A man bends his path towards me. I move away.

sorry mate could you could I need
sorry mate
youre not sorry though are you mate

––

do you think the highway code doesnt apply to you

I turn to the police car.

i could arrest you for stopping ahead of the stop line
if i stop back there i dont always have enough time to get across the junction
thats what the green cycle box is for mate
cars are always in the green box
you are a vehicle on the road you must obey the high way code
look how unprotected i am and how protected your car is
you are a danger you could get thrown through someones windshield and cause serious injury As he is talking the police car starts to fold itself up. At first slowly but in an instant with savage centre-seeking violence the extremities of the vehicle flip and snap inwards. The sheet metal starts to build up in riffling piles trying furiously to replace window beams and plastic panels that have already crushed themselves into a nucleus. Within seconds the final explosions of glass and grindings of chromium rock the convoluted heap as the centripetal malevolence spends itself. An effluence of engine fluid mixed with blood marks the consummation of this marriage of strange geometries.
Across the junction a driver operates the horn.