02 June 2020

A Crime-Ridden Neighborhood

From not too long ago…

…but segueing into something older. Darker. But nonetheless easy to update to contemporary concerns, especially if you actually read the original and don't buy the ideological propaganda from too damned many "critics" and "cultural authorities" that leads most readers to ignore the obvious signs that it's not just about Uncle DonaldJoe. (Hint: Character names…)

There was the same hearty cheering as before, and the mugs were emptied to the dregs. But as the citizens outside gazed at the scene, it seemed to them that some strange thing was happening. What was it that had altered in the faces of the cops? Culver’s old dim eyes flitted from one face to another. Some of them had five chins, some had four, some had three. But what was it that seemed to be melting and changing? Then, the applause having come to an end, the company took up their cards and continued the game that had been interrupted, and the citizens crept silently away.

But they had not gone twenty yards when they stopped short. An uproar of voices was coming from the farmhouse. They rushed back and looked through the window again. Yes, a violent quarrel was in progress. There were shoutings, bangings on the table, sharp suspicious glances, furious denials. The source of the trouble appeared to be that the Sherriff and an investment banker had each played an ace of spades simultaneously.

Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the cops. The creatures outside looked from cop to banker, and from banker to cop, and from cop to banker again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.

(no apologies to Mr Blair's estate, he would have approved) Somehow, I can't see any of those suspicious individuals on Wall Street who fit the profile of a white-collar criminal either with a cop's knee on his neck for eight minutes and forty-six seconds, or playing cards in a farmhouse.