A wee kiddo died today as a result of getting shot in the head with a tear gas canister. He spent his fifteenth birthday in a coma. When he died he weighed sixteen kilograms, apparently. He had a remarkable unibrow. This is what I know of him.
We at Agent sLp headquarters have always had a healthy distrust of cops. I mean, seriously. Why would you WANT that job? Who are these people who decide they want to police people’s behavior, to follow the letter of the law regardless of whether it’s right, to be pretty continuously on the wrong side of history? We profoundly don’t get it. (Firemen, though, are sexy.)
In one of those moments during my deportation saga when I was thinking, “I actually died when I got hit on the head and this is my eternal punishment” I was face to face with an appallingly cheerful riot cop with the sea green eyes of a Black Sea kid, or possibly a child of the former Yugoslavia diaspora. He congratulated me, gratuitously, on my innocent verdict and my now ability to go home after an indefinite stay in jail. “Congratulations! You get to go back home to America! [and live with your mom and be unemployed for a really long time and lose the life you spent three years building that you were really quite fond of]” One of the MANY awkward questions he asked me was how could I be a provacateur? What if I’d hit him in the head with a rock? (AGAIN! I ONLY THREW ROCKS ON BARRICADES!) He looked at me, wide eyed and innocent, and I thought then that he was the most dangerous man I’d ever come across. I shivered and thought that this is the man you run into in interrogation rooms when teeth and fingernails start coming out. He was so very sure that he was right and that anyone who’d dare protest was so very wrong. I said something about leveling tear gas canister guns at people’s heads, and how that was against international law, and how Ahmet Atakan didn’t fall off a roof. I said something about a friend who died from complications from walking home from bar street because the streets were that full of gaz and he was asthmatic. I said something about being knocked on the head with a baton.
He said uff yeh and turned to talk to other people.
There are some 176,000 words in common English usage according to the OED.
The only one that seems appropriate to me, for this poor kid’s death, and the riot cop that’ll never be fingered much less identified, and the continuing war on peaceful protests, (I’m bracing myself for the tweet that tells me the first sitter has been arrested) is FUCK: screamed loudly and over and over for years.