Panic

You’re not going to die because the air in the back of the car isn’t fresh enough for you. I was in your house. Trust me, the air between my toes is fresher than the air was in there. It’s weird how you were sleeping soundly ten minutes ago, and now at least six different ailments are killing you, all of which will be cured if I just let you out of the back of the car.

I would take nice, long, deep breaths while you can. The air isn’t going to get fresher when we get to jail. You’ve never smelled such an eclectic bouquet of bodily odors. Your “panic attack” is going to be old hat there too. There are hundreds of other inmates doing nothing all day but trying to figure out how to get out of their cells. For the jail staff’s sake, please try to be more creative than you’re being now.


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