Mendax called out, `Who is it?' without moving from the sofa.
`Police. Open up.'
Yeah, sure. At 11.30 p.m.? Mendax rolled his eyes toward the door.
Everyone knew that the police only raid your house in the early
morning, when they know you are asleep and vulnerable.
Mendax dreamed of police raids all the time. He dreamed of footsteps
crunching on the driveway gravel, of shadows in the pre-dawn darkness,
of a gun-toting police squad bursting through his backdoor at 5 a.m.
He dreamed of waking from a deep sleep to find several police officers
standing over his bed. The dreams were very disturbing. They
accentuated his growing paranoia that the police were watching him,
following him.
The dreams had become so real that Mendax often became agitated in the
dead hour before dawn. At the close of an all-night hacking session,
he would begin to feel very tense, very strung out. It was not until
the computer disks, filled with stolen computer files from his hacking
adventures, were stored safely in their hiding place that he would
begin to calm down.
`Go away, Ratface, I'm not in the mood,' Mendax said, returning to his
book.
The voice became louder, more insistent, `Police.
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