The Cracked Mirror (CWO - Ep. 1)

It was a Raymond Chandler kind of evening where you really thought the body on the stairs could be your's. Milo Denton didn't care. He sat on the toilet fingering the bandages on his face and sipped from a whiskey bottle, an inexpensive copper liquid that really wasn't the good expensive gold kind. He wanted to strip the mummy-like wrappings off his face to determine if what was underneath, even resembled what used to be his.  The only thing Milo certainly knew wasn't his was, Petrina City and how the rain hitting the windows  was God mocking the world with something that was certainly not tears.

Everything the past three decades had been a fluorescent film-strip motion, lightning fueled haze; from being boiled hard in one of the cities toughest neighborhoods to working up in the ranks of the police force (the press loved him, even called him "Dangerous Denton") only to be disgraced by a minor affair with the wrong girl. Forced to work as a sleazy PI catching husbands and wives cheating on each other (sometimes with one another in crazy costumed get-ups) yet not really giving them accurate information to retain the "privilege of  being on their payroll with promise of "an explosive oncoming revelation".

Then the real explosion came. The opening of the envelope and then the voice of the fire.

He remembered his hands shaking for the anonymous envelope, certain that it was a check from one of his well known and distinguished clients. He needed the alcohol to keep the tremors at bay to hold the real suffering that was dealt his brain from the withdrawal of what made him smarter and stronger from the rest of the members on the force (then again, wasn't everyone on it?). FG-5 didn't just arouse paranoia and anger but kept stuck in a particular moment in time with no place to go and that was a place , he needed to steer clear of, no matter how fast he drowned his brain cells in bottled hilly-billy dishwater, acid water with a tinge of honey bought at the Taylor and Tyler Drug Store across the street.

He didn't care about the reason this was done to him.  The scars bothered him. He was perfectly content to die in disgrace a slow miserable of death of loneliness and substance abuse, taking pictures of  random prostitute's and john's rear-ends until the wrong man or woman put a syphilis into his brain.

Venereal disease wasn't going to be serving his warrant for death in the evening, tonight it was going to be pure ugliness and indignity. So what, if it was a little rushed, he never had to pay for tail with the looks of a slum-dog archangel, why start now?

No point to living if you can't get what nature entitled you to get for free.

Another drink. The final drink. From a crystal shot glass. Hand carved bumps put in by child laborers from wherever. Reminder of the girl that got away or rather the girl that did away. The drink courses a fiery river through vessels and arteries and the wicked montage goes clockwork with the opening of the yellow envelope sealed with a kiss, a white burning,  bright lights, scalpel hitting bone, he doesn't know what was done or what actually ravaged his flesh. All he knows, is "doctors cut my face" and he woke up with Bonnie, the motherly secretary sitting next to his bed weeping and apologizing for something she couldn't prevent.

He pretended that after this weekend of recovery, it would be "business as usual", he dismissed Bonnie after accepting her home-made meals sitting in his fridge. He bought a crate of whiskey and a carton of cigarettes to last him the weekend. Then decided just to meditate on existence, while sitting on the toilet with a bottle of whiskey and  a gun on top of the sink.

The medicine cabinet has seemingly been raided, all that remains is shaving supplies and anti-ich cream. Milo closes the cabinet and looks in the mirror. Cracked like a spider web, like the web of lies his police career was mostly based on. Time to die with the greatest indignity: pants at the ankles, ass on a toilet with a bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey in hand, with an unwrapped face resembling a surrealistic pus filled meat-sculpture done by the Devil himself  blown apart by a bullet in the mouth.

Hammer cocked. Set it down. Eyes shut. Unravel. Gun in mouth. Eyes open.

Gun in the sink. Take a swig from the bottle. Lean in that mirror. Touch the Grecian hawkish features and fish-hook half smile.

Milo "This isn't my face." It's a whisper and an empty prayer for wanting that suicide even more.

Murder Most Fowl (JWK - Ep. 1)

Are you…kidding me? Anna Porter stood just inside the chicken coop, her eyes and mouth wide open. On a second level nest Margarite, a five-time blue ribbon prize winning black Cochin, stared back, her curvy drumsticks spread in a full split like she had jumped straight up and landed, splay-legged. Daniels is going to effin kill me.

She walked back to her car and speed dialed the office. Then, in a flash of brilliance, she hung up and dialed another number.

“Chuck! Good lord, you’re never going to... Daniels sent me to the farmhouse to feed his chickens and Margarite is dead! Just dead! …I don’t know, but it’s weird like – I don’t know! …He’s going to murder me and then fire me and then murder me…no... Oh, would you? And maybe a little wooden cross? I’ll suggest a nice funeral, maybe a pot luck…Oh you’re the best!” Anna hung up and redialed the office number.

“Sharon, hey, it’s me. Could you put me through to the boss?” Anna brought her hand up to her forehead, pushing her hair back. “Hey, hi, so I came to feed them and I only saw two out in the yard so I checked the coop and, I’m so sorry, but Margarite is dead.” She let a little silence grow, letting the news sink in. “But listen, Chuck has offered to build a nice chicken-sized coffin and I thought maybe the office could have a potluck or something in Margarite’s honor. How does that sound?”

Daniels cleared his throat. “That’s very kind of you, Anna, but I think you should just toss her out.”

“What?”

“There are some grocery bags in the kitchen and the garbage barrel is in the garage. Use the black one with the lid.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. And I meant to tell you earlier, but you don’t need to come back in today. I’ve got a dentist appointment, so,” his voice trailed, like it did whenever he became distracted by his computer screen.

“OK. All right. Don’t you worry. It’ll be all taken care of for—”

“Great, thanks, kid.” Her boss hung up.

Anna found the bags in the kitchen and carefully selected two without holes in the bottoms. Thank-You! was printed in big loopy script on both sides. She fit one inside the other, lining up the words and smoothing the creases, then went back into the coop and gently slid Margarite into the bags. She pressed the bundle against her chest and pushed out the air before tying the handles into a neat bow. She carried Margarite like a chicken on a platter out into the bright sunlight and clean mountain air.

The two remaining chickens, Beatrix, an Appenzell Bearded Hen, and Duffy, a pretty little Dominique, followed her to the garage at a discreet distance. Anna laid the bundle on top of the garbage bags already in the bin and slowly closed the lid. She thought maybe she should say some words, but then thought better of it. What do you say to chickens about a chicken?

The three of them ate under a gnarly apple tree in front of Daniels’ wide wooden steps. After lunch, Anna leaned her head back against the trunk, trying to dislodge a piece of turkey with her tongue, but only managed to push it further under her gums. Regardless, she was content, comfortable, and warm. It was nice out here. Nice and calm and quiet, clean and clear.

About two and a half hours west from this idyllic little farmscape lay Petrina City. There, bikes zoomed between tightly jammed cars and exhaust made up thirty percent of the atmosphere. Petrina City. More like Putrid City. Petrified City. Fetrina City. Anna smirked. Ah, the cleverness of me. What was that from? Oz? Alice?…whatever. She stood and brushed away the crumbs. Beatrix and Duffy followed her to her car and watched it with bright little eyes as it headed back to the city. 

Anna climbed the three landings to her apartment, frustrated about being bogged down in traffic and irritated at the asshole who double parked outside. Even with half a day off she only ended up with her key in the lock thirty minutes earlier than usual. But half an hour early is still early and how fortunate for Mikey Schultz, since it’s his murder Anna’s early entry interrupts.

Once Saved, Always Saved (DG - Ep. 1)

WARNING: THIS CONTAINS SOME MILDLY FOUL LANGUAGE.

    "Earlier a woman was found dead in her apartment near the intersection of 45th and Alvin st. Police have refused to release further details, including the woman's identity," Simon leans in to turn up the radio on the center console. Bruce, who's driving, turns the radio off as soon as Simon's hand is clear.

     "When are you going to let this s*** go, anyways?" Bruce asks Simon as they cruise down 65th avenue in their beat-up black 1980s Grand Am.

     "I'll let it go when I catch the guy--"

     "--or guys, you don't know if there's just one or what, the media's been blastin' that damn case of yers for years now, there hasn't been a related homicide in years, and the skip took you off the damn thing so you could get your head straight and move on." Bruce lights a smoke and takes a long cool drag as he cranks the window down, letting in the crisp autumn air.

     "But the connections--"

     "--SCREW THE CONNECTIONS!" Bruce exclaims, now swerving the car the side of the busy two-lane bridge, and stops the car completely, cars behind them honking, and drivers yelling. Bruce turns to Simon and grabs the sides of his face with his rough hairy hands (one missing an index finger), looking straight into Simon's working eye. His voice diminishes to a whisper, "You need to move on, Buddy." 

     Simon, whose one eye is quickly becoming blood-shot, shakes his pale hand down to his pocket to grab a pill, still looking into Bruce's eyes, and pops it into his mouth. Cars line up behind the two detectives, who are quite busy working out their crisis, and a man in the car directly behind them gets out as if to fight the two. Bruce instantly lets go of his partners face with one hand, reaches into his overcoat, pulls out his badge, and holds it out the window without looking. The man backs up slowly and gets back into his car as Bruce returns his hand to Simon's face.

     He raises his voice a little. "You need to move on." both men swallow loudly, almost in unison. "It's bad enough you've been putting that poison into your body for more years than you can remember," Bruce says matter-of-factly, speaking slowly as if talking to a dope fiend, "but what's worse is that you've been following some criminal's stench for nearly a decade now and haven't come up with S***."

     "You're right." Simon attempts to concede a little, as Bruce lets go, and puts the car in "But how do you explain the feeling I've had that someone's watching me?--"

     "--paranoia, pop a few more ah' 'dem pills, pal."

     "And the messages left on my car sometimes?"

     "Simon," Bruce begins laughing a little. "You're a detective in Petrina City, you're bound to have thugs, hookers--hell, I don't know, even eligible single females--writing you notes and putting them on our car." His laugh becomes a steady arrogant smirk, "and do you remember when you swore that they were written in blood and we took 'em to the lab and they abruptly put the kibosh on that nonsense, do you remember that?" Simon nods and Bruce continues.

     "All I'm saying is that in this city, notes and feelings don't mean S*** to anyone with any sort of power." Bruce looks at his phone and back at Simon before looking back to the road, downtown Petrina ahead. "Now get your head in the game, we got a meeting with the skip, and you know how I like to make the best impression." He begins to smirk again. "Plus, he said its important, so maybe its a promotion for me and a demotion for you!" He looks to Simon for re-assurance, but only receives a tremendous lack of amusement, "Cheer up cupcake, I'm sure you're rival, or villain, or whatever you call him is dead in a gutter by now. And even if not, you're one damn fine detective," he changes expressions to mimic a damsel in distress, "so I'm sure you'll figure somethin' out."

     "Let's just get to the station," says Simon, now crossing his arms and leaning back, as if forfeiting the conversation, "we're late as it is."

     Bruce cups his hand over his mouth and tries to sound like Darth Vader, futilely attempting to get a smile from Simon "As you wish, my lord."

     As Simon and Bruce pull into the parking garage at the downtown police station, Bruce turns to Simon and says, "seriously, my one-eyed friend," while reaching over to ruffle Simon's hair as Simon swats his hand away. "Don't blow it in this meeting like you have been lately. This is the homicide bureau chief, buddy,--homicide, the biggest bureau in the city--and although you may know him well--sordid past taken into account, yadda yadda yadda--I was transferred in no more than, what, four years ago now?" He begins to sound sarcastic, and Simon rolls his eye, "And why was it again that I got assigned to this bureau again? You remember, buddy?" He raises his voice, "to keep an eye ON YOU!"

     Simon looks at Bruce with a scornful, resentful, and bitter expression as they find a spot, get out of the car and tread up the cement stairway corridor to the 5th floor and a single metal door with the city's police logo, the words "Petrina City Bureau of Homicide" arched over the logo, and the words "Once saved, always saved" spray-painted under the logo. A sick joke, no doubt, but no one has ever known who sprayed the motto on the door or why.

     They open the door, go through the metal detector--not a machine, in fact, but a semi-retired gumshoe named Emilio with a metal-detecting wand and a box of donuts that seems to refill itself every two hours. He says "you know the drill, fellas" every time any one enters, without fail. 

     "We most certainly do." Simon says, somewhat sarcastically, as they take their handguns out, place them on a large metal tray, and raise their hands to make their bodies into lower-case tees.

     Once through inspection, the men walk to their spot, two small desks facing each other at the far corner of the large, hanger-style corridor, Simon always taking his sweet time to say "hello" when walking by the receptionist's desk near main the entrance. They put their coats down on their chairs, and Bruce tightens his tie as Simon quickly checks his email on his laptop. 

     "I got another email from that lead…?" he exclaims, accidentally questioning his own statement halfway through, as his eye widens. Suddenly Bruce slams his laptop shut, startling Simon, and causing him to suddenly reach down to his side, not for a gun but for a pill. "I have to go to the bathroom."

     Bruce becomes smug. "Oh, why don't you just take it here and save us the time. Everyone here knows you do FG-5--hell, half the force does it--and even if someone questions you do what everyone else does. Say its for heartburn, or kidney stones, or anxiety, which it sort of is in a way" Simon quickly pops the pill, smells a half-empty (or half-full) cup from his desk with water in it, shrugs, uses it to wash down the pill, tightens his tie a little, and turns confidently to Bruce.

     "Alright, Brucie. I get it. Let's go see what the chief wants."

     "That's more like it!"As they walk closer to the chief's office, which literally a very large sectioned-off cubical in the center of the corridor with large windows on all its walls (part of internal affairs's attempt at transparency), usually covered with blinds installed by the chief himself, many of the other detectives look up from their desks or briefly pause their conversations to look at the two, before going back to their business. 

     This doesn't bother either of them, until Simon looks at his wristwatch and exclaims, "Damn! We're late!"

     "Whatever, bud, we'll be fine."

     "No, we're like really late. about a half hour."

     Their faces seise to be casual and quickly turn to troubled excitement as they begin to power-walk to the center office, blinds now open on the window facing them, and the chief--a darker, burley man who looks like he watched Gangs of New York too many times--is standing in the window, arms crossed, staring down the two detectives. He breaks his crossed arms stance to powerfully point at the two with one hand. They put their tails between their legs and knock on his door.

     "Come in, you two." Bruce slowly turns the doorknob. "We need to talk."