Someone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything wrong, he was arrested. His landlady, Frau Grubach, had a cook who brought him breakfast each day around eight, but this time she didn’t appear. That had never happened before. K. waited a while longer, watching from his pillow the old woman who lived across the way, who was peering at him with a curiosity quite unusual for her; then, both put out and hungry, he rang. There was an immediate knock at the door and a man he’d never seen before in these lodgings entered. He was slender yet solidly built, and was wearing a fitted black jacket, which, like a traveler’s outfit, was provided with a variety of pleats, pockets, buckles, buttons, and a belt, and thus appeared eminently practical, although its purpose remained obscure.
The purpose of the semi-automatic Luger pistol under his arm was entirely clear, though, and with the sight of this weapon K. sprung from his bed, hurling the sheets he had prior been resting in at this intruder, who was undoubtedly one of the agents sent by the T.R.I.A.L. The tangle of sheets provided an interdiction between the man and K., who took the opportunity provided by this invisibility to roll to his desk and grab the FN Model 1910 he kept concealed there. A gesture from K.’s thumb unlocked the weapon’s safety, and while stretched out upon the ground quite plainly in his nightwear, he stuck the pistol forward in both hands and twice depressed the trigger, creating two neat holes in the sheet that still fluttered in the air between himself and the man who had dared intrude upon him. He heard a body fall to the floor, and as the sheet that had provided him cover floated to the ground, he saw his aim had been true, and upon the ground lay the man in the fitted black jacket, now shining from the bloodstain that was creeping across from the two wounds K. had created in the stranger’s left breast, a half-drawn pistol lying on the ground next to his rapidly cooling body.
A short cry came from the adjoining room; it was hard to tell whether more than one person had joined in. K. took no risks, though, and slid open the drawer where he kept his always-loaded pump-action Winchester shotgun, grabbing it and nestling himself inside the crook of his desk . “It’s impossible!” came a voice from the adjoining room, though he could not have known whether the shots were from his now-dead partner or K. “This means I was to be taken alive,” thought K., “and although this provides me with some advantage, I cannot be sure if I have forfeited it with my actions.” A heavy boot smashed the door inward, and through it entered the partner, his own luger drawn at the ready. His eyes scanned the plain room for K., but K. had the tactical advantage and was in motion before the man had even spotted his frame beneath the desk. He fired off two shots and the man’s body jerked to the side, where it fell upon the corpse of his partner, equally dead. K. edged towards the open door, and peeked around into the hall. For a moment, he saw the head of Frau Grubach poking out of her room, and when her eyes met his, she pulled her head back in and shut the door, though not before sneaking a shaky glance at the door two rooms down from his. K. immediately realized someone was in there, someone who Frau Grubach was more worried by than himself. Still, he heard no commotion, so he assumed he had a moment to put on his pants and affix his pistol holster to his belt. He slid the clip out of his FN and replaced it with a full one before holstering it, then threw two more clips from his desk drawer in his jacket pocket and cocked his shotgun before opening the door to the empty room next door.
Two double doors led from this room to the next, and they were already open. As K. well knew, this room had been occupied not long ago by a certain Fraulein Burstner, a typist, who usually left for work quite early and came home late, and with whom K. had exchanged no more than a few words of greeting. Now the nightstand by her bed had been shoved to the middle of the room for cover and he could see the barrel of a MP18 pointed straight at him. Holding it was the inspector undoubtedly sent to conduct an inquiry. K. had but moments to react as the muzzle of the weapon began to spit fire and bullets, but he managed to throw himself out of the arc of fire provided by the door, trailed in his flight by a line of tiny explosions throwing up splinters of wood and destroying a tea set that had been placed on the small coffee table he leaped over to find cover.
“Josef K.?” the inspector asked, perhaps simply to distract K.’s attention from the sound of him affixing a new drum to his submachine gun. K. grunted something like assent. “You’re no doubt greatly surprised by this morning’s events?” asked the inspector. “Of course,” said K., overcome by a feeling of relief at finally having a chance to discuss his situation and find out more information, “of course I’m surprised, but by no means greatly surprised.” “Not greatly surprised?” asked the inspector, sliding the bolt of his weapon into place with a soft click. “Perhaps you misunderstand me,” K. hastened to add, for he had to act quickly before any additional backup arrived. “I mean–” here K. interrupted himself, grabbing onto a wheeled steel chair next to him and kicking off against the wall, his momentum carrying him across the door way. The inspector was surprised by this sudden movement, and before he could pull his trigger, K. had already unloaded a shotgun blast that only the nightstand prevented from ripping apart the inspector’s midsection. K. cocked his shotgun again and fired once more, but the inspector had ducked behind the nightstand, so the bed and window behind where his head had been moments before took the brunt of the damage, throwing up stuffing and shattering glass. As he slid across to the other side of the door, K. rolled off of the chair and pushed his back up against the wall between himself and Fraulein Burstner’s room. “I mean,” K. continued without further pause, “I’m of course greatly surprised, but when you’ve been in this world for thirty years and had to make your way on your own, as has been my lot, you get hardened to surprised and don’t take them too seriously. Particularly not today’s.” “Why particularly not today’s?” “I’m not saying I think the whole thing’s a joke, the preparations involved seem far too extensive for that. All the lodger at the boardinghouse would have to be in on it, and all of you, which would go far beyond a joke. So I’m not saying it’s a joke.” “That’s right,” said the inspector, leaning over the nightstand with his shoulders tense, waiting for K.’s return attack. “But on the other hand,” K. continued, and suddenly the chair came flying across the open doorway again, but the Inspector was ready for it and opened fire. Too late, he realized the trick, for K. had placed upon the chair not himself, but rather an ottoman wearing his long cloak to create the illusion, and a shotgun blast caught the inspector along his right side, knocking him to the floor. K. ran into the room, his Winchester still smoking, and jumped upon the inspector, kicking away the MP18 and roughly driving the other boot into his chest, pointing his shotgun’s barrel at the inspector no more than six inches from his head. “On the other hand, it can’t be too important a matter. I conclude that from the fact that I’ve been accused of something but can’t think of the slightest offense of which I might be accused. But that’s also beside the point, the main question is: Who’s accusing me? What authorities are in charge of the proceedings? Are you officials?” He shoved the barrel of the weapon closer into the inspector’s face, and he blanched. “You misunderstand,” said the inspector, “we are but marginal figures in your affair, and in fact know nothing about it. I can’t report that you’ve been accused of anything, or more accurately, I don’t know you have. You’ve been arrested, that’s true, but that’s all I know. If, as a result, I can’t answer your questions either, I can at least give you some advice: think less about us and what’s going to happen to you, and instead think more about yourself. And don’t make such a fuss about how innocent you feel; it disturbs the otherwise not unfavorable impression make. And you should talk less in general; almost everything you’ve said up until now could have been inferred from your behavior, even if you’d said only a few words, and it wasn’t terribly favorable to you in any case.”
K. stared at the inspector. Was he to be lectured like a schoolboy by what might well be a dying man? To be reprimanded for his openness? And to learn nothing about why he had been arrested and on whose orders? He grew increasingly agitated, and tightened his grip on the shotgun. “If you know nothing,” said K., “then you at least know to whom you report. Very well then, go back to them and relay this message: I am not under arrest, and they may think to put me on trial, but I will be coming for them. They have made a mistake, for while I am not guilty, I am most certainly not innocent.” K. took the shotgun away from the man’s face in a quick motion and pointed it and his hand and fired, turning it into a mangled clump of meat. The inspector cried out in pain, clutching the bloody stump, and K. roughly hauled him to his feet by the collar. He dragged the man to the front door and kicked him out into the street, throwing the man’s hard bowler after him with a disdainful flick of the wrist. “You tell anyone who cares to know that if they wish to find me, I will be at work, going along with my life as this had never happened, and it would be in their best interests to behave the same.
“If not, they will be the ones on trial.”
