A midwestern dream
Last night I was stopped by police (as usual, the trooper turned his lights on and pulled me over to the side of the road). “Oh no, another ticket will kill me!” I thought, as I am already on some traffic violators deferral program. It was strange because I drove very carefully and did not seem to exceed the speed limit, although as usual I was not aware of my surroundings and was not quite sure about the speed limit.
The police officer (a bulky man of small stature and, as could be judged from his appearance, a worthy husband and father) handed me a small envelope accompanied by his embarrassed smile, which turned out to be money: some strangely colored banknotes that reminded me of the Soviet pre-WWII state loan bonds. Before I was able to understand his rather confusing explanation of the matter (strangely his voice completely lacked volume which did not seem to bother him at all), I already realized what was going on. It turned out that after so many years of traffic police sucking on my blood, they had accumulated some excess funds. And now Trump has issued a decree: All excess fines should be immediately returned to the people.
I thought that using cash was a little too peasant. Could not they write me a check, instead? But I wisely decided to remain silent and quietly slipped the envelope into my pocket where I hope it still resides.