𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍

The heavy drum of rain overhead finally stirred him from his slumber. Well, to call it slumber would be a lie. It was more the extreme exhaustion of a body that couldn't take it anymore, so it....shut off. A pained groan echoed in the pitch darkness, an absent hand reaching out to pat just--where the hell was he? A short lift of his hand of what he assumed to be the roof revealed the neon buzzing light of the hotel he was staying at. It was better for a stakeout than having to drive back into the city each night, it didn't matter now; the case wouldn't be resolved. It'd grow bone-chillingly cold before all the players disappeared from any note.

The faces of the witnesses would fade away, along with their confessions. Evidence would be stored away, under lock and key, and soon the victim's name would never be splashed across the front news page again. A buried cold case....buried deep in the city's diseased underbelly. 

Buzzz, Buzzzz, Buzzzz. It cast a constant red glow on him, finally his senses kicking in. Another groan as he grit his teeth to sit up, even the light was hurting his eyes. 

Detective Dean had about six shots in him. Three were bourbon, two rum, and the last was from a .38 slugger the Doc could never pull out of his shoulder.  On a rainy, gloomy night like this, he could feel it all.  Further pushing up this "roof" he was enclosed in, he slowly began to realize the stench....he was in a dumpster. 

"F***in--!!" He coughed, quick to stand upright, bringing along food scraps attached to his brown trench coat, stained from...however long he'd been sleeping here?! Pulling himself free, he could already hear his ex-wife's words. Not that Nancy would dare say it, but she didn't have to. She was a cold woman; he loved that about her and told it like it was.  All it'd take was a look and he'd know she thought he was: right where you belong.

A couple of shots weren't taking him out of this city. There was a better chance of a snowball in Hell than that ever happening. Oh, he was invincible, alright. You could be when you adapted so easily to the sinister side of things. It was astonishing how quickly the pull of the trigger felt like nothing anymore. The clean-up was annoying as hell, but it was blood-stained for sure. No matter how much one scrubbed. You could scrub the skin raw, and it was still there, right? It was still...in the mind, somehow, too.  Unless you worked for justice, of course, because in the stories, the good guys win and the bad guys lose. They lose big time, sometimes.

Or they wake up in a dumpster to escape their thoughts. Who gives a f***, huh? Weren't many good things in this damned city anyway, including the idiot tossing a banana peel off his shoulder with a grimace.