Vinay Krishnan is a huge cop hater:
http://www.decompmagazine.com/pennstation.htm
Some of his writing:
Sir you’re going to have to come with us—No no. You don’t understand. You don’t see. I promise. Just wait. I can explain—Sir, calm down—I needed to feel it, okay? What you felt. That day. God bless you, by the way. All of you. What you did. I can’t thank you enough. I’m one of you. If I could just—You need to slow down and breathe—I’m fine. I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t going to do anything. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything.
The agent and the police officer exchange glances, and the man grows disoriented. He retreats a few steps and shakes his head to slow. He drops his gaze for a moment to the six shoes before him and speaks in no particular direction.
“It’d all be easier, wouldn’t it? If it were a little tougher?”
And he’s off again. His hands shake and his vision blurs and his mind skips seconds, skips beats on the record, but he finally settles and focuses on the small black item attached to the officer’s side. It’s right there on his hip, unguarded. That small little thing. A tiny, dangling object that can rip through whole bodies and walls. All that potential energy just waiting and waiting and waiting, forever waiting to be unleashed. He wants it. Wants to feel that energy. To see it. He sees soda spilling on a white couch and a baby falling from his mother’s hands. He sees that boiling water dropping over the hot dog vendor, the lead drummer cracking through the tarp and cutting his hand red. He feels a phantom blade slide through his back as a young traveler brushes past him, feels a group of officers beating him black with their batons, the videos streaming into news stations almost immediately. His eyes refocus on the dark fruit hanging in front of him and he wants it and wants it and wants it. The officer sees he’s slipping under, and he takes out his handcuffs, the agent her cell phone. The man keeps staring at that black mass, beautifully shaped to the point. It’s all he can see now. The rest is all fog. His heart’s near his throat and his knees buckle to hold him and those young girls wouldn’t touch him and those old women wouldn’t trust him and that black mass of energy is all there is in this world. He stares at it and stares at it and stares at it and stares at it, and then he grabs it.