The heavy white door closed behind Martin, followed by the sound of a key turning in a lock. He was left standing in a small windowless room not bigger than a bedroom. The walls were white, or rather what was white once, before hundreds of people were leaning against it turning it to the current colour what could only be described as dark white. The room smelled like a men’s locker room in your local gym and same as a locker room it had a long light-brown wooden bench on one side of the room. This was the only furniture. Its surface was covered by writing scratched into the wood, mostly obscenities and names of people who “waz here”. So, this is jail, Martin thought to himself. He felt vaguely cheated that there were no heavy iron bars like in an American movie. He sat down and absentmindedly started to scratch out his own name. The wooden surface was harder than he thought and he barely made a mark, which made him think what kind of dirty, smelly junkie had nails hard enough to write. Was there some kind of trick he was missing that only the criminals knew about? He wiped his hands on his pants, they were shaking a little.  He was dressed in his favourite blue jeans with the worn look that is so popular nowadays only his were really worn out and not bought like that in the store. His T-shirt was black with a picture of the McDonald clown leaning against a wall and throwing up. The puke was rainbow coloured. When he moved his arms, he could smell the fear soaked into the shirt’s armpits, which might have smelled similar to sweat, but he knew better. His dark brown Timberland shoes had no shoelaces. The frog[1] took them before showing him in here, maybe to avoid Martin to hang himself. Not that it was his intention. He was innocent after all. Well, kind of.

They stopped the black Honda in front of Germ’s son house. Germ was an accomplished dealer, a legend in the junky community, and this was his son. A dealer dynasty. Germ was his real last name, not a nickname like Martin assumed for months. Nomen est omen. Germ’s son was sitting in the back, Martin in the passenger seat and his friend Hamster was driving. They parked on the opposite side of the road on a piece of grass. The sun was gone, Martin could see the first star on the sky through his side window. The sun was still visible when they were parked at the same exact spot half hour ago. Martin just wanted to go home, the Hamster was supposed to go in and buy some tovar and they ended up driving to a neighbouring village and picking up a new batch from Germ’s son brother (he really should have a different nickname) and now finally it looked like they can be done with it and go. Junky life is either waiting or complications. The confirm his thoughts a police car came from the opposite side, cut through both lanes and parked in front of them, turning on their red and blue.

“THROW IT OUT” shouted Martin and turning back.

Germ’s son was not moving, he was fidgeting with his hands and not answering. The Hamster turned his head as well.

“Throw it out, quickly”

Germ’s son ignored them. It was hard to read his expression in the darkness. Red and blue light was reflecting on his face. Was he in shock? Martin wanted to jump over and slap him, or just throw him out of the car. Why didn’t he just go home, he wanted to take the bus it was his laziness that made him stay when Hamster offered him a lift home. He didn’t need to buy anything; he made his shopping prior to meeting Hamster. Oh shit, please God no. Martin remembered the little envelope in his sock. He leaned down but froze when he heard the tap on the window. That is when Germ’s son opened the door and bolted. Run like the wind you beautiful bastard.

“Get out of the car, now” the frog said outside the window.

Martin got out and the frog blinded him with a flashlight.

“Give me your ID. Empty your pockets on to the hood and step back.”

Martin took out his phone and his wallet on the black hood of Hamster’s Honda. He looked across and met Hamster’s gaze, fuck written all over his face. Martin was cold, he didn’t plan to be out that long. He shivered. He watched as more frogs came out of the darkness dragging Germ’s son between them. That idiot, only if he run straight away, he could have gotten away. Martin hoped he at least tossed the bag. They pushed the scrawny gypsy with his back against the car.

“I didn’t do nothing”

The frogs started to beat him without a warning. Three of them pounding on him with their sticks, they were only waiting for an excuse. Martin was watching the beating in silent horror. Across the street a door opened and a hooker came out walking straight to the frogs on her black leather boots with high heels, not looking when crossing the road. Her black hair was in a ponytail.

“What he do? Leave him alone”

“Miss, please stay away” one of the frogs moved to stay in her way. She walked around him and pull on Germ’s son’s sleeve, picking him up from the ground hurling insults around her. The frogs were mesmerised for a second, she even managed to get him up, before one frog broke the spell and smacked her on the head with his stick. Martin was standing five metres away but he could clearly hear the thud. She might be a hooker and she was definitely crazy, but there was no need for that. The hooker was unfazed by the hit, but she let go. One of her tits was hanging out. More hookers were gathering on the other side of the road. Where did they all come from? She continued to shout but did not cross the road anymore.

“You fuckers. Leave him alone. What he do? I have people…I have people who can get you, man. They get you in your sleep.”

“In my sleep?”

“They attack your dreams…kill those sheep that…bounce”

Martin burst out laughing, the situation was too bizarre. The frog watching him was smiling as well. For a moment they were all just guys having fun. The reality came back with a slap. A frog searching the car emerged with a stupid grin on his face waving something in the air. Martin couldn’t see what it was in the dark, but the realisation suddenly hit him and his heart stopped. Germ’s son of a bitch left all that heroin in the car, the fidgeting was him hiding it under Hamsters sweater.

“That is not mine. I just wanted to buy a hit.” Germ’s son shrugged his shoulders with her a hurt look on his face. How can they even accuse him of such thing, him, a poor gypsy boy.

“He is lying…You motherfucker. I don’t know what that is” Hamster yelled out and moved towards them. The frogs grabbed him and took him away, Hamster protesting and pleading. A fat frog with a moustache came to Martin, breathing through his mouth, holding his ID and inspecting it under the flashlight.  

“Mezek. You do not look like a junky?”

Martin was waiting for him to continue, but when nothing was coming, he realised that was not a rhetorical question. This must be the head frog.

“I am not”

“Turn around. I will search you. You promise me I won’t cut myself on some AIDS needle or some shit.”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“There are no needles or AIDS”

“Because if I do, so help me God…”

He searched Martin and put the handcuffs on him. They never look into the socks. Or on your balls. No man wants to touch another man’s junk. He left him on the side of the road and told him to shut up and Martin was looking at the hookers on the opposite side. He felt like a gangster and now that he was searched, he was cocky.

“What are you doing” the frog shouted.

“Standing. Shutting the fuck up like you said”

“Turn your back to the road. Aren’t you ashamed that passing cars can see you?”

Definitely the head frog. Officer material. A half an hour later he was still standing and was getting tired. Officer Moustache came back and told him to walk over to their car. The back door was open. It was a small car and Martin had trouble to get in. He never thought how hard it is to get in with your hands behind your back. Officer Moustache was looking on with disgust. Martin noticed they never touched him. He put his foot in, lost his balance and hit his head on the roof.

“Head first idiot”

Yeah head first is much easier. Go figure.

“Take of your clothes,” shouted a tall frog with a serious expression on his clean shaven, slightly sweaty young face.

Martin was just brought to the police station after the phandle[2] stopped their car and found 50 small envelopes with heroin in them. Envelope, for those of you who do not know the Slovak drug scene, is a small piece of paper with 10Euro worth of heroin in it folded first diagonally in half to create a triangle and then folded on both sides of the triangle, which creates a little envelope possible to close without any glue or tape. Little junky origami. The envelopes belonged to the skinny little gypsy standing on the other side of the room, surrounded by two frogs in uniform seeming to have a jolly good time making him undress. They were much less polite than with him. This casual racism would normally annoy him, but this guy was shamelessly lying, how he is just a small time junky, who got into their car to buy one little envelope and that in fact Martin and his friend Hamster are the big time dealers and owners of the big bag with 50 of these tiny treasures. And now Hamster was nowhere to be seen.

“Take of the underpants,” yelled again the policeman as Martin stood there only in his grey sock with the image of the Scream painting on the sides and white shorts. The underpants were white Calvin Klein knockoffs. Martin did not expect another search. In the background, he heard the other policemen laughing at the gypsy, because he had no underpants. The gypsy tried to use it to his advantage.

“You think if I was a dealer, I wouldn’t buy myself some nice underwear”

“Squat and cough” replied the frog laughing.

“Now the socks”. This one was aimed at Martin. Oh fuck.

The cell seemed much smaller now, almost cosy. Martin just ate and envelope full of heroin including the wrapper and to his surprise, it actually kicked in much stronger than he anticipated. He couldn’t believe he got away with it. He took of his sock and shook it, but holding the envelope together with the sock. Back in the cell, he considered snorting it, but instead ate the whole thing. His hands were clammy and he kept wiping his palms against his jeans. He stretched out on the bench and closed his eyes. The heroin was making him sleepy. A ringing woke him up from his musing, followed by a buzzer opening a door. The cell was next to the main door to the station and it seems you have to ring and be let in by an annoying buzzer, probably some remnant of a communist psychological torture device. Couple minutes later the buzzer sound again. So much for little bit of rest.

The door busted open; he didn’t even hear the lock. A tall muscly policeman with an angular face barged in sandwich in his hand. From the smell it was ham and cheese and some garlic. He took a bite of the sandwich and stepped to the side. Behind him was a small man in a lab coat with blond hair lying flat against his skull. He smelled like a hospital corridor, clean with disinfectant, but you still do not want to touch anything.

“Show me your hand”

Martin outstretched his hand, Mellier moon tattoo looking at him with its one eye. The Labcoat wiped down his palm with a wet wipe, put it in an envelope, the post office kind, and sealed it.

“The other one you can do yourself”.

Martin wiped his hand and Labcoat again put the wipe in another envelope and sealed that one. They both turned around and left without a word, leaving Martin looking at his hands confused. Later he found out this is how they check if you were in contact with the evidence, there are no fingerprints anymore, another movie trope. He lied back and covered his eyes with his forearm still smelling the wipe. “Eeeee…” rang the buzzer. This is going to be a long night…

After eight long hours they took him for the interrogation. He was sitting on the only chair in a long brightly lit corridor with three unmarked doors on one side. The effects of the drug were gone and he was anxious again. This was it. What will happen inside will decide his faith. He spent last hours pondering what lie Hamster would tell them so he can say the same. He was holding his Nokia 3310 phone, surprised they gave him his possession back. He called his little sister, who was alone at home and whom he promised he will be back in an hour, ten hours ago. She was still up, but not out of worry, she just said ok and Martin imagined she went back to enjoy late-night TV. He scrolled through his contacts wondering, who he could call and ask if he has the right not to say anything and if that is a good idea. All his knowledge came from American films, but they certainly weren’t helpful tonight. He texted Petra but didn’t expect an answer at his time. He stood up and pressed his ear to the door, he could make up voices but not words. He sat back down and sighed.

The door just flew open and hit the wall with the bang that echoed through the empty corridor. Triumphant expression on the frog’s face changed to disappointment when he didn’t hit Martin with the door like he clearly planned and would only a minute ago. It was officer Moustache. Too late, you dumb no-neck motherfucker.  Martin pretended to be surprised, his heart was pounding as he gave the fat frog his best innocent look. Officer Moustache snatched the phone from his hand.

“Did you call your lawyer?” he sneered.

My lawyer? Must be a fellow film enthusiast. “I called my…”

He banged the door shut before Martin could finish. Few minutes later the door opened again, Hamster came out and Martin was asked in. That was the first time he had seen him since the arrest. For a second their eyes met and they tried to telepathically exchange information. Then the door closed and he was alone again.

“You are free to go” the interrogator said, standing outside the police station and smoking a cigarette. Martin spent an hour inside, going through his made up story several times. The interrogator was a different breed than the frogs he had to deal with all night. Phandle were made up, bar few exceptions, of power hungry, dumb, barely-finished-highschool types, but to be an interrogator you needed a law degree. And Martin suspected this one also had a psychology degree because his “I want to be your friend” spiel was near perfect. Martin caught himself wanting to tell him everything several times.

“There is something fishy about your story” he continued, “I do not buy it but you both said exactly the same thing and that is why I have to let you go. Even the type of phone you allegedly were buying off the gypsy. And the police assured me you haven’t talked to each other. We are keeping him of course, we had our eye on him for a while now”

Martin tried not to look at Hamster, because he wouldn’t help himself to smirk. A good lie has to be based on the truth and only change the important facts. And it needs to be vague. He said inside, Hamster was trying to buy a Nokia phone. That was the only lie. And thank you Nokia for your 90% market share. Hamster wouldn’t be caught dead with anything else. Martin was proud of himself, he often wondered how he would behave when shit got serious. He acted like a tough guy, but suffered from an imposter syndrome and was scared he would crumble under pressure. But he kept calm, he didn’t rat anyone out and he lied his way out. But this was too close. What would his mom say if they kept him in, or his boss? He should shape up and get clean. The interrogator flicked the finished cigarette towards a bin missing it by a hair and disappeared back inside. Martin and Hamster were left alone, holding their shoelaces, the sun showing his ugly face on the horizon. Hamster put the shoelaces in his pocket and started to walk.

“I do not know about you, but I need a hit”

They looked at each other and started to laugh. He can always start to get clean tomorrow.

[1] Slovak expression for a policeman. Comes from their green uniforms during communism times.

[2] Romani word for policeman. Mostly used for the plural form