gressus, ad mortem

'I'm lifting my arms real slow so don't go blowing off that firearm officer, OK?'

'OK old man. I'm just watching you.'

'And what's he doing?' Spencer said, nodding to the other officer by the door, sweat dripping down the young mans face from under his hat.

'He's doing the same,' replied the older policeman, level in his voice, an assured calm from being in this situation a hundred times before.

'OK, OK,' Spencer muttered, lifting his arms out high and wide, the need to appease the law of his total lack of threat to them trying his patience. Why everyone had to think that just because you were homeless you were therefore dangerous was beyond him. He had nothing, after all, to protect so why would he ever be a danger to anyone other than to himself?

'That's good,' the older officer said, 'now just get down and stretch out so that we can cuff you. You know the drill.'

Spencer, lifting his eyebrows in weary question, noticed the younger officer twitch. Never a good sign, so Spencer decided to just do what he had been told. Safer that way with a rookie. Slowly then, due to his aged limbs twisted well beyond their actual years, he knelt down and awaited his fate.

'Crazy stupid bastard,' muttered the young policeman, a mixture of fear meeting relief causing him to speak out aggressively.

Spencer, a mild mannered man, a man who had lost his life in one fatal week three years earlier, took exception to the insult. He looked up, quickly, defiantly, and with that one movement, his fate was sealed.


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