There's a brief moment, when you're soaring through the air towards a poodle, surrounded by some two to four odd tons of steel and american plastic, when the thought, "Fuck." might cross your mind. This thought tends to be quickly interrupted by other thoughts, generally spewed toward you from people not yourself, asking questions in that "oh-not-so-asking" sort of tone, in the vein of where and where not your arms should be held and directed, and what sorts of things are being recorded and on what media, and how long you can expect to rot in what sort of hell after you kicked so and so in such and such a place.
Then, the awkwardness of the one phone call. It's a quandary. Sure, you could call a lawyer--but I've seen enough tv to have seen commercials. Fuck that. Besides, I saw the video of myself kicking the so and so in the which and when. Lawyers can't save you, they can only milk you, and I was born without teets. So, why not call a New Zealand operator? Ask to be connected to China? Ask that operator to connect you to Moscow? And if someone hasn't slammed a receiver into your forehead, try calling the International Space Station.
Then, there's the awkward bit of avoiding all of the people that you know as you wait for a hearing; dodging phone calls and drop-ins; making up lies and burning underwear. Following that, a not-so-dank as you might expect spot of time in a window; wishing you had a really good story to explain your existence in this place in the world. "Poodle murder with malice aforethought" doesn't carry the same weight as attempted armed panhandling.
Time passes. Herodotus keeps one company. Sometimes.
Don't drink and drive a Cadillac.