The Wax Conspiracy

Tempered glass warfare, a halted affair at dusk

"Khrushchev," started Officer Saracen, looking over his notes, "I see you enjoy the late night activities. Outside inside people's homes. That will not do. We have rules and laws and policies against such behaviour. We take you inside and remove your outside."


"Yes. Correct. You will go to prison if you do not stop this." The officer closed his notebook and leaned closer. "But I may not be so as unkind if you are to understand me."

"Yes," he replied, "I do not understand you quite well."

Weeks pass before they meet up again and Khrushchev finds himself once more feeling the heat of the officer's car with his face. In this cold, there is always a welcome sigh as the engine ticks over into its wait before kicking up again. The heat of the engine steaming in the winter's cast and making a wet spot that the snow rolls over from.

"I thought we had an understanding," said the officer. "I thought we wouldn't be here again." He makes sure the cuffs look tight. "But here we are."

"I do not understand you now and I did not understand you then. That much I thought you understood." he said, watching is breath billow over the hood.

"You know, when I was with the Gorkha, misunderstandings would have you killed. Not by malice, but by oversight. One mistake and yourself, your team and operation, all in jeopardy. It was mimetic you see. One person unsure and the unit picks up on it. Very quickly. If you do not correct yourself and the mistake before the others feel it you will end up looking to make ditches with rocks before falling on your arches with a son that spits on you when you come home and a wife that sleeps with your second best friend."

"I understand," said Khrushchev, "you may have found me at the right house."

Officer Saracen took notes down on a receipt from the deli.

Ethan Switch

Written on Tuesday, 31 January 2012

The Wax Conspiracy

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