chapter 17b 

(The Snitch) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

17b 

The Snitch 

Ulysses Hercules Dondedieu Legitime spent a sleepless night in the overcrowded lockup of the Harwood Heights police station. He was put in a holding cell specially adapted for inmates with mental issues. Two of the men, he shared this narrow room with, snored all night, interrupting their irritating orchestra only to cough or to stammer some incoherent meaningless thought. A third man, still high on smack or something worst, made the springs of his bed grind all night and kept switching position and kicking the demons disturbing his sleep. Three others, the vampire type, who had formed a veritable caucus and went through the whole day snoozing and dozing, waited until nightfall to ultimately reveal to each other with pride and precision the detailed secrets of their criminal pasts. Finally, one convict kept scratching his elbows and collarbones, moaning and groaning until blood spat out. 

The eldest son of Sixte Osmer Legitime firmly believes he won't survive this arduous ordeal. He can feel the dust that has been accumulating all over his body since yesterday, crawling up to his throat to suffocate him. He can smell his own sweat, slowly corroding his sensitive skin. Ulysses Hercules can no longer look at his own hands. He considers them soiled and possibly carrying some kind of random flesh eating disease. He stares at the ground, consumed with guilt and a great amount of shame. The man avoids his own reflection. A tear comes out from his left eye when his ankles are confined with leg iron shackles. The transfer to the Cook County jail has been initiated. 

“I am worth sixty-four million dollars,” Ulysses Hercules tells himself. “According to clause 7 of article 12 of my father's testament, when the reconstruction of Mizerikod will be completed, that number will nearly quadruple. Isn't there any justice for the wealthy in this crumbling country?” 

The armoured bus smells like rancid urine. The driver and the two guards look like experienced Klan members, patiently waiting for all the potential witnesses to leave before removing their virtual masks. The prisoner sitting next to Ulysses Hercules orders him to switch seats. He needs to be close to a window for personal and emotional reasons. U.H.D. Legitime gawks at him, completely disconnected from reality. He is convinced that huge molecules carrying his neighbour's bad breath are floating in the air and trying to penetrate his airways. Ulysses Hercules tries to sneeze. Nothing comes out. 

“Please don't speak to me anymore,” Ulysses Hercules strongly requests. 
“You ain’t gonna boss me around, you fuck'n snitch,” the man replies. “I use vermin of your kind to wipe my ass when I have diarrhea.” 
“Guards!” 
“They don't like rats either, you, ugly Black bitch.” 
“I am not an informer, Sir. You are mistaking me for someone else. I'll pay you to leave me alone as soon as I speak to my lawyer.” 
“Take a good look at my tattoo?” the unpleasant prisoner says, rolling up his left sleeve. “It says Joliet's Lethal Irish. I already got paid by D.P. Carrigan to waste you for good.” 
“I don't know any Carrigan, Sir. Why would this Mister Dippy Kerrigan be so mad at me?” 
“Carrigan is the godson of K.Q. O'Reilly. Does that name ring a bell in your brain, dick head?” 
“I do have an employee...” Ulysses Hercules starts explaining before retracting himself. “Forget what I have just said, all right? This conversation makes me very uncomfortable. Guards! I want to be relocated. That man seems on drugs and he is threatening to kill me.” 
“Stay calm, you little canary. You certainly don't want me to tell the Irish population of Cook County that you beat O'Reilly's daughter so bad, she lost her baby in a McDonald's bathroom near Lagrange.” 
“That's completely false!” 
“You tell that later to the broomstick and the soap, Beyoncé.”