Due Process

When people start thinking of health in intellectual activities, I think there is something wrong. - Michel Foucalt

    Chapwood skated out onto the ice and was immediately cross-checked, his non-existent hat flying from his crown.  He flanked netwest and ricocheted orbitally, resolving a deflectory whack-a-pack. 
   
    Groaning in chapworthical froth, he chip chapped choppy chap.  Chip charry chica chica cha charoomby.  Cho chicken cello chimes; challenge!

    Slide slide slide, valveless reverberance pierced the chapness of the hypothermic moistings.  Twenty twenty forth pushed nine.  Chapwood, one-eyed temporarily from hemo-mucilaged lids, off-kilter, on meds – or sufficiently facsimilic as to be indissimilar as infinite divisions of aught – felt his chapness jerked forth towards mad accusatory pantomimes. The dandiful lawkeeper of severity, compensatory in his carriage and manner, growled semantic rape-logics and frowned demagogically to compound the rigging, yet declare fairness of straitjacketing theater. 

    Habeas Sentiens, ill-autonomous behaviors vilified through laureate codifications of nonsenses arbitrary as others, chosen, picked, decided of substance in fear of fluid perceptions, reality – real or not – be damned itself in the face of all-powerful “thought”.  Narcissism!  “Heretic,” they reply.  Beaten and fondled, mixed, matched, shocked, inculcated, thrown, denied, given, spun, coddled, agitated and confused. 

    Wait, what was the point again?  Not to ask.  Functions, madness. 

    Chapwood pop-and-locked for the justice, fakired and rhetoricked, rote and Pavloved, ogled and had a beer.

    Twelve dollar fine.  Scrubbed and released.  Warned of probation.  No hockey for six weeks.

    Creeping, Chapwood smiled.  Out on the sidewalk he skated, rubber-soled shoes on concrete, gliding in grace.  The officers chewed on their faces and prayed to their 401(k)s.