Through the manholes, the grates, the vents, I can hear them babbling into their precious little phones as they pass above me. In the subway I can smell them in their masses. Their sweat hangs in the air like a stale mist hours after they’ve gone.
I only grab them near closing time, while the last trains are rolling, and only when they’re alone. It’s easy. I’ve taken too many, though, they’re starting to get suspicious. They probably just think it’s a serial killer. More cops on the platforms, even after closing.
That’s all right. Policemen taste just as good.