Wednesday, 1 January 2014

Badly Town - part 2

*Badly Town is an unflinchingly gritty crime drama I'm working on.  It's sexy and it's tough and it's more than likely going to make me a very rich man.  This part is called Part 2.  I like it, it's real.  For Part 1 click here.  Be warned, Part 1 is so real it's not even called Part 1.  It's just called Badly Town.  

“I don’t know what to tell you, Chief.  It’s like he knew something, knew something we needed to know; some fact maybe? And he knew it, you know?  Some piece of information relating to a crime or something.  Something we probably needed to know.  He knew it alright.  He knew it so bad it was burning him up like a forest fire, some raging, wild, wicked forest fire.  Only this forest, it weren’t no forest, Chief, this forest was Malone – he was the forest, see?”  Jorganson nodded a quiet acquiescence, marvelling at Stinkily’s ability to italicise the spoken word.   

“And that fire?  That fire was guilt.  Or maybe dread, most likely a guilt/dread combo, and that’s one flammable mix, combustible like.  You put those sorts of elements together with a dry windy day like me and Jorganson here, you put that all together in one interview room, well what do you expect, Chief?  You think there’s not gonna be a forest fire?  You think there’s just gonna be some nice little scout troupe campfire where we can all sit around and roast marsh mellows and braid each other’s hair?  This ain’t some jamboree, Chief, we’re cops, we smash photocopiers over crook’s head’s, it’s what we do.”

Stinkily was right, the Chief knew it, and damn now he was kicking himself for not noticing the new braids he was wearing.  Stinkily was visibly hurt, and fair enough, they looked like hours of sweaty work.  But the Chief wasn’t to blame for that, it’s not like he was ignoring Stinkily’s braids, he was simply too captivated by his eyes to notice.  Tiny glowing rat blue eyes that leave you wondering what day it is.  With those peepers front and centre, following the shifting styles of that thick brown mane was more than an old man could handle. 

The Chief slammed a balled fist down onto his desk, scattering 500 pieces of particularly tricky Batman puzzle.  “Damn it, Stinkily, that’s the third photocopier this week. What am I supposed to tell the Commissioner?”  Jorgensen inserted a fresh toothpick.  “I don’t know, Chief, maybe tell him crime doesn’t take a holiday.”  Jorgenson deftly ducked the Lego fire engine hurled by the Chief, and winced as it struck the Chief’s secretary square in the face.  “I told him that last time, he asked me what it meant.  I told him to go home and look it up, he said he would.  I don’t think he likes me anymore.  I mean the deaths in custody thing he can deal with, there are forms for that, but what is it with you two and photocopiers?  Can’t you just use a phonebook?  Or at least take the ink cartridge out first?  Please, I’m asking you a favour here, just try and curb the Good Cop Good Cop Bit.  And what did I tell you about tell you about Darth Vader?”  Stinkily blushed and gingerly placed the 1987 originally packaged Darth Goes to Hollywood figurine back on the shelf.  “You said ‘you can look with your eyes’.  Sorry, Chief.”

With an audible hiss the Chief let his lungs empty slowly.  He wasn’t mad, not really.  He loved these boys, they were the best damn cops on the beat, and if getting results meant smashing a few copiers then to hell with it.  To hell with it all.  He leant back, kicked his well worn shoes up on top of his desk and lit a cigar.  “I’m not mad, not really.  I love you boys, you’re the best damn cops on the beat, and if getting results means smashing a few copiers then to hell with it.”  Stinkily and Jorgenson blushed, looked at their shoes, at each other and then finally at the Chief.  Jorgenson broke the silence.  “You said that twice, once in a sort of omnipotent way, sort of like your voice was coming out of the sky or something, and then you said it with your mouth.  It was weird, I didn’t really like it, and I don’t think Stinkily liked it either.”  

The Chief crinkled his brow and shrank visibly in his chair, he was about to apologise when Stinkily’s phone rang.  It was a snitch down by the docks with news, fresh tasty crime news.  Jorgenson read Stinkily's body language like a recipe for a romantic dinner, he smiled.  “When the going gets tough, the tough gets sexy.”  Stinkily flinched, instinctively fingering the scar behind his left ear.  The only fight in all their years of partnering was centred on the ownership of that catchphrase.  Jorgenson had never apologised for smashing the photocopier over his head, and Stinkily never expected him to.  It’s just how it was.  They left the Chief without another word.  He watched them go, took a long draw of his cigar, and then went to help pluck pieces of his Lego fire engine from the bleeding eyeballs of his secretary.


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