Fuck(, it's) the police!

Three shadows in the rafters dressed in dark clothing fall suddenly silent at the heavy footsteps below. We can see him walking two floors below us, or more we can see his flashlight at the bottom of the drop. A door closes and we hear the footsteps fade into the next room.

"Oink," one of my friends giggles, "oink oink oink!"

"This place is getting busier and busier, we may need to move on."

***

When it drizzled we all piled back into the house and under the makeshift tent, and when the sun returned we piled back out to the grills in the parking lot with fresh beers. Spirits were high; both among the partygoers and in the bottles Hammertime was using to make me another SoCo and lime.

The majority of the party did not need Hammertime's extensive bartending talents to wind up a bit besides themselves and removed from their common sense, and whoever had placed the grill under an open window on the third floor might not have had much common sense to remove. The third floor residents had never been on the best terms with the rest of unit 66 to begin with, and it wasn't too long before rumors of the police having been called on the party were flying thick as underclassmen began slinking away from the scene. I caught out of the corner of my eye Magpie vaulting up onto the railing of the first floor deck and from there onto the garage roof, bottle of whiskey in hand bolting for the pinnacle of the structure roaring "Fuck the police!" the whole way. Reaching the top he stood there, still waving the jar and screaming his head off.

It wasn't actually the police who showed up the first time but the fire department. We got Magpie down from the roof prior to that, and convinced the 20 year old carrying an illegal firearm in one hand and a beer in the other to go back in the house just prior to their arrival. Py was dispatched to greet them, and aside from the fact that he was wearing a shirt which read "Fuck politics, I just want to burn shit down," it all went rather well. He laughed and considered changing shirts after that, but decided it would be useless after the fire department already left, much to our amusement when he later had to entertain a police squad car which had found our party particularly interesting.

***

"And," the officer leans in close to Py, "Do they let you do this at home?"

Its dark outside and we're standing on a rural bystreet not too far from the university. I'm facing one cop car, and I can tell there is another behind me from my shadow. There's a third one on my left and behind the one I am facing I can see two more. Ginger, Gilby and Py aren't doing a whole ton better.

"My dad...we lit these off when I was little...I thought fireworks were a fine-able offense in this state officer...not an arrest-able one..."

The officer leans over close to Py's face and raises his flashlight, "Oh?"

They rattled us for a significant amount of time before letting us go, enough that when I woke up the next morning and put on my black robe I was still thinking a bit of them.

It is tradition that the city police line the top of the crowd the graduation procession walks through, and as I strode to pomp and circumstance I suddenly found a hand on my shoulder and upon turning, a familiar grinning face. It was the same cop from the night before.

"You're being good today, aren't you Pika?"

A flippant giggling boy from my freshman dorm was in line right behind me, "oh HER officer, she's never up to anything good..."

***

"And his hand tightened on my shoulder," I reached out and pinched Brewer's shoulder next to me at the table for effect, "and I honestly stood there and thought 'man, if I don't get my diploma out of this, the scene at my graduation will be the least of my problems' so I bolted for it."

Brewer giggled and so did the rest of his team-mates. "So," he asked, "Did he chase?"

"Nah," I laughed, "I guess he was just taking an opportunity to fuck with me, see if he could scare me. He did a damn good job I'll admit..."

Captain grinned and split his chopsticks to dig into his meal, "That's 90% of a good cop's job you realize... scaring people into behaving."

Brewer giggled a little again, "Well, looks like most of them are only good at about half of it."

Firing Squad Society

"You don't have any complicated ethical issues with working on military projects do you?"

"No," I lied, adjusting the hem of my blue interview dress shirt. Somebody in my position doesn't have the privilege to throw interviews. I figured I would make the best pitch I could and then untangle my ethics privately if somebody handed me an offer letter later.

My interviewer stretched out in his chair. He was in his mid-thirties with a wide face and a nice smile. He had bravely served his country for 9 years of active duty before leaving the army to become an engineer.

"I don't have any issue with it myself, I'm a military man, but I know some people do, so I just wanted to ask."

I nodded. There didn't seem to be much else to say.

"If it makes you feel any better," he continued, "a lot of people here say they sleep better when they realize that we don't actually make the bombs, we just make the auto-targeting and delivery systems for them. The actual explosives are manufactured elsewhere."

There was a pause.

"You see, you're not actually killing anybody at this job."

***

Firing squads are a detail of normally five shooters with guns. They are selected to execute a criminal by shooting this criminal at approximately 20 feet away. To help them hit their target a doctor locates the heart of the person being executed and pinning a target on the shirt just above it. The person being executed is normally tied down to a chair.

It is a tradition that one of the shooters be secretly given a gun with a blank in it instead of a gun with a live round. The shooters are aware that one of the rounds is a blank but nobody knows who has been given the blank.

Obviously the odds are incredibly bad of you having the blank bullet. However, the tradition purportedly exists for the purpose to help the conscious of the people who are charged with the task of the execution.

It is also worth noting that the firing squad as a method of execution in criminal cases has all but been outlawed entirely in America. This is, allegedly, because of the number of cases where being shot by four men with 30-30s aiming at a target pinned over your heart from 20 feet away was proving to be not immediately fatal.

I find that pretty impressive personally. Even if you don't quite hit the heart there are still a number of important organs near the heart which dislike hot lead in them enough to kill a person immediately. Modern firearms are more than sufficiently accurate even in rather amateur hands to hit a target 20 feet away.

I am never one to underestimate the stupidity or incompetence of humanity but I am pretty sure in this particular case it is because people have issues killing a person point-blank like that and flinch when they pull the trigger. If you look at the entire setup it is designed around easing the conscious of the executioners (the blank, the fact that in most cases the criminal's face is obscured). It is also designed to make it difficult for a single person to not shoot and feel like they make a difference. When all of the executioners fire at once the last person is left with an overwhelming feeling that the group is firing anyway and that their single choice to fire or to not fire is insignificant.

Essentially, people are dragged into doing things they do not want to do by two illusions: one is the inevitability of the outcome, and secondly is the concept that they, against all odds, are the ones holding the blank, that their efforts are not what did the killing.

***

Same shirt, different day. God knows I'm too broke to have in my possession much of a repertoire of interview clothing.

"You specialize in embedded systems?" the interviewer asked.

"Robotics in particular."

"That's wonderful, we're in need of an engineer for an embedded system for one of our projects."

"Oh?"

"Yes, we need an auto-pilot system to bring pilots to and from their battlefields in the dark."

"And they can't use radar?"

"They are very tired."

"I see."

We chat idly for a few minutes before I pretend to take a re-emerging interest in the project I'd be assigned to.

"About how many g's of force can this system handle?"

"Hrm," my interviewer said, "I think 15 or 20...not sure."

I was floored. I have never heard of a fighter jet pulling more than 9. If wikipedia is to be believed 16gs for a full minute can be fatal.

I looked at the man who I was speaking to and remembered thinking that this man had to be the most willfully ignorant man alive to possibly believe there was any sort of human cargo aboard this vessel. It seemed horribly obvious to me that they were simply designing auto-pilot software which somebody later would integrate into a missile.

My interviewer looked at me quizzically. "What's wrong?"

***

Vex Victim walked along the booths at the conference admiring various creations lined up along the tables. The TALON table naturally drew a crowd.

Vex was in a sense representing the school and so somewhat on his best behavior. He started up an average conversation at the TALON table which eventually turned to

"So does this...military stuff ever bother you?"

"Well," the engineer said, "When you think about it, we just make the robots. What people choose to do with it is their issue."

Vex was speechless for a long second.

"You built a gun on the front!"

***

I'm not here to tell anybody what is or is not an ethical way to live their lives. There are many noble aspects to military work and I have nothing but respect for the selfless sacrifices made of soldiers. Seems a shame that we live in a world where the only people selfless enough to live for anything more than being wrapped up in themselves are statistically the most likely to die. Guess it explains a lot about our society.

Military work has brought us many achievements in science which were pushed through the government funding which was made available to the military. Our road systems, the Internet, and many other things are thanks to the military. If you want to advertise to me that this is why you are doing it I may not partake but I am wholly unlikely to get in your face about it.

But you can go to hell if you're going to look me in the eye and tell me that's not what you're doing. That's an insult to your intelligence, an insult to my intelligence, an insult to the people you will kill, and a slap in the face to whatever God you believe in that you are intentionally doing something you believe is wrong and justifying it by telling yourself it isn't happening. How can you claim to have any sense of morals at all if you simply throw out all the facts which you personally find inconvienent to your life?

***

"Hung over pancakes" are a proud tradition in my house. We don't let anybody drive drunk so we just lay out sleeping bags and pillows on the floor and by the end we have a slumber party. Then the next morning either Magpie or I, depending on who gets up first, makes pancakes.

I stumble in and sit myself down in Magpie's desk chair which has been rolled into the kitchen to make up for our insufficient seating.

Krill takes one look at my face, laughs, and passes me a plate of pancakes. "Morning sunshine."

Somebody pours me a glass of orange juice and I drink it slowly. I'm not really a morning person.

"You alright?" Magpie asks.

"Just thinking..."

"'Bout what?"

"Firing squads."

I guess its a testament to how early it was in the morning or the tolerance of my friends that everybody just accepted this fact and quietly enjoyed their pancakes for a moment.

"Has anybody here ever fired blanks from a gun?"

"Yeah," Hammertime replies as she passes me the maple syrup.

I take the bottle and begin pouring syrup on my food, "Does it kick differently than a live round?"

"Yeah."

"Really differently? Like you can tell the difference?"

She nodded, "You'd really have to want to believe you were firing the other to confuse the two."