'Who is this?' I had no idea who I was talking to as I walked along Collins Street towards the office. 'It's Mike, we met at the very exciting poetry reading a few weeks back. I've moved you up to the top of my "to do" list.' I thought back to Samuel's words about dreamtime tabernacles and whitegoods sales, and then it registered: it was the cop. 'Well, take me off your "to do" list. And how did you get my number? You must have tracked me down illegally – that'd be right, different rules for you fellas, eh? You can do whatever you want. Well, I don't have warrants or a record, and I didn't even give you my last name, so you must have done something really underhanded to find me.' 'Oh yes, very illegal and underhanded. I'm from the FBI – the Fine Body Investigators,' he mocked. 'You're all so untouchable, aren't you? Why don't you go and punch a protester, or better still maybe try and lock up a criminal for a change?' 'Ooh, you're a fiery one, aren't you? I like it, it's sexy.' 'I'm hanging up.
