“Are you all right, Mister?” A policeman asked,
peering down questioningly at me.
My facial expression must have been worrisome
and outright derelict, for the policemen had his hand
firmly on his holstered, but unsnapped, gun. I wanted to
spit out the putrid tinfoil taste in my mouth but couldn’t
for fear that the policeman would grow suspicious and
deter me. Instead, I swallowed hard, grimaced, and stood.
“A bug—” I began but had to stop because of the
lingering bitter taste. My eyes twitched rapidly for a few
seconds before I could continue. “I swallowed a bug,
officer. Pretty nasty.”
The policeman relaxed and smiled. “Is that all?” he
asked, letting out a bellow of laughter, much like Santa
Clause from the rooftops on Christmas Eve, but he soon
tried to calm himself after meeting my cold gaze. “Sorry
about that. You all right then?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Best be along then, Sir. This area is being
cleared.” He turned on his heel and stifled another laugh
as he walked away.
I immediately spit out what was left of that foul
taste, wiping my mouth repeatedly with my gloved hands,
and took out a silver flask from my coat pocket. A drink
was the only thing that could take the bitterness away. I
guzzled the contents wantonly for some time and finally
came up for air, sighing in relief. The cap on the flask and
the flask back in my pocket, I pressed on, knowing even
more than before about the recently deceased: not only
was the boy young, about five to eight years old, but he
died at the hands of a Transylvanian.
80