Sylvester Crow struggled against the arms of his captors, his gun falling uselessly from his numb hands. He was frothing at the mouth in fury. The charged electric gloves of the police reduced Sylvester’s experience of the outside world to a warm swollen lack of sensation, the sense of something going dreadfully wrong eliminated by a spring-loaded injection.
Dr. Dream as the press liked to nickname Golgecci was visibly shaken and pulled himself together quickly to resume his statesman-like affect. “It must be more upsetting to live with an unsound mind than to be assaulted by someone with that condition,” he soundly proclaimed, earning additional respect for his quickly regained composure and courageous statment.
“People like him used to be thrown into federal pound-you-in-the-ass prison for attempted murder. Before that it was a capitol punishment of death to the criminal. The world has gone soft. Don’t you think, doctor?” suggested the sergeant on duty.
“Nonsense, sir. Although I very much appreciate you and your men’s interference on this matter, I’m very pleased we’ve moved passed such barbaric notions. Sure if a sensible man were to commit such a horrendous crime, then that man should be punished. But that relies heavily on the assertion that man has will enough to choose not to do so. No man in his right mind would make that choice. It follows immediately then, that this man needs help and upon being rebalanced, he might be reintroduced to society some day.”