LoCo

A friend of mine told me to write a cliched police story about a detective/cop that is ... well, cliched. He wanted me to start with "He was a cop, and good at his job." as my opener, but I couldn't make myself go that far.

Here is what I ended up with; it was a long time ago, and I never really finished it and don't plan to. It's very much incomplete, but stands alone fine ... in a way. If I'm really bored one day it might (And I stress "might") get added to or something, but like I said, I don't plan on it.

It didn't exactly go where I wanted it to, I wanted to write about what happened, but just ended up with a kind of opener to something more.

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Empty words, I look at him and wish I could fill his mouth with my fist. He keeps talking, dragging every lie, every word, from his mind with a slow drawl that thumps at my head like a padded stick striking a drum. His lies create a string of events that circle each other turning around and around like a roulette wheel. I sit and listen, waiting for the wheel to stop, waiting to see where he will end, to see what my prize will be.

“... the whole city, leaving nothing ... !”

His voice gets louder and I can tell the wheel is slowing down, any moment now it will stop. I've placed my bet, everything I am and everything I could ever become rests on my guess. My life sits on a shelf behind the spinning wheel. I hear my name over and over again, and I wonder if he knows that his end will decide my own.

“ ... have done that? Who do ... !”

His green eyes are dull and limp, like a wet cake with no icing. If only they would give something away, some hint as to what his conclusion will be. But no, he offers nothing to ease my mind, and as I reflect on this his voice takes on a high pitched tone. The end comes, I struggle to collect my thoughts and focus on what he is saying. The rest doesn't matter, it's only the end result that does.

“ ... my ass!”

He leans over the desk at me, blocking almost the whole room from my view as his nose stops millimeters away from mine. Two veins running from his fading brown hairline to the middle of his forehead stick out and pulse with each word. He is sweating, and I can't tell if it's sweat or spit that flicks onto my face when he yells. I flinch as a large drop splatters just below my right eye.

“ ... to do with you? Half the people want you dead and the other half think you're a hero. The Governor wants to give you a medal, but he is afraid he'll get lynched if anyone hears about it.”

He pulls his head back and sits down in his chair again. The chair he hasn't sat in since three hours ago. My ears feel tired, and I can barely stop myself from shifting on my chair. Still glaring at me, he steeples his fingers in front of him and sighs. The lies are not his own, they were given to him by corrupt higher-ups, the ones who I would have gotten to if I had been allowed to dig further. After taking a deep breath he closes his eyes and speaks again.

“You did stop them, it's true. So I can't exactly have you shot. I can't fire you because there will be a riot, but I can't promote you either for the same reason. The Governor thinks you deserve a reward for your actions, and has left it to me to come up with something that will sit well with everyone. So, what am I going to do with you?” As he finishes, he opens his eyes and studies me over his fingers.

I wait. The wheel has stopped, but somewhere during it's turning I was blindfolded. Where ever my future is, I won't find out till he takes my blindfold off. Trying to take it off myself could land me in even more trouble. So I wait, hoping that the silence is just some kind of scare tactic. Finally, with another sigh, he speaks again.

“You are getting transfered Parker. It will all be arranged by the department, just pack your bags and get on the plane.”

When he doesn't say more, I ask him. “Where?”

He grins at me before answering, it's both an ugly sight and somehow hopeful. After all, we used to be friends till he got promoted. “You'll find out when you get there, think of it as the punishment to go along with the reward. Now get out of here, you leave in two days and I want your desk cleared by the end of today.”

Frowning slightly I get up and walk to the door. Just before I open it, he speaks again.

“It's the best I could do for you Michael. You really screwed yourself over. Regardless, good job.” His voice is low, almost as if I wasn't supposed to hear it. I nod and open the door, stepping out into the main floor of the 47th precinct.
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Even nothing is a thing.

ghent96

Interesting... but to continue it on, you have to have a vision, and end goal, for what the character & even more, what the story will be. Do you?

If not... maybe it's just an exercise, like a study sketch in drawing.

Oh, and "Hi' LoCo

[DP]Ghent96