Policemen

Down below, across from my window, by the store's display glass there often stand two or three police officers where they either catch the rays of the March sun or wait for somebody. One of them keeps looking onto the street from behind the corner. I have a desire – which I have no way of explaining – to throw, to drop a grenade or a bomb on them. I'm thinking this without any malice, as of something clearly self-evident, something like «here're the policemen, they have to be eliminated.»

I have neither a bomb, nor a grenade, nor a sniper gun which in my mind I exclude from my arsenal for eliminating policemen: «The trajectory will give me away,» I reflect. Besides, I want to get the operation over with quickly, I don't want an exchange of fire. That's why I'm leaning towards a bomb.

I even had a dream today that I've had thrown a bomb at them, not out of my window, but from the roof of the house where they stand. Perhaps it's their uniform that's the cause of my desire?

Recently a crowd of drunk young men kept me up – they hung around and yelled at the same spot where the policemen hung out earlier in the day. It was in the small hours of the night. I hated them. «You, disgusting pimples,» thought I, having turned the lights off, watching them from my dark window above. «It'd be great to slash your heads and throats with a burst of a machinegun lead.» Besides, they harass passers-by, even the elderly. The police officers are angels by comparison. Perhaps it's a case of atavism: like a duke or a prehistoric man, I consider the space below my window inviolable. Or like a cat, a lion, or a dog – is this my hunting ground? And these shit-heads – probably some students, or workers, or clerks – they got drunk and now think they're God's gift to the world. Fucking fish heads! They hung around and swore.