Post by whyemmdee on Jun 19, 2017 8:15:45 GMT -5
I was tired of the paperwork, tired of writing down bullshit just to hit the quota. Papers were scattered all over my office; on my desk, my chair, the goddamned walls. Somewhere beneath all these white lies I'd find a framed picture of my wife, and if I'd just look hard enough I'd find it lying face-down. But I knew I wouldn't. Ain't no place for love in a building like this.
I swiped away a pair of emptied bottles from my desk and let them clatter on the floor; they rolled away from me in disgust. If there was even one thing crippling alcoholism was good for, is that it offered an unending supply of decent-to-good paperweights. I reached for the latest stack of too-thick files some no-name fresh blood dropped on my desk, "the cap'n wants this checked into ASAP". Like trying my hardest to stay out of trouble wasn't hard of enough a job already, they actively try and have me go and find it to try and put a stop to it. Who's crazier; them or the city? I was too drunk to care.
I scan through the papers, little more than long lists of names with accompanying estimated times of expiration. Where do I even start? I close the file almost instantly, drowning out the names crying out for justice. I strike up a Cocky and take a long drag, surveilling the mountains of supposed 'evidence' all around me, all of it leading nowhere. Does it even matter?
I blow a single smoke ring in the air, a circle? a noose? and watch it dissipate, before I push back from my desk, drowning the barely-smoked cigarette in what little remains of my gin. I stumble around the office looking for my badge until I realize it's right on me, pinned on my chest. Like it ain't even there. I check my gun, make sure it's loaded, and make my way out. I'd intended to go and hit the nearest bar, but the captain caught me, gave me a hopeful nod and pretended not to notice the stink of booze on me, "Go get 'em, Bunckle."
Shit.
Guess it wouldn't hurt to stop by the morgue.
I swiped away a pair of emptied bottles from my desk and let them clatter on the floor; they rolled away from me in disgust. If there was even one thing crippling alcoholism was good for, is that it offered an unending supply of decent-to-good paperweights. I reached for the latest stack of too-thick files some no-name fresh blood dropped on my desk, "the cap'n wants this checked into ASAP". Like trying my hardest to stay out of trouble wasn't hard of enough a job already, they actively try and have me go and find it to try and put a stop to it. Who's crazier; them or the city? I was too drunk to care.
I scan through the papers, little more than long lists of names with accompanying estimated times of expiration. Where do I even start? I close the file almost instantly, drowning out the names crying out for justice. I strike up a Cocky and take a long drag, surveilling the mountains of supposed 'evidence' all around me, all of it leading nowhere. Does it even matter?
I blow a single smoke ring in the air, a circle? a noose? and watch it dissipate, before I push back from my desk, drowning the barely-smoked cigarette in what little remains of my gin. I stumble around the office looking for my badge until I realize it's right on me, pinned on my chest. Like it ain't even there. I check my gun, make sure it's loaded, and make my way out. I'd intended to go and hit the nearest bar, but the captain caught me, gave me a hopeful nod and pretended not to notice the stink of booze on me, "Go get 'em, Bunckle."
Shit.
Guess it wouldn't hurt to stop by the morgue.