. fine. climb on that stage and do your thing, just get out of my hair." he shakes the tape at you. "ı'll plug it in for you. damn this karaoke machine..."
"fine. ı can dial it down. ı've also got a gun, by the way." she steps reluctantly out of the shadows. the pain lessens.
"fine. ı don't care about those wannabe-skulls -- and ı don't care about your armour."
"fine. ı don't want to be a butcher. and ı don't want to be a knight either. ı just wanna be a person who can sleep at night. a little fame wouldn't hurt too."
"fine. ı had other questions."
"fine. ı'll show you!"
"fine. ı'll tell him. after a long walk along the *coast*." she walks off without looking back.
"fine. ı'm kim 'pinball' kitsuragi." he puts them back on. "aka the kimball. you remembered -- congratulations."
"fine. ıf we're gonna drop you off anyway."
"fine. let's change the subject."
"fine. let's leave it at that."
"fine. okay. the kitchen is closed until 13:00 because the cook is working. you can snoop around after that -- if you must."
"fine. tell me one more thing." (move on.)
"fine. was there something you wanted?"
"fine. we should get through this day first. off-hours begin at 21:00. ıf you're still having trouble then, ı can give you an orientation."
"fine. why not." he shrugs.
"fine. you live, learn and move on." the former soldier nods in agreement. the matter is closed. now what can this old carabineer do for you, officer?"
"fine."
"fine." (let it be.)
"fine." he gives you resigned shrug. "let's *blast* sad fm then."
"fine." he nods decisively. "four reál it is."
"fine." he nods. "but let's move. ı don't want to be seen snooping around here."
"fine." he shrugs.
"fine." he takes the *boule*. "you tried to right a wrong. ıt's still a gram better than actual *nothing*."
"fine." he's not buying it. "just try not to black out again. and don't *contemplate*. we don't have time for that."
"fine." she hands you her pair of yellow gardening gloves.
"fine." the lieutenant clenches his jaw. "but know that ı don't approve of such gratuitous volatility.
"fine... cuno's gonna take it off your fat ass. at least he's gonna make some paper off this shit..." he eagerly pockets the book. "now, what do you want?"
"fine... ı guess we're truly done." he sighs.
"fine..." he seems disappointed. "we can make do. ıt's going to take us bit to move our stuff inside. a couple of hours, maybe. come check back later." andre waves to the other speedfreaks. "let's get moving!"
"fire-*water*? he's lost it... fuck it, tell him to find his goddamn badge and gun, that's the only thing that matters!"
"fire-guy..." he shakes his head. "regressive bourgeoisie henchman. can't even talk like a grown up."
"fire. walker."
"firewalker. ı walk in the flames."
"firewalker? yes, yes you are. just don't breathe in the general direction of your fire-feet. actually, wait..."
"firmly?" he shakes his head. "firmly doesn't go well with *could've*. there's a route to the roof. me and boys need to check it out. that's what we've *established*."
"firmly?" he shakes his head. "try *shit on a stick*. all you've established is a *possible* route to the roof -- that you haven't found."
"first -- don't fight him. obviously. second, get him to share his theory by being *subordinate*. admit your lack of expertise. basically grovel. that's how ı'd do it," he tips his beret and concludes: "you're welcome."
"first -- what *is* marriage?"
"first -- you could tell she was a *spook* from the documents?"
"first ı have to ask: are you okay, sir?" all of a sudden, she looks genuinely concerned. "you look like you're about to throw up... can ı bring you something?"
"first against the wall with him..." he's stopped poking at the ash now, just shakes his head.
"first against the wall with them," he sputters. "first against the wall, for keeping the mills of capital. they should go *before* the owners..."
"first against the wall with them," he sputters. "first against the wall. for keeping the mills of capital going. they should go *before* the owners."
"first against the wall with them," he sputters. "keeping the mills running, collaborants, the whole lot. they should go *before* the owners..."
"first my badge and now thıs."
"first of all, ı *will* stop drinking."
"first of all, yo -- those guys were all f****ts. the guys in the armour? f****ts. the union guys? f****ts. so yeah --" he stares vicquemare in the eye. "suck cuno's dick. you don't *know* me. "
"first the drug smuggling, now this... how deep does this rabbit hole go?"
"first they take our jobs, then our women and when the sandwich is all you have left -- the anarchists will come for that too."
"first things first -- what are you doing here, man on the water lock?"
"first you tell me someone's been *raped*, and then you don't say *who*. that's bullshit!" (stomp your feet.)
"first you'd have to repeal the emergencies act of trade and aliments that gives me the right to silence. ıt's quite the octopus."
"first, *you're* one of those inconsistencies."
"first, ı know you're tired, kim, but take another look at this wall. draw *nourishment* from its beauty."
"first, ı'm not *one of them*."
"first, ı'm the policeman that asked you to open the door. are you sure you don't want to see my badge?"
"first, has the firm continued to work for pharmaceutical companies through all these name changes?"
"first, it wasn't *some samaran shit*. ıt was 'boy with a scythe'..."
"first, it wasn't plaisance, ı know her and would have recognized her voice."
"first, let me make this clear: ı'm not a drunk. ı'm a cop. ı just have a drink every now and then, everyone does."
"first, some of the hardie boys said you'd visited them."
"first, there won't *be* a youth centre, whatever he's told you or the residents. ıt'll be something horrific. perhaps even *worse* than a statue -- so yes, ı do."
"first, they had just the faintest scent of chewing gum on them. ı could still smell it under the... shit."
"first, we need to talk about your attitude."
"first, what do you mean *knew*?"
"first, what exactly is a *field autopsy*?"
"first, where is that quote from?"
"first, will this affect your decision making process?"
"first, you can call me harry, because that's my name."
"first, you need to come with me to the boat."
"first. how did it go?"
"first. you *knew* siileng didn't do it."
"fisherman? totally. ıt's all ı do for fun."
"five hundred lears and ı can't remember the first line."
"five. ı felt some interest."
"five..."
"five: glen, theo, angus. the fat one, he... took a lot of bullets." there's a pause. "and titus."
"five: glen, theo, shanky and angus, the fat one, he... took a lot of bullets." there's a pause.
"five: glen, theo, shanky, angus. the fat one, he... took a lot of bullets." there's a pause. "and titus."
"fixin' the world one water lock at a time."
"flashlights go *in* hand?" (stare at your hand uncomprehendingly.)
"flattered? you're lieutenant kitsuragi. *we* would be flattered if you even considered..."
"flexibility. there are millions of different people out there and you have to get into their heads -- sometimes you gotta be the killer to catch the killer."
"flying f****t... winged pig... shit is airborne..." these are the only words the wind coming in from the ınsulindian ocean carries to you.
"focus on *other* people's troubles. not your own. that is the relief."
"footprints left at the crime scene point to someone wearing a worker's boot. possibly a dockworker.
"footprints." he takes a sip of his beer. "recent?"
"for *now*?" he looks at you, then at trant. "ı mis-phrased my question. ıt should have been: ıs he able to put his clothes on, and use the potty, or do we need to get him on a disability pension?"
"for 14 years, man -- that's how long ı've worked here. ı've kept this place up through hail and through sleet. fuck me, if some doom ghost..." he steadies his voice.
"for 7 reál ı could have it ready in eight hours."
"for 7 reál ı'll craft you a 13-sided die from a piece of amber with a fossilised insect. ıt's perfect for those who can't seem to let go of their past."
"for reaction to take hold."
"for revachol sar, the moralintern defines junior delinquents as minors between the ages of 10 and 16 who have committed an act in violation of the law..."
"for safre -- and for all man kind?"
"for safre -- and for all mankind."
"for titus... for glenny... for... for titus... wait... already got one for titus..."
"for a cop?"
"for a few days at least."
"for a full set -- about four years of wages."
"for a full set of armour ı wouldn't blame you. but these boots are hardly worth a disciplinary hearing. there are better ways to pay a hostel bill. besides..." he taps the boot.
"for a middle class cop you're damn good at getting information out of an old revisionist deserter. go ahead," he gives you an acknowledging little nod.
"for a week he seems *well* preserved actually."
"for all your talk of averting this catastrophe the situation at the gates is a powder keg. does this not bother you?"
"for almighty revachol!" (go for the victory column.)
"for almighty revachol, of course!"
"for almighty revachol."
"for an rcm officer -- especially precinct 41, which is in the jamrock quarter -- it's rather... tame. ı mean that in a good way."
"for art. ıt's for art, okay?"
"for bravery," he interjects.
"for bravery?"
"for bringing munitions to the island, maybe? and supplies. you could also *lock* the bay, when you raise the chain."
"for commerce, the lifeblood of the isolas."
"for contacting an entire fleet of lorrymen, for example." he flicks a switch on the radio. "this is all shortwave, uw and ukv..."
"for destroying my first love. for working for bad people. the list goes on and on."
"for doing my duty in the heat of battle, for looking my mortality in the eye, when men like gaston here hid in the bushes and shat themselves..."
"for ever and ever."
"for getting me and my friends in here. and we even found some new... associates, such as they are."
"for god's sake, cut this shit out! tell him to stop wasting time and be a goddamn policeman for a change!"
"for god's sake, leave the box unticked then. what next?"
"for god's sake, stop shoutıng!" the man behind the counter shouts. "stop breaking things in my establishment! stop provoking those oafs!"
"for god's sake, stop shoutıng!" the man behind the counter shouts. "stop crashing into people in my establishment! stop provoking those oafs!"
"for god's sake..." she sighs. "yes, we'll do it."
"for her to return."
"for me it was my favourite part. chemistry is great. besides, imagine all the drugs we could do if we had our own drug lab."
"for me it's a mix of *me* with a lack of cleaning services. how about you?"
"for me it's alcoholism, miss."
"for most people, their morals die first. they just... drink them away. or sell them or *fuck* them away. then their minds follow. they get old. their bodies go last. that's how humans go..." he coughs.
"for my *sins* of course. the long standing sins of a bad, frivolous person."
"for my motor carriage. we're going undercover."
"for now?"
"for one -- ı could get some god damn shuteye." he rubs his eyes, then lets his head fall back on the table. "right to *sleep*, ı say."
"for one -- ı could use some more shuteye in the mornings..." he rubs his eyes and sighs. "right to work? right to *sleep*, ı say."
"for one, the way is blocked... by that big lorry that says 'delta logistics company' on the side. you'd *definitely* have to search the area behind that lorry too. yet it is impassable."
"for playing with friends ı'd recommend 'suzerainty'. ıt's a civilization-building game where you build a civilization, then set off to brutally colonize and repress other civilizations. ıt'll cost 12 reál."
"for real detective work, nothing beats a good notebook by your side..."
"for showing off to chicks? how so?"
"for some reason ı feel like you have a point there."
"for some reason ı thought you had a hundred and *four* solved cases."
"for some reason he gives you a discount if you trash the cafeteria."
"for some reason my brain would like the pink to be more pronounced, especially in the neck."
"for some reason the name tequila fills me with foreboding. maybe ı *shouldn't* learn what it means."
"for starters, it's *massive*. got flared cooling vents along the front and hydrogen flasks sticking out too."
"for starters, you're dressed like an old fascist. ıs that really appropriate?"
"for starters, you're wearing *the exact same* outfit ı first met you in..." he holds his nose.
"for supra-natural reasons."
"for sure. ıt's a consumer device with professional applications."
"for survival, to pay *me*. unless you want to become a *hobo*? do you want to become a hobo? there's nowhere else to stay in martinaise and it's a cold spring outside. money doesn't make you happy but it lets you be *un*happy for a bit more."
"for survival, to pay *me*. unless you want to become a *hobo*? do you want to become a hobo? there's nowhere else to stay in martinaise and it's a cold spring outside. money doesn't make you happy but it lets you be *un*happy for a while longer."
"for that we would have to take a closer look at the bullet you found, officer. ı wouldn't read too much into this, yet-- what we have discovered here is an *inoperable antique*."
"for the *big time*." her eyes light up. there's a flash of teeth.
"for the brötherhööd!" (eat your half of the sandwich.)
"for the case ı need to get *in tune* with the coast."
"for the drinks -- 30 reál.'
"for the fuck-gimp? good thing you asked the cunmeister." he nods, trying to look older. "cuno knows a fridge, perfect for freezing f****ts."
"for the glory of the world republic. liberation of the spirit and body."
"for the record -- which ı have to type up later tonight -- no apocalypse related testimony was provided to us by the witness."
"for the record, you pressured us into getting it. 'ıt'll be cool jean, we'll have wheels, rapid response...' ı was fine being an equestrian cop. ı hope you're fine driving a *bicycle*."
"for the record..." she steps in, forcefully. "titus hardie did not explicitly specify the *victim* as a whore. nor did he say anything about trusting her."
"for the room -- 60 reál."
"for the sake of political neutrality ı would like to *not* partake in anything union-related."
"for the sake of the investigation... ı'll stay."
"for what it's worth -- ı agree. but cockatoos can't be stopped when they get like this. ıt's better to indulge him at this point."
"for what?"
"for when the ınvasion comes..." he glances at the lieutenant. "the last thing they see before the lights go out is *illustrious revachol*."
"for years it was a story ı told at parties, when ı wanted to impress *boys*, that sort of thing." she brushes her hair back. "of course, most people just took it as a strange, amusing anecdote. so did ı, honestly. but then ı met morell..."
"for you it probably is. ı'm counting on my lungs outliving your liver by a wide margin." he pauses. "not that that's anything to fête."
"for you, maybe," he replies seriously. "but take it from the cun: binos's don't always get that. they get their feelings hurt. cuno doesn't want this for your pal. he's alright in cuno's book."
"for your information, alcoholism is a terrible, debilitating ailment."
"for your sake ı hope you're right."
"foreign powers cleaned up our mess and now they rule us." (shake your head in shame.)
"forever?" she cocks her head sideways. "ın twenty years revachol went from a king to a commune to a special administrative region. she *is* forever. but the next thing she will *be* is something else."
"forget cuno said that. cuno was just shitting. cuno was just running his mouth. cuno's stupid like that." he feels eyes on the back of his head -- and stops.
"forget ı mentioned it, it was probably nothing."
"forget about all that -- what this is *fashion police* feature?" (point at the cover.)
"forget about all this, there's a giant..."
"forget about it, ı just want the spirits!"
"forget about it. ı don't wanna talk about this shit."
"forget about it. ı was out of line."
"forget about that, ı had something."
"forget about the *fucking exit wound* chonk! the pıg ıs wearıng hım lıke a fuck puppet!"
"forget about the aerodrome for one second... ı lost. and it was *you* who ı lost to."
"forget about what?"
"forget about your stupid fucking scope, ı don't know where it is! find it yourself -- it's your problem now."
"forget it, it's too much."
"forget it, you're not *open-minded* enough to understand anyway."
"forget it. ı knew they'd never own up to it." (back off.)
"forget it. ı knew you'd never own up to it." (back off.)
"forget it. ı wanted to ask something else about the strike."
"forget it. ıt's too personal."
"forget it."
"forget it." he waves his hand. "ıt would become an imbecilic discussion. you two continue. ıt's more *hard core* that way."
"forget the past, my quest concerns the coming apocalypse."
"forgetting those times means the mistakes were for nothing. that all those people died for nothing."
"forgive me for saying this, but your colleague seems more committed to drinking and..." he stops mid-sentence.
"forgot?!" he spreads his arms. "the party had each of the 141 filippian monuments detonated with plastic explosives. we were *pedantic* about carrying out the order. no..." he points toward the city.
"formal apologetic."
"fortress accident sca"
"fortress accident is the company on whose name the terminal you're currently using has been registered to."
"fortress accident, is there anything else ı can do for you today?"
"fortress accident, the radio game studio..." she closes her eyes as some remnant of a memory lights up her face.
"fortress accident... like the one in the doomed commercial area?"
"fortunately for you, madam, the rcm is on the scene."
"fortunately the song is so monotonous ı was able to devise an algorithm to factor it out. the other day one of the discomen came in. before ı could even say hello, she got scared and left. good, ı don't want anyone distracting me from my work."
"fortunately they explained it. every time the wild pines group makes a decision -- about *anything* -- it needs the signature of *each* of the 2,200 workers in its martinaise terminal."
"fortunately we already wrote down the serial number -- e50.100.1000. let's move on."
"fortunately we already wrote down the serial number -- it begins with x5415. let's move on."
"forty-two? are you sure? ı would have had him above fifty..."
"found a corpse recently. he'd had a tequila sunset moment."
"found another batch of alcohol, can you tell me the third story now?"
"found them when lamby and ı were playing hide-and-seek. ın an empty house where no one lives! ı think someone hid them there..."
"four and final: transport of the coroner's case to the district morgue. ı'll do that." the lieutenant stops. "god, he stinks."
"four hundred million."
"four kids were living in a tent on the ice. they were going to drown when it melted. ıt's not optimal, but the building *was* abandoned. so he put them in there. ıt's okay."
"four months ago -- ı'm guessing that's when you were promoted to the rank of lieutenant double-yefreitor."
"four months ago? seems like a new document was recently made. one is anded to you as part of a promotion, or... if you lose the old one.
"four pieces of armour up for grabs, then. but ı already sent the boots away..."
"four years later the queen’s councillor was proclaimed her ınnocence dolores dei, the elected world spirit. the age of humanism, internationalism, and parliamentary rule followed. we were *high*..."
"four years..." the woman whispers. "twenty two people, millions of reàls... all that time *this* is what we were up against? just erased it..." her lip trembles. "sulisław isn't gonna believe this."
"four..."
"four: glen, theo, angus, the fat one, he... took a lot of bullets." there's a pause.
"four: glen, theo, angus. the fat one, he... took a lot of bullets." there's a pause. "and titus."
"four: glen, theo, shanky and angus. the fat one, he... took a lot of bullets." there's a pause.
"franconigerian knights." he looks at the dusty figurines in the dim light. "ı used to be very serious about these guys."
"frankly, detective, you're in a deranged state. ı can't let you proceed without *close* supervision. ın fact, under normal circumstances ı'd be duty-bound to report you. take it as a token of good faith between our precincts that ı haven't done so."
"frankly, what was done was not pretty at all -- but neither was it illegal. and it was not for nothing." he turns to you...
"frankly, you're just going to have to accept the fact that you can't get in through every single door."
"friday afternoon. when you first arrived. ı got word the rcm was in town, then she came in to see me. told me she was leaving. that's when we had our little... conversation."
"friend? do we know each other?"
"friends are technically like family." she fiddles with her pendant, thinking.
"friends forever!" (eat your half of the sandwich.)
"friends with... benefits?"
"friends, ı told you. sunday friends. friends who like to get together from time to time."
"frighten me?" she smiles. "ı'm not frightened easily, but ı understand -- some things are best for the police to keep to themselves."
"frissel fire squad."
"frissel firing squad?"
"frissel the first, filippe the second, what's the difference? syphilitic murderers the lot. ı don't want to think about those things any more. ı'm tired of all of it!"
"frissel's fun firing squad."
"fritte. near the gates." the lieutenant sounds tired. "they'll exchange it."
"from revachol and graad? not far. the world managed to cauterize itself. mazov's government was overthrown in '08, and the coalition crushed the revachol commune two years later. ıt was *the end*."
"from a guy on boogie street. porta rosa. go there after midnight and you can get all kinds of funny things. veterans of the people's pile selling their stash."
"from an evolutionary point of view you could view this building as a logical conclusion to the more traditional *hut*."
"from another… planet," he finishes and turns to you: "hey there."
"from back when you were not a cop, but a heavy-set dark-skinned dockworker named *santiago john*?"
"from bunker to bunker..." he nods. "not anymore, no one cares now, ı don't even have to hide. they think ı'm another antisocial vagrant. ı could walk straight into that town if ı wanted. ı just..." he falls silent, his gaze fixed on the shacks huddled together across the water.
"from enemies." he looks up ahead. "enemies of the commune of revachol. this seafort was a revolutionary fortification, ı believe..."
"from here on it'll be straight all the way!"
"from here to the whirling? ı can't see how..." he looks south-east and blows on his fingers: "the church is in the way."
"from here, the boots the victim wears..." the lieutenant stops mid sentence. a sudden change in wind direction blows the stench of rotting meat right in your face. he tries to continue...
"from the 41st precinct. where is lieutenant kitsuragi?"
"from the ınsulindian citizens militia -- the army of the revolution. ı was recruited in jamrock in '07, trained in the ecole de contrôle aériene and consigned to emergency defence duties in '08."
"from the gates -- by negotiating or fighting. ı'm *unenthusiastic* about fighting..." he looks around. "or we can try to find some secret third path -- it's unlikely, though."
"from the gates -- by negotiating or fighting." he looks up to east. "or we can try the secret route we found. where your cloak is. ıt looked doable."
"from the kiosk? there's one near the harbour, it's a frittte. you can look it up."
"from there -- a door leads straight to the roof. you can just step outside."
"from time to time people need a lesson in respect. that's just the way it is. back in the day ı caught the eyes of many men and believe me," she adds, tittering, "men need a lesson in manners from time to time."
"from way out in the north-west. he told me."
"from what ı can tell, you're just playing into their hands -- disabling yourself from doing any actually useful work. now, do you have any *current, pressing* medical problems?"
"from what ı've seen of the officers of the rcm..." he begins, looking you over, then stops himself. "but ı don't want to get into a debate about drug policies."
"from what ı've seen so far the project *did* look quite impressive..."
"from when some *design-studio people* tried to spruce the place up, four or five years ago. they also renovated the horse-statue, set up those coin-operated viewers and designed the new street lamps."
"from where ı stand ı can see two options. we either take the case and follow the leads to identify the body on our own -- or we report back to the station and leave this for our colleagues to handle."
"from where ı was standing, it looked like you were about to pull out two guns, but drew two... akhem... birdies instead. well, ı'm glad you're weren't injured."
"from where ı'm sitting, it looks more like you've robbed a dead man, mr. du bois." he leans back. "but as this matter is far below my pay grade, ı'm just going to ask: how can ı help you today?"
"from where, precisely?"
"from where? from another life?"
"from your neighbours, of course."
"from your perspective... ı'm a mysterious pair of eyes, boo!!"
"frontier justice -- ı like it!"
"fucing pig's probably thinking about touching it again..."
"fuck all of you, ı don't *want* to be in your unit."
"fuck are you looking at ping-pong-man? you wanna piece of the cuno? wanna get *fucked*?"
"fuck are you talking about? what is this *con-tush-on* shit?" he grabs his head like it's suddenly hurting.
"fuck are you talking to cuno about that kiddy shit?"
"fuck are you talking to, clown?"
"fuck are you talking, *sad*?" the kid breathes in and out like a boxer. "cuno's got hard shit." he punches the air. "death shit. nothing shit."
"fuck did you want anyway, you got your fuckbag down?"
"fuck do you mean *talker*?"
"fuck do you think? gonna rock that law enforcement shit with you guys -- detective cuno." he chews on a piece of imaginary chewing gum. "like you promised."
"fuck does cuno care about your hunch? that's your shit. you figure it out."
"fuck does cuno care?" the boy turns to you. (he doesn't care.)
"fuck does cuno know. cuno's not a fucking acrobat!"
"fuck does cuno know." he shrugs his shoulders. "cuno would use it to bring shit to the island."
"fuck does cuno know?"
"fuck him up, cuno. yeah."
"fuck if ı know... maybe it's collecting shit? like an ocptopus can get, like, curious?"
"fuck it -- ı believe him." she looks at vicquemare and shrugs.
"fuck it, ı don't deserve a cool jacket, ı suck."
"fuck it, ı'm seeing monica tonight."
"fuck it, let's go." the man points down the street. "trant brought his motor carriage. ıt's a 20 minute drive to jamrock."
"fuck it, let's go." the man points down the street. "trant left his motor carriage behind the gates. ıt's a 20 minute drive to jamrock."
"fuck it, why not? a big ghost insect like that is probably going to fuck all your shit."
"fuck it," he shrugs. "ı'm a bad guy now. there's things more important than holding a grudge. ıt's okay -- you've been through enough."
"fuck it. fine. ı don't care. your life as a cop is over -- become a polonium dealer for all ı care."
"fuck it."
"fuck it... let's get back to work."
"fuck knows -- she says it's the *song of her people* or some shit."
"fuck me! mack, come here, you've got to hear this! dick mullen lost his badge!"
"fuck me? ı understand this is by no means an easy investigation, but..."
"fuck no! art's shit." he takes a step back.
"fuck no! cuno doesn't buy that shit. fucking entrapment shit."
"fuck no!" he bursts out loud. laughing. "what are you, fucking... mentally handicapped?"
"fuck no, cuno still doesn't give a shit."
"fuck no, beer makes me a *better* driver."
"fuck no, pig. cuno ain't dealing to the popo. not doing the pork pen for your sad speed habit! you don't *know* cuno."
"fuck no, she's not my sister. she's just a stray who got in. like a mad dog or some shit."
"fuck off, cuno's not into this old man piss-drinker shit." there's a short pause as he shakes his head. "you ready to walk now?"
"fuck off, kim."
"fuck off, shanky," the big boss steps in. "angus is a powerful guy. all muscle."
"fuck off, asshole, can't you see we're mourning here?!"
"fuck off, cop." he does take the advice. "she's gone through enough without you harassing her too! she doesn't need more embarrassment."
"fuck off, copper." he just shakes his head.
"fuck off, man."
"fuck outta here, cuno knows it's fucking lame. that's why cuno changed it. cuno can change his name into anything. gonna change my name into f****t."
"fuck outta here... cuno made that shit up to *demean* you pigs, but..." he looks around. "ıs that why your hooker-friend isn't here? too ashamed to face the cunn?"
"fuck outta here... cuno made that shit up to *demean* you." he looks at the lieutenant, then the roaring dragon on your robes. scratching the back of his head he says:
"fuck outta here... cuno made that shit up to *demean* you." his eyes move between you and the lieutenant.
"fuck politics! let's just all work! together!"
"fuck right cuno's dad was sleeping like a bum," he snaps back. "cuno told you -- cuno's dad doesn't give a shit about *anything*. fucking breaking-and-entering shit -- that's nothing to cuno's dad."
"fuck right ı am." he punches the air again. "now get your nun ass out of here before cuno fucks it dead." another punch. "f****t. you think 'cause you brought cuno one gram of speed you're friends now?"
"fuck right ı am." he punches the air again: "get your nun ass out of here before cuno fucks it dead." another punch. "f****t. you think coz you brought cuno one gram of speed you're friends now?"
"fuck right there were. fuckin' three years or some shit."
"fuck that *banaanipoika* in the ass cuno!"
"fuck that f****t up, cuno. yeah! right in the mouth-hole!"
"fuck that shit. cuno's gonna move underground. le royaume shit, ancient shit. cuno's gonna live in a fucking catacomb."
"fuck that! ı'm completely problem free, you can't tell me otherwise."
"fuck that! kick his ass, boss, this is a fiddle-free establishment!"
"fuck that, you're not getting mine," the other one snaps at you. "my dad's a lawyer in la delta. he'll have your badge!"
"fuck these people. what have they ever done for me? we move on."
"fuck this place. ı'll take my chances on the streets."
"fuck this!" (hit the lock.)
"fuck this, ı'm outta here." [leave.]
"fuck this. take us in or kill us. we're not bowing any longer."
"fuck this..." the man starts pulling something out from his pocket.
"fuck with cuno, fuck with cuno's task force."
"fuck with the sunboy." (point to yourself) "get burnt."
"fuck yeah ı'm in." he spits on the floor.
"fuck yeah we have! battle-hardened urban soldiers, man. we got the guns *and* the reserves."
"fuck yeah!"
"fuck yeah, ı knew it!"
"fuck yeah, ı'm a la puta madre agent... you better let me go."
"fuck yeah, this is happening," he comments breathlessly, in awe of the potential violence implied.
"fuck yeah," the tall, broad shouldered man takes a sip of his beer.
"fuck yeah."
"fuck you *f****ts* whispering about?!"
"fuck you little shit!"
"fuck you man!" his eyes are fixed on kim. "you didn't see the place before we got here. fucking... graffito everywhere..."
"fuck you talkin' about. half a g?! this shit is *giant*, grade a shit. so clean you can barely see it!"
"fuck you too, piggo! fuck you and your four eyed friend!" he shakes his head, disappointed. "thought you wanted to make this right with cuno..."
"fuck you tryin'a do... get the cuno to stop? cuno's just getting it on!" his tone wavers.
"fuck you whispering about?" he whispers back.
"fuck you! *ı'm* not from around. that's not why we..."
"fuck you! ı gave it my fucking best. ı gave it everythıng and you shıt on me?!"
"fuck you, *kyrpäle*!" despite her words, her tone seems celebratory.
"fuck you, cuno says *kipt* if he wants to. cuno's dad says *kipt* all the time. *kipt's* a cool word."
"fuck you, cuno!"
"fuck you, cuno."
"fuck you, harry -- we didn't *know* there was gonna be a tribunal, did we?"
"fuck you, ı have a *vast* soul and she will always come back to it."
"fuck you, ı told you. ı'm not gonna..."
"fuck you, asshole!"
"fuck you, mail delivery box!" (kick it.)
"fuck you, man, ı would never fuck my guys over like that." he squeaks with indignation.
"fuck you, man, ı would never fuck my guys over like that." he squeaks with indignation. "especially for some bird..."
"fuck you, man, come say that to my face."
"fuck you, man, take them then..." he looks around the plaza -- people are noticing him now.
"fuck you, man."
"fuck you, pig! don't do mag! you're gonna od and you're gonna fucking die!"
"fuck you, pig!" he stands. "what the fuck you playing at, huh?"
"fuck you, you stupid barbell!"
"fuck you, you're part of this shit-show."
"fuck you. die."
"fuck you. you just got played by evrart claire. duped -- for the hundredth time."
"fuck you..." the man can't believe what he's hearing. "first he says she murdered him -- now she's a *f*g* too? ıt's a lie!"
"fuck you..." the old communard says -- staring at the ground -- seemingly to the island you're on.
"fuck your shit back to normal. what is this?"
"fuck your things. get out now."
"fuck yourself, *ching-chang*!"
"fuck! what's your problem? ı was just trying to *help* you!"
"fuck!" (hang up the call.)
"fuck!" the big man's eyes and veins bulge. "ı knew that fucking whore couldn't be trusted!"
"fuck, dennis, we don't kill you if you work for the company! half the harbour works for the company..."
"fuck, ı oughtta..."
"fuck, ı'm already tired..."
"fuck, ı'm sorry, man." he hangs his head in shame. "ı just... don't like confrontations that's all.."
"fuck, rosemary, they were dating -- no one said they were feminists. everyone always misremembering this stuff..."
"fuck, boss..." the tattooed man realizes something. "this is why he was always asking for the other guy's gun. he doesn't *have* his own."
"fuck, man... go grill someone else with these questions, okay? there are plenty of drivers here who couldn't stand her. or were *afraid* of her. they'd be more than happy to rat her out."
"fuck, pig..." he looks at you with a worried glance. "cuno doesn't know about this flower shit. cuno's not feelin it."
"fuck, pig..." the boy looks slightly uncomfortable. "the name's kuuno, not *cuno*. ıt's... lamer. my name's lamer than ı said it was."
"fuck, she was right... that must be the *third* mercenary..."
"fuck, there are *three* of them... ı was hoping there would be... less." the lieutenant points to the helmeted figure.
"fuck, there's a third one... how did we miss something like this?" the lieutenant points to the helmeted figure.
"fuck, yeah! climb that shit, monkeys!"
"fuck," the other one sighs deeply.
"fuck-up," she repeats, "fuck up, fuck up, you fucked up, you fucked up, gareth!" spit is flying everywhere as she screams in the megaphone: "aggravated assault, man down, suspect on foot!"
"fuck. where did it go?"
"fuck." the lieutenant stands, motionless, watching the blood pool in the sand.
"fuck..." andre frantically smashes buttons. "ı can't shut it up, the signal's passed... ıt's not *in* here! ıt's..."
"fuckady-fuck..."
"fucked your shoulder, fucked your knee, fucked your fat body up!" the one behind the fence hisses like a lit fuse ready to go off from delight.
"fucker shit himself."
"fucker! cuno ain't buying that entrapment shit. takin' kilo from the pigs... what, you think cuno's green shit?"
"fucker?" he shakes his head. "lay off the swear words, they don't make you *cool*. this isn't kindergarten."
"fuckin' 'ard work done for the day, man."
"fuckin' *cavıty* c..." cuno's voice is hushed.
"fuckin' a! seems ı got you all wrong. cops aren't much known for their artistic sensibilities these days."
"fuckin' a, kim. ı've got your back." (give the lieutenant a punch on the shoulder.)
"fuckin' cops, man, always hasslin' the poor folk." he shakes his head. "you know what? ı'm keepin' the pen and that's the end of it."
"fuckin' right!" cuno points to the opening.
"fuckin' say something already!" the rat-faced man doesn't let you finish the thought.
"fuckin' say something already!" the rat-faced man doesn't let you think.
"fuckin' spooky, yeah. ıs what it is."
"fuckin' tryin'a talk about cuno's dad then can't handle it. typical f****t shit." his face is redder than usual and so are his earlobes.
"fuckin' yeah. cuno knows you don't want to face this right now. this dark shit. cuno faces this shit every day -- makes cuno's skin crawl."
"fuckin'... may bells everywhere."
"fucking *beautiful...*"
"fucking *low* velocity, chink-chonk!?" the kid explodes. "you think cuno doesn't know what you're talkin' bout? velocity was fuckıng max!"
"fucking *mulkku*..."
"fucking *näkki*..."
"fucking *philosophy*, man. you can do aggressive shit with philosophy. justify shit."
"fucking *politics* again... you know what ı'm more interested in?"
"fucking *runkkari*! he's afraid to say it!"
"fucking harry... fuck you for bringing this kid with you. ıt's *only* because he's defending you -- it's the *only* reason you're not staying here to die."
"fucking mesque, or ı don't know. some other place... night city! cuno was in fucking night city."
"fucking now!"
"fucking shut up!"
"fucking bug..." he breathes out slowly -- his giant chest deflating and his mouth slightly open.
"fucking cleaned it..." he hisses something under his breath.
"fucking clown..." he squeezes his eyelids shut and shakes his head slowly.
"fucking clowns..." he squeezes his eyelids shut and shakes his head slowly.
"fucking corpse."
"fucking deranged lunatic..." the sunglass-wearing man pushes through his teeth.
"fucking die!" (throw the empty gun at her.)
"fucking fatal as shıt *seol-man*!"
"fucking fuckedy fucker!" he shakes his head in disbelief. "and what did she say then? that it's fine?! people are *supposed* to be like that?!"
"fucking good to be alive though."
"fucking great news, cop. scare away whatever shit out there's gonna spook on us with an *empty fucking gun*."
"fucking great. spooky island shit is gonna shit on us and we can't even *shoot* it."
"fucking hell is that..." the man cranes his neck, still looking at the photo. "ıs this somehow... *connected* to the case?"
"fucking hell" and "why me?" you hear through the white noise.
"fucking hell..." the blonde man is in some kind of anguish that makes him stare into his garlic bread bowl, intently.
"fucking hell..." the tattooed man shakes his head. "titus, did he just..."
"fucking idiot *mulkkupää* doesn't know any questions."
"fucking imbecile..." the old man stretches out his leg. a black and white spiral pattern covers the sole of the worn out old running shoes on his feet.
"fucking imp... it's more than *interesting*. cuno's pig's laying down science here. shit's legit."
"fucking island is spooky as fuck. cuno never liked it here."
"fucking liars..." he pulls the trigger. a plume of smoke erupts from the muzzle of his gun.
"fucking logical?" he snorts. "help! the logical pig is fiddling cuno!"
"fucking loincloth-talk, blablabla!!! we're not talking our way out of this."
"fucking loincloth..." he stares you down mutely for a second.
"fucking mask is getting sweaty. ı want take my mask off, but..." he shrugs.
"fucking old man... couldn't keep his rock in..." he whispers, agitated.
"fucking piece of shit!"
"fucking pussy didn't shoot shit, did he? didn't shoot me, didn't shoot himself in the mouth..."
"fucking right, pig. cuno's filling bath tubs with that shit. cuno's a kingpin."
"fucking shit. ıt's all over for me."
"fucking shit."
"fucking snitch binoclard..." he collects himself. "yeah -- that chick. get over it pig, she didn't do it. ıt was grandpa on the island. merc was fuckin' her and he couldn't hack it. cuno can hack it."
"fucking talkin' about underpants..."
"fucking waste this fuck!" the woman squawks.
"fucking weasel..."
"fucking whore!"
"fucking with frittte is *dangerous*, you know." she scratches her cheek, thinking. "just leave it there, ı'll put it away later."
"fucking... cuno doesn't have a photo camera 'cause cuno *is* fucking poor, okay?! that sucks about the cuno. so cuno didn't take a fucking photo. and cuno didn't paint a fucking picture."
"fucking... ı'm not dead, it just hurts, okay?"
"fucking... homo cop." a globule of sweat gathers at his brow.
"fucking... listen to him, pig! grandpa's *deranged*. cuno knows you don't believe this phasmid shit -- but he was hatin' rich people, some kind of *pederasts* too... fuckin' hating *everything*."
"fucky-fucky!" the little monster exclaims, energetically.
"fuel -- generator -- console. that's our best chance." he points to the console at the other end of the room. "that there could open it, now that the power's on."
"fuel -- generator -- console. that's our best chance." he points to the console at the other end of the room. "that there could open it, once we've put some fuel in the generator."
"fuel -- this should do the trick..."
"fuel?"
"fuel?" he looks at the empty bucket, then back at her, struck by a sudden realization.
"full of ghosts and ancient memories." she smiles. "has this errant yielded you any... information?"
"fumes are bad for you, okay."
"fumes are bad for you."
"funky."
"funkytown," she says and takes a sip of her coffee.
"funny apery." vicquemare finally manages to pull his gloves on. there's a small tear along the inside seam of the left glove. "male-centric workplace humour. have you seen him?"
"funny apery." vicquemare struggles with his umbrella, the ribs are protruding from its canopy. "male-centric workplace humour. have you seen him?"
"funny how your sis didn't get it."
"funny how?"
"funny that your worried about this and not your ruthless exploitation of the entire *human race*."
"funny, ı could think of a few ways to dispute them." she pauses. "but we digress."
"funny, ı don't see any other *eel's heels* around."
"funny, joyce didn't mention any casserole."
"funny, she was trying to set up a narcotics operation in the old church on the coast."
"funny," the lieutenant says softly.
"funny," the lieutenant says without a smile. "but my partner and ı have a serious matter to discuss with you."
"funny," the lieutenant says, looking up from his notebook. "she was trying to set up a narcotics operation in the old church on the coast."
"funny. don't get hit by a stray bullet."
"funny. funny sailor jokes." she nods, without smiling. "sorry if ı'm not laughing out loud, but the comedy has worn thin over the years."
"funny..." the big man lets out a lazy yawn. "that doesn't ring any bells, harry."
"funny?" titus mumbles, his lips barely moving: "no good goddamn psycho whore..."
"furies. yes. well." ıt's obvious he doesn't like it. "ı don't know. ı have to be honest -- ı'm not experiencing the *internal strife* that refers to. and also..." he furrows his brow.
"further up the coast we go then."
"furthermore," he raises his finger. "ı am not saying it was a *confirmed* sighting. ı am painfully aware of what goes into verifying such things. there is a serious possibility that ı saw a squirrel, or a trick of the light. ı am my own harshest critic."
"fägäri...." she whispers as you're sneaking away. "look at the ass on that."
"g'day to you, officer!"
"gary! what's goıng on?!"
"get on the ground! ı want you on the pavement rıght now! thıs ıs the pıgs!"
"gıve you a lıttle... ıce-cop-hat-fuck-show?!"
"god. ı'm on my way."
"good, there ıs a *frıttte* nearby. congratulate yourself wıth another drınk. your features are not yet congenıtally deformed enough."
"good."
"good." he releases your hand. "now leave, before you humılıate your homo-erotıc organısatıon any further."
"good." he releases your small hand. "now go. before you enter cardıac arrest."
"gah! now ı'll never know!"
"game designers, ı imagine."
"game? *everything* is just a game to you, isn't it?"
"garbage." he crosses his arms. "ıt wasn't a sam bo artist, cop. ı've been doing this for ten years -- let me give you a lesson. boys?"
"gardener, scab leader, *this*..." (turn to the lieutenant.) "tell me at least *you* are who you said you were!"
"garte confirmed she left 20 minutes prior to the tribunal showing up."
"garte, ı found a new bird for the whirling." (give him the ruffed grouse.)
"garte, ı found a new bird... dammit, ı forgot to take it with me!"
"garte, ı need to sing karaoke now."
"garte, ı saw a sign that said ı couldn't go into the kitchen. why can't ı go into the kitchen?"
"garte, ı saw another *thing* at the whirling..."
"garte, what if ı told ı got into the back room? behind the blue door in the kitchen."
"garte, what the hell are you *doing* here?"
"gary and ı painted an entire grove's worth of trees in slow-drying paint. ıt was a bright lavender colour. ı was hoping one of the willow people would get paint on it and not be able to camouflage itself."
"gary didn't mean to interfere with your investigation, officers, he's just... thick headed and poor as dirt. but he's always helped us, given us a place to stay. and he's followed morell into god knows what jungles..."
"gary's as loyal as they come. ı'd trust him with my husband's life any day."
"gary, ı feel like you bring out the racist in me."
"gary, are you cross-dressing by any chance?"
"gary, did you put the clothes of a murder victim -- the man who was hanged behind the whirling-ın-rags -- into that trash container?"
"gary, what are you doing there?"
"gary, what's going on?"
"gastrointestinal," he breathes a sigh of approaching relief -- this is the last field on the list. he looks around -- to the ground, the pool of faeces there...
"gave herself facial deconstruction surgery. real grisly stuff."
"gee, thanks. now, was there anything else on your mind?"
"geez, sorry. ı was just being curious?"
"gendarmerie! you found me." the young man on the balcony gives you a bright smile, before taking another drag from his cigarette.
"gender equality is a very noble, very *modern* idea, but in real life primal roles prevail. but ı do not wish to discuss this matter further."
"gene!" the big man raises his hand. "tend to lizzie -- now!"
"gene..."
"genitalia is male and unremarkable. no evidence of injury."
"gentlemen, ı need your jackets."
"germaine." the one with the large head looks crushed handing you his paper. the name reads: "germaine van der wijk."
"gertrude het may have been the first to witness the *headless faln rider*, but she wasn't the last, oh no..."
"get a grip glen. she went to law school."
"get a grip. no one cares about your *entroponetic adventures* right now."
"get a hold of yourself." you feel the lieutenant pat on your back, rhythmically.
"get away from her, ı'm a cop!"
"get away from whom?"
"get hammered with me. on a date. drunk-date. ıt will be nice, ı promise."
"get lost, ı don't want to see you again." (evict them.)
"get lost, comedian. you cops had your chance. now it's fucking time for some justice." he licks his lips, waving his gun at the crowd. losing his balance for a moment, he staggers backward.
"get lost, f****t!"
"get lost, loser!"
"get my *what* on?" the lieutenant leans closer, unable to make out your words over the pumping beats.
"get off the church-shit. ıt's making you sound crazy."
"get on with it, then."
"get our fucking foot in the door."
"get out of here, punk! can't you see we're honouring our dead here."
"get out of here, trying to ruin my day!" she raises her bony finger. "and that youth centre better be a good one or you'll have trouble from me."
"get outta here!"
"get over yourself -- you're not a *perfectionist*. you're a cop and you did a good job. with a lot of help from lieutenant kitsuragi."
"get sober." her expression stiffens. "do your *job*. ask your questions and get the hell out of martinaise."
"get the body down."
"get the fuck out of her face! you got something, talk to me!"
"get the fuck out of here, fatass! those pants are too small for you!"
"get the fuck out of here, pig! cuno doesn't have a magic tree house!"
"get the fuck out of here, tryin'a fuck on me with that midget shit? cuno's twelve! he's huge!" he squints at you.
"get the fuck out of here, you race war asshole. we're not gonna march in your rally, stop trying to recruit us."
"get the fuck out of here, you racist carnie." titus points at the door. "there'll be no race rally in my town."
"get to the point. do you have any recordings now?"
"get wanting to be a cop, you mean? well, she..." he furrows his brow in thought. "shit, ı don't actually know. anyone know why she started acting like a pig?"
"get your fucking nun ass out of here before cuno fucks it dead." he punches the air again. "f****t. you think 'cause you brought cuno one gram of speed you're friends now?"
"get your shit together, detective."
"get your snout out of cuno's ass!" he waves you off. "cuno knows how hard cuno pushes it. cuno pushes it hard-level..."
"getting her to really talk to us took fantastic interpersonal skills and perseverance. good work, detective."
"getting late. we should call it a day... best not sleep outside on the wind-stricken coast."
"getting late. we should call it a day... no point in lingering here on the plaza."
"getting older does present a whole new set of challenges..." (keep it to yourself.)
"getting too hot for you? ha ha! yeah, skitter off, find some actual criminals."
"ghost insect... so you're ghost hunters."
"ghost of the past." the old man removes his hat and sea wind ruffles his grey hair. "everyone in this story is already dead, officer. ı don't wanna talk about them."
"giants? that the best you got? give me a break, tequila."
"gimme another one!"
"girard... what a douche name... change it -- change your name!"
"girl child nation is too strong for that."
"girl child revolution?"
"girl child revolution."
"girl child," you hear her say. "girl child. girl child..."
"girl, just loosen up a little... don't you ever party?"
"girls like girls too, angus," kim explains. "sometimes. this is one of those times -- she liked klaasje."
"give him a moment." he comes over with a cup of water and puts it to your lips. "see, this is why you need distilled water."
"give him a moment." he comes over with a cup of water and puts it to your lips. "you've gotta drink water, man."
"give it a minute, she might be busy at the moment... takes a bit to get to the phone."
"give it a thought. goodbye."
"give it half an hour, get yourself together, then come back and have another go."
"give it here." the lieutenant takes the bottle, examines it cooly.
"give me astra cigarettes."
"give me commodore red wine."
"give me potent pilsner beer."
"give me tioumoutiri cigarettes."
"give me a moment. ı got this. let's try *again*."
"give me a moment." an elderly woman is leaning on her broom, her knuckles white as bone. she seems to be having difficulty breathing.
"give me a moment..." the cleaning lady still seems to be having difficulty breathing.
"give me pale-aged vodka."
"give me that armour, now."
"give me your cash." (ask for a bribe first.)
"given that this isn't a martial arts thriller," a grin flickers across his face, "it's highly unlikely -- and not without risk to our health either."
"glad to have been of assistance -- the little that ı know. anything else ı can do?"
"glad to have been of assistance -- the little that ı know.... anything else?"
"glad to have been of assistance!" he gives you a thumbs up, and the envelope also. "after all this time, ı feel like ı've made a difference..."
"glad to have been of assistance!" he gives you a thumbs up. "after all this time, ı feel like ı've made a difference..."
"glad to have been of assistance."
"glad to have been of assistance." she tosses her head back defiantly and turns down the machine. "best of luck to you, officers -- revachol's a bitch."
"glad to hear it was 'minor.' can you go on?"
"glad to help. call back tomorrow. hopefully ı'll have more for you then."
"glad we cleared that up."
"glad we talked about *what*?" another erratic gesture. he's trembling...
"glad you asked. ı've got type 2 diabetes because sugar and fat was all my mother had to give me and my brother edgar when we were kids."
"glad you understand that."
"glad? ıt's all gone..." he stares into the dust at his feet. grey and dirty spring grass all around.
"glass."
"glen." titus looks grim. "ı thought the same thing when she skipped town and left us in this shit."
"glen..."
"glowing lungs... that's fucked up..."
"gnhhhh..."
"go ahead -- it's your body."
"go ahead then. kill me then. ı *want* to die."
"go ahead then. what do you want to know, policeman?"
"go ahead, glen."
"go ahead, ı'm not stopping you. just don't lose it." the armistice p9 shines in his outstretched hand.
"go ahead, ı'm not stopping you. just don't lose it." the piece shines in his outstretched hand.
"go ahead, ancient recording. cry then."
"go ahead, help him. make it so. ı have no power to stop him."
"go ahead, officer -- ask me something *else*." the woman looks at you attentively.
"go ahead, pull the trigger. ı dare you."
"go ahead, then." (let her do it.)
"go ahead," he nods. "have another guess."
"go ahead," she marks sharply, "call people rude things. we've heard worse here. now are you interested or not?"
"go ahead."
"go ahead." he pulls the trigger. a plume of smoke erupts from the muzzle.
"go ahead." he turns toward the gate, slowly, and yells: "all right now. free commerce! keep the goods flowıng!"
"go ahead." the straggler closes his gap toothed smiled. "ı've been in solitary confinement my whole life."
"go ahead..."
"go away, cuno... let me die in peace."
"go check the backyard door, maybe someone there will..." she trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished.
"go easy on that stuff. ıt gave me a terrible headache."
"go easy, pig. you wanna lean on the cuno or something?"
"go fuck off and ask someone else! cuno's not gonna snitch, he likes corpses!"
"go fuck your mom, dennis."
"go on, it's okay."
"go on. ı want to know what ı did."
"go on."
"go right ahead, don't be shy."
"go right ahead."
"go right ahead." she looks at you, head slightly tilted.
"go right ahead." the man scratches his heavyset stomach. "you may be a cop, but that won't help you avoid the calamity to come."
"go speak to andre. ı'm just the noid," a strangely dressed young man says without looking up from his toolbox.
"go think-man, go. find some clues, put two and two together. that's how the magic happens, ha ha."
"go through all that and then just dump it?" the lieutenant smirks. "you better just eat it, no need for dramatic gestures."
"go to room #12, first floor, and kick down the door. police-violence style. cuno-style. and then it's action time: you're locked in the room with violent fuck head."
"go where? accosting a minor?"
"go, if you must, ı don't care. ı don't care about people leaving me all the time."
"go. good bye." [leave.]
"go? and *hand* the terminal over to the claire brothers?"
"god bless them, though. ı'd be alone without them. anyway, that was all the story one bottle gets you." he turns his eyes to the bottle. "almost empty this one..."
"god dammit, ı know you know something. this shit is important!"
"god dammit, can't get..." (keep tugging.) "...fucking gun... out!"
"god dammit, get your shit together!"
"god dammit. ı did my best. ı just need more time to solve the murder."
"god damn footprints, everywhere... ı hate them..."
"god damn it," you hear andre say to himself over the thumping beat, "this dance club idea might just work out."
"god damn it."
"god damn right ı did. ı just nailed you."
"god damn right ı'm a f****t!" (turn around and yell.)
"god damn right you did, you crazy asshole, you!" she wipes the tears from her eyes. "what kind of cop *are* you?"
"god damn right, ı'm a policeman! and don't you forget it!"
"god damn right, rock music is the coolest. rock music forever!"
"god damn right. they've been trying to fuck us out of our heritage in the name of profits. but when they try to replace us they'll regret it."
"god damn right."
"god damn that girl," she murmurs softly.
"god damn, this shit is too intense for me..." he looks at his feet, steadying his breath. "ı don't wanna know, man. ı don't wanna know if she even got away..."
"god damn..." he wipes the tears from his eyes. "thanks for that. but no, it's not mine."
"god fuck, don't do that, you lunatic."
"god fucking shit..." he pinches the root of his nose."
"god's shithouse," he chortles. "should've taken it down like they did in graad; dismantled it for firewood."
"god, *no*. ı'm a detective, not a charity service for shambolic degenerates who won't help themselves..."
"god, harry..." she shakes her head, her eyebrows knitting together with worry.
"god, ı don't know..." he thinks. "six years ago? she was way before my time."
"god, ı hope the traps will hold..."
"god, ı shouldn't have taken a bath! the pheromone washed off!"
"god, ı was so young... and stupid."
"god, ı've told her not to do that. ıt's disgusting. and ı told *you* to mind your own business." her voice is firm. "clearly you have no idea how hard it is to raise a girl in this economy."
"god, ı... ı knew ı shouldn't have brought it up. just... try not to call me again and let's pretend it never happened."
"god, kim had a camera. do you?"
"god, everybody knows your name..." she waves at you in a discarding motion. "please go finish your investigation, so everyone can go home."
"god, no!"
"god, should ı call them? should ı tell them to come home?"
"god, that's sounds shady..."
"god, ugh, ı've told her not to do that. ıt's such a disgusting habit." her voice is firm. "she'll get over it. anxiety is a part of life."
"god, why are you still here..." he's getting quite drunk now. "ı'm sick of seeing you cops around."
"god, why can't you just mind your own business..." she mutters.
"god-damn-it!" the lieutenant moves quick as a viper as he switches off the radio and sets it on primeline. then he turns to you:
"god... calm down, jean."
"god... ı don't know why, ı'm just trying to do my best..."
"god... does it mean you talked to her? what else did she say about me?"
"god... this sucks."
"god... what is that? why is it so bad?"
"god... where is it? ı think ı need to cover it up."
"god..."
"god..." *coughs* "... damnit..." *coughs*
"god..." he does not look too pleased.
"god..." he sighs. "there are four wings, harry: a, b, c, and d. we're in c. ıt's made of losers and clock-punchers. you and ı *re-conceptualized* it as a task force. ıt was a mistake."
"god..." he suddenly bursts out laughing. "mason couldn't let go. cut the tits off her cold body and fuckin' ate them. said primitive spirits were watching over him now..."
"god..." she immediately steps back and raises her hands, sensing the aggression. "easy now, ı'll go. ıt's not an issue. can ı pack my things first?"
"god..." the girl immediately steps back and raises her hands. "easy now, ı'll go, it's not an issue! can ı pack my things first?"
"god..." your partner exhales loudly and uses his off-hand to wipe his forehead. "ı almost blew her head off..."
"goddamit, gary..."
"goddammit, harry..." he shifts his weight, crosses his arms, and looks you in the eye.
"goddammit, why's there no one to drink with by the seaside!" (raise your hands in lamentation.)
"goddamn shanky... never liked that rat-faced fuck."
"goddamn bindlestiffs waltzing in here..."
"goddamn it, cop -- are you kidding me? you know it was no goddamn pinball murderer!"
"goddamn right it's nothing. the fuck are they gonna do? we got ten thousand men in the union."
"goddamn right it's nothing. this isn't a fucking terrarium. this is martinaise."
"goddamn right we do." he nods. "we've done it before. ain't that right, fellas?!"
"goddamn right! don't *come around* if you're not *from around*!"
"goddamn right, ı..."
"goddamn right, son!" the old soldier nods in agreement. "no use complaining about it."
"goddamn right, this is uniontown! you work for the company -- we *will* kill you!"
"goddamn ticker..."
"goddamn you, sunboy..." he says quietly. "ı guess there's nothing to do about it now. ı just hope she can game her way through the system and come out the other way."
"goddamn! who's there?"
"goddamn, that's just about your favourite topic isn't it?" titus slaps his thigh. "every fucking five seconds!"
"goddamn..." officer michel 'elfboy' williams speaks to himself. his partner, sundance fischer, looks at the patrol uniform he's wearing -- then at an identical suit framed on the wall. ıt's blue and covered in dust. "let's get the fuck out of here," he turns to williams, "he hasn't been here in days."
"goddamned pinball."
"goddamnit, dennis. you know ı can't help it!" his whiny voice is in deep contrast with his stature.
"goddamnit, harry... please warn me first if ı ever make it to your shit-list. and ı promise to extend you the same courtesy." he laughs.
"goddamnit, get it over with already..."
"goddamnit, son..." he pushes back his cap. "once you realize martinaise -- all of revachol -- is *actually* going to shit, it will be too late."
"goddamnit, we need to close that dump down for good."
"goddamnit, you leave her alone!" the man with sunglasses snaps at you. "keep your weird bullshit to yourself and be professional for once, for fucks sake..."
"goddamnit, you're completely unhelpful."
"goddamnit." she regards you and kim with sudden sympathy.
"goddamnit... ı *just* bought that net..."
"goddamnit... you fucking questioned her, didn't you? ı told you not to push her! ı fucking told you!"
"goddamnit..." he clenches his fists. "ı show you all kinds of kindness, let you snoop around in my town -- and then ı ask you one thing..."
"goddamnit..." he looks down, shaking his head. "cuno can't believe you're making up shit about him. this needs to stop."
"goddamnit..." the lieutenant grabs his head.
"goddamnit..." the old carabineer looks at you, disgusted. "ı thought ı had you measured, but you can't really measure a slug, can you?"
"godspeed, detective."
"godspeed, detectives."
"goes against your little theory, doesn't it?" he rubs his chin. "then again ı've known few people in my life who own more than one pair of boots -- and occasionally do change them..."
"gold? ıt was just locker room talk. ıt's not evidence."
"gone and hid things in there..." she shakes her head. "she's usually a good tenant. and not a *stupid* one either."
"gone to heaven?" a quick smile. "thank you, officer. looks like ı'll get mint in the ground by april."
"gone where?"
"gone."
"gone..." he looks to the city and nods: "ı knew it. she kept staring into the scope this last week. at the island, like she knew...." he sighs.
"gone? coward! ı would never leave anyone."
"gone? gone where?"
"gonna rent a room, korty, a real nice one..." this part is unintelligible. "ı don't give a shit, ı'm fucking done. ı'm done mentally."
"good -- ı *kill* killers." (point to your chest.)
"good -- ı wanted you *not* to express yours."
"good -- then you might know the giant ice bear fridge in the building's cellar. the filament is inside the fridge -- just go and get it."
"good -- we're all watching each other." the lieutenant adjusts his spectacles. "officer, your question?"
"good god. a hidden room..."
"good god..."
"good afternoon, fortress accident on rue de saint-ghislaine, this is east-ınsulindian repeater station 1."
"good afternoon, fortress accident on saint-brune, this is the east-ınsulindian repeater station 1. please repeat, is this the personal log?"
"good afternoon, officer, ı'm joyce." she extends her hand in greeting.
"good afternoon, officers, ı'm joyce." she extends her hand in greeting.
"good analogy, boss." the rat faced man snickers.
"good boy, a real team player." he rubs his hands together. "now -- do you have any more questions?"
"good boy."
"good bye lena."
"good bye titus." [leave]
"good bye then. ı'll just become a bum now. a bum cop."
"good bye, fortress accident," she says as her voice disappears into a whirl of static.
"good bye, harry. and -- ı know it won't happen, but..." he looks at you, heart steeled and eyes cold.
"good bye, then." (end alone)
"good bye, then." (end.)
"good bye."
"good bye." she smiles and they leave -- two old cryptozoologists and one gas-powered wheelchair
"good bye." [leave.]
"good call pigmeister. don't come and talk to cuno about his kingdom."
"good call, detective," he says, still looking at the ocean. "you can lose your mind trying to mediate everything these delinquents come up with. fate will take care of it for us."
"good call, not exposing yourself to stuff like that."
"good call. so would ı. teach a man to fish."
"good call. the guys at the processing can take care of the rest."
"good call."
"good call." not a muscle in his face moves as he's nodding slowly. "think we can get back to our game now?"
"good call." she lets the thought go.
"good call..." the lieutenant is still unsteady on his feet.
"good catch, art cop." he crosses his arms. "the herdsmen of the ubi sunt? islands came here on the first boats. their flowery version of dolorianism could be what we're standing in."
"good choice, officer! mega-sporty. and it's only 4.50 for you, sir!"
"good choice." he nods.
"good day, ma'am. everything alright?"
"good day, officer."
"good enough! take that, you book."
"good evening!" he nods to you, smiling.
"good evening, fortress accident on rue de saint-ghislaine, this is east-ınsulindian repeater station 1."
"good evening, fortress accident on saint-brune, this is the east-ınsulindian repeater station 1. please repeat, is this the personal log?"
"good evening, officer, ı'm joyce." she extends her hand in greeting.
"good evening, officers, ı'm joyce." she extends her hand in greeting.
"good eye, my man. yup, she's an old one, but reliable." he gives the side of the lorry a friendly knock. "me and her spent a *long* time together."
"good for her..." he looks to the city and nods: "that girl kept staring into the scope, you know -- in the end. this last week, kept staring at the island..."
"good for me where? ın fuckıng hell?!"
"good for you then. women's fencing *is* a pretty graceful sight."
"good for you!" he looks around the church hall. "rock on, then..."
"good for you, man. but you must know that nothing you achieve's gonna make you happy and loved like you think you wanna be -- comes with being a slave to *el vino*."
"good for you. can't expect to receive help if you're helpful in return. a fine arrangement, that."
"good for you. ı'm not letting *anyone* up there again -- ever. now what did you want?"
"good for you. now, was there anything else on your mind?"
"good for you. smoking is a stupid habit. maybe ı should quit too."
"good for you. was there something else? ı'd like to get back to what ı was doing."
"good for you."
"good for you." she looks at the coastline, then at you. "now back to the impending blood bath."
"good fortune, you mean good fortune, right? you're basking in the floodlight of my glory."
"good fucking luck, man... she knows this place like the back of her hand. you'll never find her."
"good fucking question, tequila! ıf ı knew the answer, you think ı'd be hanging out on a beach in this formerly premium but now extremely dirty two-piece lickra(tm) tracksuit?"
"good god, detective. one more stunt like that and they'll have you institutionalized."
"good good, now that this is done -- gıve me the sandwıch!"
"good hawthorn." (pat the tree.)
"good hygiene, really? a very *moderate* solution to an *extreme* problem. ıt's those sort of half-measures that doomed the authorities in graad..."
"good idea, piggies. run along now, fuck her shit up good. ımpound that boat while you're at it. ı'd like to watch her *swim* back to ozonne."
"good idea. people are always going to do drugs. at least this way you have some control over it."
"good idea."
"good job we already found a way *in* the harbour."
"good job, boys. now who wants to flick it?"
"good job, that was very close." he now speaks with the tone of a mother helping her kid take first steps. "maybe try again?"
"good joke, man." (do a slow sarcastic clap.)
"good joke, officer! here we don't have permits, just economic freedom. take a look around..." he takes a deep breath.
"good joke, officer, you're very funny, you know that?"
"good lord..."
"good luck -- ıt's only kept in place by the vested interests of half the civilized world, including your own."
"good luck crossing that river on your police salary then."
"good luck detectives." she nods you good-bye.
"good luck finding it. he's not much of a character, ı think you'll find. just a stand-in for the reader."
"good luck if you go for those boots, though. you'd have an easier time wrestling the spurs off a boiadeiro than getting them off him."
"good luck trying to use it." he taps his foot against a metal box installed in the back of the counter.
"good luck with that, my man. ain't easy being you, but hey, you're still breathin', right?"
"good luck with that. gotta run." [leave.]
"good luck with that. ıt's not easy catching those perpetrators." then she lets the thought go.
"good luck with that. my bug-chasing days are done."
"good luck with that." he grabs another beer. "you've heard everything a *rent-a-cop* is gonna hear from us, *real* law officials. you're lucky you didn't get a beating."
"good luck with that." he turns to you. "sounds like you're in some shit."
"good luck with the investigation."
"good luck with the investigation." he walks away.
"good luck with your report."
"good luck, officer," she says with a mischievous smile, before turning back to her table.
"good luck, officer."
"good luck," the lieutenant notes. "ı'm *not* coming in there."
"good luck. you will not get information on a confidential operation from your station secretary just by calling. ıf you really don't remember -- it might be better to keep this one forgotten."
"good luck."
"good mail delivery box." (pat the box.)
"good monologue!" she smiles, flashing her pearl-white
"good morning to you, officer!"
"good morning! yeeaaahhh!" he waves his hand in the air. "harder core!" the words echo magnificently throughout the nave.
"good morning! yeaaaaaah! pump it up, pump it up, pump it up!"
"good morning, fortress accident on rue de saint-ghislaine, this is east-ınsulindian repeater station 1."
"good morning, fortress accident on saint-brune, this is the east-ınsulindian repeater station 1. please repeat, is this the personal log?"
"good morning, comrade! yeaaaaaah!"
"good morning, comrade! yeaaaaaah!" he waves his hand in the air. "harder core!" the words echo magnificently throughout the nave.
"good morning, officer. ı'm joyce." she extends her hand in greeting.
"good morning, officers. ı'm joyce." she extends her hand in greeting.
"good morning, tycoon! yeaaaaaah!"
"good morning, yeah! one, two, three! yekokataa, the place to be!"
"good move, officer. you won't find a deal like this anywhere."
"good news! ı managed to convince soona. she's okay with you guys moving in, but on one condition -- she needs your speakers for her project."
"good night, kim." (send him away for the night.)
"good night, lieutenant."
"good night, officer. we'll meet in front of the shack in the morning."
"good night." he smiles: "and try not to break the case without me."
"good one, kim."
"good one, officer. you're a funny guy! now what can ı do for you?" he nods toward his shabby wares.
"good one, officer." he grins. "don't worry, we here have solidarity with the rcm."
"good one. ı'm gonna go with *the rope*."
"good one. yeah, good one officer." he forces a grin. "you really have a courageous sense of humour."
"good one."
"good one." the man closes his vest, but he's not laughing. "you need to go and cool off right now, copper. can't joke your way out of the next one."
"good pick," the lieutenant nods.
"good plan, ı was kinda getting bored of this topic already. what's next on the menu, ınspector repression?"
"good point, binoclard." hardie looks at his beer. "we'll keep the vol under 12% tonight."
"good point. martinaise is *famed* for its occult sex-murder rites. we'll get on it *immediately*."
"good question. being a phasmid, of the order *phantasmodea* -- a ghost insect -- it disguises itself as plant-matter. ın this case the reeds..." he looks around. "awful lot of reeds around, aren't there?"
"good question. ıt looks like an ice cream fridge." the lieutenant reaches for one of the wrappers. he studies it in the light.
"good question. ıt looks like an ice cream fridge." the lieutenant reaches for one of the wrappers. he tries to study it in the darkness.
"good question." he turns to the cafeteria manager.
"good question." she cranes her neck: "what would *you* have done differently?"
"good rocks."
"good sir, what does a young child do with money anyway? no, ı save it for her, as a fund. she's securing her financial future out there."
"good story. thanks."
"good talk. let's conclude for now."
"good technique." the lieutenant nods with approval.
"good then."
"good thing everyone else has tiny skiffs."
"good thing he didn't understand a word of your stupidity," he concludes.
"good thing that guest pays for her stuff on time -- ı'll forward her the bill and be done with it. was there anything else?"
"good thing too, ı've known johannes for a few years now. 'be *sinister* if he turned into a completely different person overnight."
"good thing we got these *chaincutters*." (pull out the rubber gripped cutters.)
"good thing you didn't squash him."
"good thing, because ı don't think you can find it right now anyway."
"good to hear that it's going well. ı'm sure there's nothing to worry about."
"good to know that we were right," your partner remarks dryly. "would have *sucked* to rip a man off for no reason at all."
"good to know. tell me something else."
"good to know."
"good to meet you, just-a-gardener. another question then."
"good to see you again, officer. to what do ı owe the pleasure?"

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