Inoccuosly, one of the cops calmly opens the metal cell door. Have they decided to treat me with respect, after all? Then two cops in heavy armor and helmets come rushing around the corner. I lie still and let it come and happen.
One of the stormtroopers jumps right onto my chest with his knee. I let my body be limp and after a few moments, I end up lying on the floor of the cell with handcuffs behind my back.
I ask them whether they intend to carry me. Drag along, rather, one remarks.
I study the floor and their shoes. The ones who stand right next to me look like a bird shat on the dominant black leather. The pair further away looks more cared after.
You could learn a lesson from your colleague there, I remark, his shoes look much cleaner than yours.
To his colleague, he notes that their last difficult case had a better sense of humor. Your predecessor was funnier than you, Johann. I do not mind.
If you let me stand up, you will not have to carry me, guys.
Still with bare feet, I attend them out of the station where we wait for the police van to be opened up. My feet freeze, guys.
Oh, you will be fine, Johann.
The van door opens, I jump in. I sit next to the window in the back and manspreadingly throw my right foot over my left knee. They do not like that. One of them grabs my leg and puts it to the ground.
I put it back up. He repeats the procedure. I get angry. One of them authoritatively barks: You do what we say now, Johann. These exclamations always sound a bit desperate to me. Perhaps because they become ridiculous the moment nobody respects them.
I say: You do not tell me what to do.
The other guy sits opposite of me and squeezes my legs to the left wall of the van, into an intolerably feminine pose.
For a moment, I do nothing. Then my rage comes up again and I surrender to it. I forcibly pull my leg out of the oppression and try to put it back onto my other.
Okay, we will use zip ties.
One of them fetches the ties while the other one tries to grab my feet. I protest and kick a few times in his direction while he pulls me towards him. I hit him in the heavy black helmet once.
The other cop throws himself on top of me and under his body, hits me with his fist onto my chin a few times while shouting Stop moving, you fucking Mongo. Thankfully, his frantic blows do not develop much more power than necessary to let my skin feel the rugged texture of his black glove.
They put the cable tie around my feet and fasten it hard. I end up stretched over both opposite seats, my handcuffed arms painfully contorted behind my back, with the cutting metal frame of the handcuffs blocking the bloodflow into my hands.
The van starts moving.
Guys, can I please sit back up normally? My hands hurt terribly and I am afraid they might die off.
Who cares, they say, and the car keeps rolling.