You have a grape brain. What kind of Policetechbot are you? Emancipating innocent self-right citizens into the open multi-savannahs. From now on your diet will consists mostly of meatballs, AC power, petroleum jelly and rocks. And I am revoking your possession of Shakespeare. Pure Hopinsensitanation. I should send you to the Silvenettishiver Funeral Home for Policetechbots.
It makes me replete with engine-red anger to think that I have bought and trained a Policetechbot that can eat cinderblock, breathe electric fire, and destroy force fields, but they can’t distinguish between a Criminal and Non-Criminal.
If the newly crowned Bad Policetechbot of the Month would like to go on record or file an international complaint, then please exercise your rehabilitative right to do such, but be weary of the Instagonzagation and double-eyed fury that I will permit to entirely let overtake me if I find even a hint that the International complaint narrative is fictitiously navigated.
Crank down your belief wall and study diligently what you have done.

I threw a ballpine hammer at him. I felt good when it left my hand. My shoulder twitched at exactly the right moment and the hammer whirled. I was Krull and my ballpine boomerang would hit the fleeing intruder in the back of the knee or in the back of the skull, and he would fall against that sandpaper sidewalk spilling my DVD player, 7 DVD’s, a laptop, and a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey onto the street. Everyone would see how this teenage egg-stealing snake had fucked with the wrong man, and how my ballpine hammer of justice had brought him to his knees. They would envy my marksmanship and my taste for digitally restored classics. The ballpine hammer hit the chain link dog fence in Mrs. Cottonwood’s yard. The intruder scurried across the street, and never broke stride, never knew how close he came to death by flying ballpine hammer. Mrs. Cottonwood came out to investigate the clamor she heard against her dog fence. I told her what happened and she called the police for me and helped me prop up my screen door. I went through my VHS collection and I put in Gorillas in the Mist. Sigourney Weaver told me not to be scarred and she told me not to speak much when the police came, because my voice would tremble and they would think I was scarred and chuckle while they filled out their report in the patrol car. She told me not to mention the ballpine hammer. The policeman’s knock on the door came during the final scene where Sigourney is looking at old pictures, listening to a favorite record and smoking a cigarette. I made the policemen wait at the door until the silhouetted assassin brought the machete down and the camera cut to blood droplets on the old phonograph player. I opened the door and told them how the intruder had taken a DVD player, 19 DVD’s, a laptop, and a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey. I spoke clearly and my voice did not tremble. I didn’t mention the hammer.

Stress drives us car-sick green and splotchy. Syptoms of a never resting brain which hums and flickers with a streetlamp’s upsetting light. If only I could simplify. Conceal it all save a white pottery cup of soup and the steam and the slight tin taste of instant chicken broth. If only I could strip like an old Siberian eskimo. Peel off the layers of wool and fur and stand naked and porcelain and soft before stepping into the hot springs and want nothing more.

HearMe John #1
No one stops to ask you. No back seat lift. No drum major to guide the way. Has anyone asked you to carry something? Have your bags been in your possession the whole time? The ring is authentic. The statistics are cloaked, the ink wet. Your march is near. I won’t stir or drill or whine or gripe or ask. But here. Take these jumping beans; they will help you grow roots in an hour of need. Take this mirror, for it will show you the way. Take this shinbone flute. It is made from the femur of a great enemy and it will strike fear into the most virulent army.