Who cares about Pochtrump, that bigoted BMW puppet of a dictator, and his war criminal buddies , when you can enjoy “Commissioner B. goes south,” chilling out quietly in slippers by the fire, after sweating all day on those motherfucking pyramids?
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About a hundred yards down the road from the sign he spotted a small forest path on the right. Was it precognition? Sixth sense? Extreme caution in unfamiliar territory? He slowed down to a crawl. The next second, the reason for this irrational caution emerged from the path. At first, he thought it was a deer or a wild boar. Except that wild boars rarely run on their hind legs. He slammed on the brakes. As surprised as he was, the creature stopped dead in its tracks and stood there, hypnotized by the fog lights. If it wasn’t a boar, it sure had the fur. Long, shaggy hair and a thick beard covered the part of his face that protruded from his thick canvas jacket, buttoned up to the collar.
Before the individual tried to shield them from the sudden light, B. had seen his eyes. They were filled with intense fear. The din that rose behind him made the fugitive turn around in panic. Returning to the hood of the car, he stretched out an arm as if to prevent it from starting up again and running him over. Half a second later he had crossed the road and disappeared into the woods on the other side.
Surprisingly for a cop, when forced to choose, Commissioner B. tended to side with the hunted rather than the hunter. He figured that by moving forward just a little, he would block the exit from the path…
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