On the way to the gym today, I had to detour three blocks out of my way to avoid the protestors at the Smith Augmentaion Clinic. These guys are out there at least once a month, and there's been a spike over the past months. I loke at them, with their sign and their placards, so full of sound and fury, signifying prejudice.

Look, there's a difference between having, say, a few extra features added, and grafting devil horns onto your head, tatooing the Number of the Beast above your eyebrows, and watching "Herbie: Fully Loaded". There are people who just want to have a little extra fun, and end up getting mocked on CSI. Not all of them are furs. It's not that bad, really.

The gym was quiet today. I did some bench presses, with Murray spotting. As I got up, I saw some kid whaling on a punching bag.

Kid. When did late teens start being "kid" to me?

"Kid," I say. "Straighten your right wrist. Bend your knees a little. Follow through."

If you know what to look for, you can see him settling in.

"Thanks, old-timer," he throws over his shoulder. I wince.

After running my old bones through the shower and changing back into street clothes, I head home. The protestors have mostly dispersed, with only a few redshirts handing out flowers. I don't bother with the detour, instead electing to nod in what I hope is a sage manner, befitting for one of my advanced age. I would've stroked my beard, but I haven't had one since the 80s.

When I got home, my wife was waiting, chatting with some detectives from the 27th. There was a good-looking (what? I'm secure in my masculinity) black guy with a gotee and a mustachioed white guy with a moustache, Jack Parr's haircut, silver hair, and a great weariness of life. They had a warrant for that Stoner dude's apartment. I grabbed the key and we went in.

The place was redolent of stale weed. There was nothing in the fridge but the cliched jar of mustard, and the dust was ankle deep. I held my shirt over my face.

"Notice anything off?" said the black guy, muffled through his handkerchief. I shook my head. "Haven't been in here since I rented it to him, two years next week. But I think that HDTV and that brand, spanking-new laptop over there would qualify."

Their heads whirled around. The laptop was sitting between a pair of marijuana plants, its winking lights saying that it was on standby. Moustache used his jacket to open it. He poked at a few keys with his pencil, and whistled.

"Top of the line, Ed." He poked some more. "We're gonna have to confiscate this." He disconnected it and slipped it into a plastic bag I later found he had taken from my apartment. Then he and his partner turned to leave.

"Look," I said, "mind telling me what this is about?"

The younger one paused on the threshold. "Homicide. We'll be in touch."