Post
by DoomulusPrime » Thu Mar 08, 2007 2:41 am
Bob gives the files in front of him cursory examination, thinking of any loose ends he could possibly tie up before he finishes up with this case. Maybe a friendly visit to Guy "A", to squeeze a little information out - give the pinheads in Vice a hand... maybe investigate the connection between guys B and C for some of the old uniformed cops he could actually stand...
All things that would have to be taken care of, immediately after he visited his superiors to see what was on Hollywood's grisly plate this fine California day.
It made his stomach turn, the number of ways these tinseltown-crazies could think of to creatively off someone. Maybe all the horror flicks, all the psycho movies the town cranked out, night after night, the Killer Bologna Sandwich from Planet X, Liquid Cynanide Catgirls 5... hell, he couldn't keep up with them if he tried... maybe they had something to do with all the wierd shit that went on here... then again maybe it was just the artistic temprament, the stress, the stink of ruined hopes and despair that worked its way in from just outside all the glitz and glamour and spotlights...
Enough of that would make you want to do just about anything to anyone.
Maybe it was all the porn, Bob thinks to himself. Now *that* shit is disgusting. Especially the magazines Johnny brings with him to work now and then. He cracked one open out of curiosity one slow night - saw something just two degrees shy of Snuff Film inside... that cured him of that particular brand of inquisitiveness right away.
Bob shakes the images out of his head, tosses the files in front of him back on the desk, half in disgust... half in relief that at least some of this still affects him on some level when he thought about it...
...and ends up with his eyes staring at Johnny's shiny, combed-over, bald head.
Bob frowns. Johnny's a problem. A Vice cop with Vice problems - a washed up, watered down fat bastard with no sense of time, bad instincts, and a penchant for the sorts of girls you find filling up the holding cells, come nightfall. The less Bob knew about him, the better. Try as he might, though, he couldn't bring himself to hate the old loser. Worthless as he may be, Bob thinks to himself, Johnny knows when to stay out of the way and let him do the thinking. It sure beats his last partner, a little climbing weasel by the name of Vincent deMatthias who got shot by a starving painter last April. At least Johnny's too dumb and washed up to try claiming Bob's well-deserved credit after a cracked case.
Best not to think about that, though, Bob thinks to himself. Think bigger. You've carried dead weight before.
Think, Promotion.
A smile briefly creeps over Bob's face, then vanishes. There's more to it than that, he reminds himself. There's so damn much. He looks through the window of his office at the growing crowd of maniacs and assholes filling the station. He thinks about how he's going to have to make his morning appearance soon. He thinks about how he's going to present this case to his superior. He thinks about the miles upon miles of red-tape bullshit he's going to have to wade through before he gets another case to work on. He wonders whether or not he'll get anything useful done by the end of the day.
He thinks about the Devotchsky case, a closed case he snuck home to work with on his free time last month. Deemed unsolvable. He thinks about the details of *that* little piece of hell on earth. He gets the mental image of the photos. He shudders a little, despite himself.
He tries to think about the last time he went to church. That makes him feel a little better.
He tries to think about the last time he got laid, but Johnny's presence turned all sexual thoughts into something sour and disgusting. It's like the old sack of shit was so unholy, he went full-circle into something that inspired pure thoughts, if only to goad the thinker into not ending up like *him*. So he stops himself, instead thinking about the last time he talked to his Dad. That soulless fuck...
He looks at the clock. It's time.
"Enough fooling around then," Bob mutters to himself as he stands up and walks in the confident swagger he had learned during his early years at the station - his "detective walk", he called it - up to the window. He checks his face in the reflection: Still handsome as ever - bright, ambitious brown eyes, perfect hair, clean teeth, and as always, The Smile - the very thing responsible for putting the shine on his meteoric rise to the top - "that's the spirit,' Bob thinks to himself smugly... "just smile right, and you can put anyone in the world at ease..."
Bob straightens his tie, smoothes his cuffs, and opens the door, morning reports in his hand. His superiors will likely be drunk enough right now that this portion of the job will go nice and smooth...
