I used to be a cool white guy. The police loved me. But that all changed one day...

It all began years ago. Unfortunately this is a very complicated story with multiple separate tangents and competing narratives, so I will stick to a basic script, and may leave some to the imagination due to the nature of there still being an ongoing trial against me for a lesser charge they threw at me to "seize" my property.

I'll start with the day of the arrest...

I was minding my own business while on a hot date in a cool coffee shop, in-between handing out flyers and posters for my cool horror night.

Suddenly my phone went off. I could feel a sense of foreboding from this unknown number. I answered.

POLICE: This is the police. Return home immediately.

I didn't know why they had called me. I thought maybe my landlord had died, or one of my new flatmates had blown up the oven.
I arrived onto my street sometime later.

They had sent the big van for me. The biggest. There were 8-10 gang members. I immediately stormed the house and took a needed piss from the prior coffee. I was then informed what was going on, and that my door had been smashed in, my room searched and combed, and items seized.
I was all like "what what?" as they threw the big boy terror charges at me.
They looked me up and down. I was in a three piece, looking dapper and debonair as usual. They decided not to handcuff me probably already knowing I was not the big boy terrorist that this terror law infrastructure is supposed to deal with. It seemed like it was somehow related to poetry and other works of fiction.

This was a book I was working on

My landlord and new flatmate watched me in shock as I was taken away in the back of the big boy police van like in those films, and transported to the popo station.
I had to wait outside first before being registered inside for quite a long time. Eventually I got inside, put in a cell, and processed; prints, DNA, photo.
I rotted in the cell for hours. The tea service was terrible. They served no food I could eat.

Eventually I got to meet a duty solicitor. It was the first person I got to talk to about what was happening. And you know what he said.

DUTY SOLICITOR: THEY FOUND THERMITE IN YOUR ROOM

My own duty solicitor was trying to stitch me up for terrorism. I said that wasn't/couldn't be true, and he kept saying it, until saying "well that's what the investigating officers told me."
It was from that point I lost trust in the English Criminal Justice System. I was being terror lawed. I knew I couldn't trust anyone.

The popo had taken my Pakistan journal (they still have it), and asked me lots of questions. Pakistan was big on the agenda and one of the main reasons for my assumption of terrorist guilt.
They were after my secret research.

I Keyser Söze'd my way out in five hours.

I had all of my important items, scripts, works, backups etc seized from me during this misadventure. I had to cancel my cool horror night, and abandon many projects as the police had "seized me". Some call it an advanced form of hodling. I should have my stuff back in a year or two.

There is a lot more, to this story or maybe it is a big nothing. Or both.

Time will tell or maybe not...

This was the second time someone called the popo on me this year. The first was when I went out trying to sell some art in town.

And somewhere in that, and a ball of other wild tangents, is what happened to @RiskDebonair. God bless his blockchain soul!

@BlockchainDevil
Irish Writer, Poet, & Lover