the third crossroads, when his shadow forward in the light of headlights approaching from behind him.
"The ice cream truck," Tony helplessly thought. "Or the postman with a hatchet. Or the bus. Something or someone has caught up with me..."
He was absolutely exhausted and had no more energy to run. And how could he escape from a vehicle? The last few times it had been possible to escape because he had found somewhere to dive. But now ahead was only a straight street with closed rows of houses on both sides...
Tony stopped and turned towards what was overtaking him from behind.
"My God," he exhaled in the next moment, "At last!"
A police car was slowly approaching him.
Logan had no idea what the officers could do about a dead cannibal driving on the streets and how to explain events to the them without being considered a complete loony, but it was not the most important thing. The main thing–for him personally–was that the nightmare would end now. Let those who are obliged by their duty deal with all the problems. He was ready to rush to wards the police with open arms, but understood that it was not a good idea. How would a cop react, seeing in the middle of a night street a suspicious person in dirty clothes with a torn off hand on his wrist? It was better to remain on place and to behave as calmly as possible. Otherwise he could get a bullet from his saviors.
Meanwhile, however, the patrolmen did not seem con cerned. The car came nearer without a siren or flashers and without any commands through a loudspeaker. Though, probably, they still simply have not made out the details. Tony stood motionless, stretching his face in the most friendly smile–which, in fact, did not require any special efforts from him.
"And maybe I am indeed a loony," Tony thought, continu ing to smile happily. "And they'll take me away, give me a nice little injection, and the next morning, I'll wake up in a warm cozy mental hospital in the normal world."
The car slowly approached closer. Tony saw that there was only one cop inside, and he was white. Logan never considered himself a racist, but at this moment he was pleased that in a dodgy situation he would be talking with a person of his own race. Then the car drew up next to him. Tony saw on its doors the familiar abbreviations NYPD and CPR. And... the car passed Tony at the same leisurely speed.
Tony could not trust his eyes. Didn't the cop see what was dangling from his wrist?! This, after all, was not Halloween night! Or simply had the cop not made it out in the darkness?
"Hey!" Logan shouted, swinging his hands and running after the car. "Officer! Wait!"
The car stopped. Tony heard the door lock click, but the policeman did not exit the car. Logan, out of breath, ran up to the front door.
"Officer... thank God! I understand how what I am going to tell you will sound, but..."
Words got stuck in his throat.
For he saw that the letters "CPR" written on the door rep resented something different than what he was used to. Not "Courtesy - Professionalism - Respect."
But "Cruelty - Profanity - Rampage."
The door swung open and the policeman stepped out onto the sidewalk.
When somebody shoots his own temple, he is actually ex posed to a significant danger. The danger is that he will survive. And more often than not, the survivor will suffer consequences that disrupt very different brain activities (not to mention purely cosmetic effects, of little matter to a corpse, but not palatable for a survivor). Professionals dealing with gunshot wounds–including, certainly, policemen–know this very well. Therefore, when they decide to end it all with the help of a bullet, they select a more reliable way. Shooting not to the temple, but to the mouth, while directing the barrel upwards and slightly back, to the soft palate. This way, the brains are knocked out in the most literal sense that gives an absolute guarantee of resting in peace.
Or not so absolute.
Anyway, the condition of
"The ice cream truck," Tony helplessly thought. "Or the postman with a hatchet. Or the bus. Something or someone has caught up with me..."
He was absolutely exhausted and had no more energy to run. And how could he escape from a vehicle? The last few times it had been possible to escape because he had found somewhere to dive. But now ahead was only a straight street with closed rows of houses on both sides...
Tony stopped and turned towards what was overtaking him from behind.
"My God," he exhaled in the next moment, "At last!"
A police car was slowly approaching him.
Logan had no idea what the officers could do about a dead cannibal driving on the streets and how to explain events to the them without being considered a complete loony, but it was not the most important thing. The main thing–for him personally–was that the nightmare would end now. Let those who are obliged by their duty deal with all the problems. He was ready to rush to wards the police with open arms, but understood that it was not a good idea. How would a cop react, seeing in the middle of a night street a suspicious person in dirty clothes with a torn off hand on his wrist? It was better to remain on place and to behave as calmly as possible. Otherwise he could get a bullet from his saviors.
Meanwhile, however, the patrolmen did not seem con cerned. The car came nearer without a siren or flashers and without any commands through a loudspeaker. Though, probably, they still simply have not made out the details. Tony stood motionless, stretching his face in the most friendly smile–which, in fact, did not require any special efforts from him.
"And maybe I am indeed a loony," Tony thought, continu ing to smile happily. "And they'll take me away, give me a nice little injection, and the next morning, I'll wake up in a warm cozy mental hospital in the normal world."
The car slowly approached closer. Tony saw that there was only one cop inside, and he was white. Logan never considered himself a racist, but at this moment he was pleased that in a dodgy situation he would be talking with a person of his own race. Then the car drew up next to him. Tony saw on its doors the familiar abbreviations NYPD and CPR. And... the car passed Tony at the same leisurely speed.
Tony could not trust his eyes. Didn't the cop see what was dangling from his wrist?! This, after all, was not Halloween night! Or simply had the cop not made it out in the darkness?
"Hey!" Logan shouted, swinging his hands and running after the car. "Officer! Wait!"
The car stopped. Tony heard the door lock click, but the policeman did not exit the car. Logan, out of breath, ran up to the front door.
"Officer... thank God! I understand how what I am going to tell you will sound, but..."
Words got stuck in his throat.
For he saw that the letters "CPR" written on the door rep resented something different than what he was used to. Not "Courtesy - Professionalism - Respect."
But "Cruelty - Profanity - Rampage."
The door swung open and the policeman stepped out onto the sidewalk.
When somebody shoots his own temple, he is actually ex posed to a significant danger. The danger is that he will survive. And more often than not, the survivor will suffer consequences that disrupt very different brain activities (not to mention purely cosmetic effects, of little matter to a corpse, but not palatable for a survivor). Professionals dealing with gunshot wounds–including, certainly, policemen–know this very well. Therefore, when they decide to end it all with the help of a bullet, they select a more reliable way. Shooting not to the temple, but to the mouth, while directing the barrel upwards and slightly back, to the soft palate. This way, the brains are knocked out in the most literal sense that gives an absolute guarantee of resting in peace.
Or not so absolute.
Anyway, the condition of
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