The Scratch

Pondering the obvious, Carl held his head in his hands.  Not in the literal sense, but more than figuratively as well.  It was really hot in the small room in which Carl found himself and he was sweating profusely, especially down his back, the occasional bead running down the crack in his butt.

It had all started so innocently.  Carl wasn't looking at anything in particular when he noticed a policeman watching him rather intently.  His father, a former member of the American Anarchists, had taught him to avoid the police at almost any cost.  While Carl did not follow the beliefs of his father, the paranoia has been so deeply ingrained that Carl still found himself wary around the law.

So Carl innocently stood in the park, near the duck pond, looking at nothing in particular, and just happened to scratch himself, in an unfortunate place, at that unfortunate moment. The police officer then made his move.  Carl felt the heavy hand of the law upon his shoulder, literally, while his arm was bent behind his back.  "Enjoying the view there, buddy?"  The words jolted Carl back to the immediate now and made him jump.  The wrenching in his shoulder made him wince and he found himself face down on the grass.

It probably didn't help that Carl had long hair and tattoos and wore a Dead Kennedys t-shirt.  And it probably didn't help that there was a preschool group on the other side of the pond doing gymnastics.  And it probably didn't help that later, in court, Carl's dad's name came up with the judge.

So Carl sat in the small, hot, barred cell while the lawyers tried to prove him guilty or innocent of stalking and indecent public behavior.

Another bread of sweat ran down his back.