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- Its little shrine in the kitchenette seemed horribly empty. “What, Da?” I said, leaning in close. “There’s no hat or laptop that’s worth going to jail for”.
A prison fight had left him with a limp, and he looked over his shoulder so often it was like he had a tic. “I’m not stupid, Lanie”. They destroyed grandma’s trunk, the one she’d brought from the old country.
I remember the hot, cling-film-in-a-microwave smell of it, and Da’s look of ferocious concentration as he filled it with fresh goop, and the warm, fresh-baked feel of the objects that came out of it. I closed my eyes. I saw it all from my phone, in the remains of the sitting room, watching it on the screen and wondering how, just how anyone could look at our little flat and our terrible, manky estate and mistake it for the home of an organized crime kingpin.
“There’s no hat or laptop that’s worth going to jail for”.
“You’ve been in prison for ten years, Da. Ten. Years”. He had a cup of tea, and he drank it now like it was whisky, a sip and then a long, satisfied exhalation. They smashed our little refrigerator and the purifier unit over the window.
What they did to him. “You wouldn’t know where your old Da could get a printer and some goop? You’re a smart girl, I know that. Trig”. They brought him out the door and let the newsies get a good look at him as they tossed him in the car, while a spokesman told the world that my Da’s organized-crime bootlegging operation had been responsible for at least twenty million in contraband, and that my Da, the desperate villain, had resisted arrest. I squeezed my hands into fists so tight my fingernails cut into my palms.
- God knew what he went through in prison. The ipolice paid in high-grade pharmaceuticals – performance enhancers, memory supplements, metabolic boosters. A prison fight had left him with a limp, and he looked over his shoulder so often it was like he had a tic.
They took the printer away, of course, and displayed it like a trophy for the newsies. “I’m not stupid, Lanie”. “Come here and listen to your stupid Da”. They destroyed grandma’s trunk, the one she’d brought from the old country. He grinned.
He had a cup of tea, and he drank it now like it was whisky, a sip and then a long, satisfied exhalation. The ipolice paid in high-grade pharmaceuticals – performance enhancers, memory supplements, metabolic boosters.
The coppers smashed my father’s printer when I was eight. They destroyed grandma’s trunk, the one she’d brought from the old country.
- God knew what he went through in prison. “You’ve been in prison for ten years, Da. Ten. Years”.
They smashed our little refrigerator and the purifier unit over the window. “I’ve learned my lesson”. Its little shrine in the kitchenette seemed horribly empty.
The ipolice paid in high-grade pharmaceuticals – performance enhancers, memory supplements, metabolic boosters. The kind of thing that cost a fortune over the counter; the kind of thing you could print at home, if you didn’t mind the risk of having your kitchen filled with a sudden crush of big, beefy bodies, hard truncheons whistling through the air, smashing anyone and anything that got in the way. “You wouldn’t know where your old Da could get a printer and some goop? You’re a smart girl, I know that. Trig”.
The kind of thing that cost a fortune over the counter; the kind of thing you could print at home, if you didn’t mind the risk of having your kitchen filled with a sudden crush of big, beefy bodies, hard truncheons whistling through the air, smashing anyone and anything that got in the way. “There’s no hat or laptop that’s worth going to jail for”.
It had been two years since I’d last seen him and he was in bad shape. “Lanie,” he said, as he sat me down.
When I roused myself and picked up the flat and rescued my peeping poor tweetybird, I put a blender there. “There’s no hat or laptop that’s worth going to jail for”. “You wouldn’t know where your old Da could get a printer and some goop? You’re a smart girl, I know that. Trig”. They brought him out the door and let the newsies get a good look at him as they tossed him in the car, while a spokesman told the world that my Da’s organized-crime bootlegging operation had been responsible for at least twenty million in contraband, and that my Da, the desperate villain, had resisted arrest.
- He had a cup of tea, and he drank it now like it was whisky, a sip and then a long, satisfied exhalation. They smashed our little refrigerator and the purifier unit over the window. I was embarrassed when the minicab dropped us off in front of the estate, and tried to keep my distance from this ruined, limping skeleton as we went inside and up the stairs.
They destroyed grandma’s trunk, the one she’d brought from the old country. Its little shrine in the kitchenette seemed horribly empty. It was made out of printed parts, so it would only last a month before I’d need to print new bearings and other moving parts.
“What, Da?” I said, leaning in close.
He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
I remember the hot, cling-film-in-a-microwave smell of it, and Da’s look of ferocious concentration as he filled it with fresh goop, and the warm, fresh-baked feel of the objects that came out of it. I saw it all from my phone, in the remains of the sitting room, watching it on the screen and wondering how, just how anyone could look at our little flat and our terrible, manky estate and mistake it for the home of an organized crime kingpin. They smashed our little refrigerator and the purifier unit over the window.
“You’d risk another ten years to print out more blenders and pharma, more laptops and designer hats? … Wow”. My tweetybird escaped death by hiding in a corner of his cage as a big, booted foot crushed most of it into a sad tangle of printer-wire. I saw it all from my phone, in the remains of the sitting room, watching it on the screen and wondering how, just how anyone could look at our little flat and our terrible, manky estate and mistake it for the home of an organized crime kingpin.
- They smashed our little refrigerator and the purifier unit over the window. “Come here and listen to your stupid Da”. “You’d risk another ten years to print out more blenders and pharma, more laptops and designer hats? … Wow”.
One of Da’s customers had shopped him. “You’ve been in prison for ten years, Da. Ten. Years”. I closed my eyes.
I remember the hot, cling-film-in-a-microwave smell of it, and Da’s look of ferocious concentration as he filled it with fresh goop, and the warm, fresh-baked feel of the objects that came out of it.
They took the printer away, of course, and displayed it like a trophy for the newsies. “You wouldn’t know where your old Da could get a printer and some goop? You’re a smart girl, I know that. Trig”. He had a cup of tea, and he drank it now like it was whisky, a sip and then a long, satisfied exhalation.
God knew what he went through in prison. When he was done, he looked like he’d been brawling with an entire rugby side.