Before long three squad cars and two sizeable vans pulled up. Out jumped several goons, leaving vehicle doors wide open a-la-Sweeney. But these weren't normal woolly suits. For a start, they looked too fit.
One of them, a superintendent or suchlike, wore a cap sporting not only the familiar masonic checker-board but also a mess of silver across its peak - presumably how he plugged his head into the mains electricity for recharging or reprogramming.
After a moment assessing the potential crime scene Plod-Senior walked straight across to where three of us stood apart from the crowd. Unconsciously screwing in what seemed to be a concealed earpiece, he barked, "Who is in charge here?"
"Nobody," answered Mick, calmly pointing over at the placards. "We're an anarchist collective. We organize cooperatively. No leaders necessary, sir."
Plod-Senior pondered Mick's unexpectedly gentle response. Rubbing his hand behind his ear he said, "But you must have a spokesman or a leader of some sort? How did all of you know to assemble here today?"
Pointing an index finger up to his own ear, Mick replied, "We hear voices, sir."
Our hero of the Thicker Blue Line didn't get the joke and only stared as we disbanded our protest, which was by now over anyway.
I lifted my left wrist, bent my neck and spoke quietly into my jacket sleeve. Then chuckling to myself I rolled a cigarette and hit the road.
Proverbs 24:21 - KJV