the cop took my license to his patrol car and ran it through the angelic scanner

let this one go, issue no citation. observe covertly that Subject continues down 9th street. make any necessary interventions to ensure Subject does not pass Chestnut Intersection until the Light turns Green. Light will change from Red to Yellow to Blue than back to Red, which it will remain for 37.5 seconds, until a speeding semi-truck fishtails a BLUE or COPPER 2003 Mini-cooper illegally making a Right Turn during the Blue or Second Red light, resulting in two furhter head on collisions and at least 3 pedestrian injuries. Remain at the scene of the crash and report if Subject deviates from route. Emergency response teams have been notified and are in transit. Do not attempt to contact the speeding Semi-truck driver. He is already inebriated (within legal limits) and texting while driving: Statistical Analyses suggests any intervention is likely to result in more casualties. Push notifications are being externally suppressed to avoid deviations from Optimized Predictive Path.

following the accident, in which chaos rained down around me on all sides but left my lowriding Buick Lucerne unscratched, I followed the traffic light’s direction to pull out and coast through the brief corridor through the intersection to continue down pass the RoundAbout and onto the Interstate. emergency vehicles were flooding the pavement behind me, closing down any possibility of pursuit. a single cop, pudgy and squinting in the siren lights, watched me as raced towards the state border, where backroads and paper towns would offer me unpredictable opportunities, false states, dead-ends and creativity to cross the high snow dusted dessert, out of the jurisdiction of larger police departments and outside of the usual haunts where state police haunted their partially-assigned corridors and darkened the skidmark-heavy platforms of their favorite speed trap, getting high on State’s Evidence and tracing in their self-hypnotized dreamstates the rocky cartography of their present, viewing with rare clarity and detachment looming divorces, child custody and alimony battles, 1/3 and 2/3 life crises, vanishing pensions and sublime-repetitive election cycles, and even in the case of two officers with undiagnosed Attention Deficit and Obsessive Prophetic Disorders, the exact wording of their obituaries (not to be written, much less published, for 12 and 37 years, in the case of the younger detective and older sergeant, respectively), passages they will not remember on their drives home tomorrow morning but which will ring through with ghostly musical cadence the atmosphere of lucid dreams and one shared acid trip on a vacation in Baja and will supply missing misheard words to overheard smalltalk and ambiguous lyrics of the rap albums they play in their cruisers and their preteen son’s videogames’ soundtrack and the hymns sung at their goddaughter’s first communion. these words will not be sufficient to provide even a clear sense of foreknowledge, but as their objects come to pass they will startle into a cold sweat, sometimes years after the fact, at the unaccountable feeling that they had long already known the outcomes in question, if only as an overintense impression of a silhouette photographed against an angry sun. they will not understand the full import of what they have known, have always known, until the morphine has taken them graciously in, removed all chance of alteration or paradox, has already ushered them towards a slate night where such gestures are all already grey, like the cows of Hegel.