Krator was forced to mime the circumstances of the murder. “No talking please,” the bailiff pronounced. Slap Happy and Arthur Freud conferred in silence while Krator danced and gesticulated like a spastic. It was politically incorrect as well as humiliating; however, it earned Krator greater approval ratings from the Internet Public. All around the world people were tuning into the Police Kebab Reality Show where Adamine Krator was on trial. Twitter was on fire. The show was reasserting its’ leadership among fourteen to twenty-somethings (the new power generation). Teens loved mime (like chatting without letters on a screen). Then, there was a momentary lapse and Krator found himself in a garden having tea with Elisa, his wife from a former life who happened to have the same first name as his mother. They were old and the sun was slowly dripping below the horizon. It had been an extraordinary day.
“More tea, my dear,” her voice had the quality of a harmonium. It was Oolong Tea and it smelled ravishing. “Yes, thank you,” Krator responded. There was no way he could resist her charms. They had grown old together and that mean’t growing closer. When Adamine touched his wife’s hand he felt a frisson of energy. His skin seemed to ripple and move from his own hand onto his wife’s hand. Her sweet smelling skin also seemed to shift. They were becoming one another, but it was only an imagined sensation, an indescribable sensation that can only be experienced by people who have been totally in love, totally engaged with one another for many decades. The garden where they drank tea seemed to mirror their self possessed ecstasy. Colors were more vibrant like soft explosions in a 3-D movie, but toned down as twilight crept up on the elder lovers. The clacking sound was the only distraction. Krator was aware of the sound the moment he touched his wife’s hand. At first it was faint like the ticking of a clock. As he bonded with Elisa, as they became one, the ticking got louder. Krator’s brain seemed to hemorrhage. There was blood in his eye. The garden was dying. The clacking became unbearable. It was the sound of an old fashioned movie projector. On the screen in the theater he saw the murder victim, a young man in a pool of blood. The audience was laughing. Everyone pointed at Krator. He was back on stage, on the Police Kebab Reality Show. (to be continued)