The helicopter makes its roundabout journey, engine pitter-pattering in and out of our audible range, its motor-hum blending with the Chromium Nebulae playing out before us and my baked brain breaking into small fits of paranoid thinking: they are looking for us and our ounce on the table weighed out into a Mr Happy ziplock bag in the middle of our Indian takeaway and cheap German beers on the back porch near the dartboard.
Two short hours play out with the helicopter-drone fusing with the music its almost together its bright red light flashing against a deep red sky, even though the sun set an hour ago. I wonder even, how they got the sky this colour. We found out later there’d been a shooting the suburb over and two helicopters, not one, had been looking for the shooter. I wonder what happened, I wonder what, if anything, the pilots did see.