Fin Tutuola vs. DuShawn McGovern: the Most Memed Segment in Law & Order: SVU History Gets a New Spin

 

Marcus Brock, Dirty Detective from "Virtuous"

 

The Chemical Brothers vs. Angry Cops: "It Doesn't Matter..."

 

Rick Kuss: Some Hyperlocal Politics for You Washingtonians Out There

 

"Officer" Brandon Tatum (Nice Tattoo, Pretty Boy!)

 

Jayden McCameron, Gamer and Funko Pop Collector from "Virtuous"

 

Brandi Regal, Detective from "Jumping For Jesus"

 

Ray Stuckey from Mississippi Burning vs. Kash Patel, Kristi Noem, and Eric Adams

 

I used to think I was just having fun with acronyms here, but this has taken on a bigger meaning. White conservatives don't respect minorities within their own party. Sheriff Stuckey is a closeted member of the KKK, so he's not going to give two shits and a flying fuck about an Indian FBI agent, a female DHS agent, or a black NYPD cop. Bootlicking gets you nowhere in life.

Sheriff David Clarke

 

Black Tar Kiss, Chapter 3

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When It Happens to You

VERSE 1

You got the Thin Blue Line ‘til they vote Democrat

Now you storm the white house with a baseball bat

You called Benson a badass ‘til she voted for Harris

Now you spray paint on her house the word “terrist”

Your spelling sucks and so does your syntax

The King of England had a heart attack

But you speak like royalty when and only when

You bitch about the use of “they” and “them”

 

CHORUS

What can you do?

It’s only racist when it happens to you

What can you do?

It’s only sexist when it happens to you

 

VERSE 2

You fucked around and now you’re finding out

You lost your right to pout and scream and shout

You only know how to do it to yourself

And now you lost your insurance for health

 

EXTENDED CHORUS

What can you do?

It’s only racist when it happens to you

What can you do?

It’s only sexist when it happens to you

It’s only violent when it happens to you

They’re only bigots when they do it to you

You’re a victim of the system when it happens to you

 

VERSE 3

Even after all the shit you’ve seen

You lick those boots all nice and clean

Sucking up don’t mean a hill of beans

Ain’t got no green, so you’re on the wrong team

 

EXTENDED CHORUS

What can you do?

It’s only racist when it happens to you

What can you do?

It’s only sexist when it happens to you

It’s only violent when it happens to you

They’re only bigots when they do it to you

You’re a victim of the system when it happens to you

Two-Sentence Horror Story: Pacific Blue Balls

Detective Miller placed a comforting hand on top of Francine’s and said, “I’m going to need the links to your revenge porn pictures so that we can gather evidence and put this creep behind bars. Also, I watch Pacific Blue for the riveting drama and I read Playboy for the articles.”

Help Me, Walter Hollywood

 He lights a cigarette, compromises his health

Fresh lungs don’t matter in this neo-noir hell

Every day someone is murdered and forgotten

Until the corpse makes the streets smell rotten

“Help me, Walter Hollywood,” says the dame

Every transaction starts to all sound the same

An envelope of cash, smoke the last of the ash

Hope to god her lover isn’t thrown out like trash

But before he slings the questions around town

Obligatory sex scene with hushed moaning sounds

Almost makes the lover a complete afterthought

But there are bills to be paid, killers to be caught

Every fedora-wearing wise guy takes a swing

Until Walter’s eyes water, nose bleeds, ears ring

Anymore snooping and he’ll be full of bullets

Take his scalp until he’s only left with a mullet

Walter taps the dame up for a little more money

She laughs like his misery and bruises are funny

Admission of failure is just another part of the job

She winks one more time and turns the doorknob

Another body just washed up on the riverbank

Bricks around his ankles ensured that he sank

His face was so familiar despite the taped mouth

And the two black eyes and his nose cut out

Finding the lover was as easy as reading the paper

Nothing about this mystery made Walter feel safer

The money he was paid made him look like a hit man

Police would arrest him, lock him up with a big man

Capitalism made people do the weirdest things

Wait tables, scrub floors, stand on the streets and sing

Taking unclean money seemed like the way out

Why isn’t the dame’s freedom in any kind of doubt?

It’s a system that abuses everyone who struggles

Locks up the failures with big men who snuggle

Gangsters and politicians sip from a glass of wine

And every femme fatale continues to look so fine

Manliest of Mansplainers

Alexis Harper power-walked down the hallway towards the interrogation room, pants suit on, dreadlocked hair up, and a mean face that could turn any alpha male to stone like the eyes of Medusa. She paid no mind to the other officers giving her funny looks like she didn’t belong in this game. Manliest of mansplainers. That’s all they are, she thought. She looked both ways to make sure the coast was clear and entered the interrogation room, where Ryland Hamm sat on the opposite end of the table looking like testosterone on a stick.

Mr. Hamm had a smug look complementing his square jaw, slicked back blond hair to give off that alt-right vibe, and a red flannel shirt that he probably wrestled a lumberjack for if Alexis didn’t know any better. Despite being grossly outmatched in the size department, Alexis never lost her angry swagger and slowly took a seat across from her suspect, as if to draw out any anxiety Ryland might have had. She gave the potential anxiety an adrenaline boost when she laid her gun on the table and turned the safety off.

Alexis took several deep breaths through her nose to bring some more angry tension into this already prison-like room, white walls and barred window be damned. But the anxiety she hoped Ryland was having didn’t exist at all as shown by his equally cold and callous face. Breaking him down was going to be a chore, for sure. But it was a chore worth doing in her mind.

Her speech was slow and deliberate as she dressed down her suspect. “Listen to me, you little bitch…if at any point in this interrogation you try to reach across the table to hit me or grope me…I’m going to empty my gun all over your fucking face. You won’t be warned…You won’t get a chance to explain yourself…You won’t even get a chance to apologize…You touch me…you die…I know you don’t have a great deal of respect for women, so I thought I’d put that out to the universe beforehand…”

Ryland folded his arms. “Where I’m from, respect is earned.”

Alexis gave a sadistic smile. “I got bad news for you: we’re a LONG ways away from where you’re from. This ain’t jabip, my friend. This…this is my dungeon…and you are going to be my bitch today…” Ryland almost reached across the table, but thought better of it. “Good boy.

“Now…let me see if I’ve got this right…You left the bar at 10:30 last night…And that was when you shot the victim in the face…She’ll be buried in due time…but the thing is…we don’t even know this woman’s name…I don’t think you do either…All we know about her…is that you tried to give her a quote-unquote compliment…and it didn’t go as well as you wanted…What was that compliment, Ryland?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Yeah…and you know what I want? I want Jamie Fraser from Outlander shackled naked to my bed…with a dildo in his mouth…and an electrified diaper on his crotch…Wait a minute…hold on a second…Did I just make a man feel worthless?” She poked her own chin in mock contemplation. “I could have sworn that I turned a three-dimensional human being…into nothing more than a sex object…It’s almost like…I did the exact same thing you did to that woman…”

Ryland shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “You feminazis are all the same. Can’t even take a compliment, so you Me Too our asses out of existence. I told her she looked sexy in those running shorts and you know what she said back? She said…’If you want to get laid so badly, there’s a perfectly good middle school down the road. They’re more your type.’ She slanders the shit out of me and it’s ME who’s in this room? How is that fair?”

“The reason you’re in this room, Ryland, is because you shot her in the face shortly afterwards. That’s why we have no idea who she is: her most unique features…were blown right off her body…”

“I did not shoot her, you slanderous bitch!”

“Then why did we find her…lying on the ground…with no face…and no brains…and not much of a skull left either? Why…did this woman have to die over a clever comeback? She didn’t owe you a damn thing, Ryland…No woman…owes you a damn thing…”

Ryland’s tone grew more intense the longer this interrogation drew out. “That’s what women are for, you dumb bitch. They have vaginas for a reason. What good is a vagina if you’re not going to use it?! Why don’t you crack open a bible every once and a while instead of reading SJW comic books where Wonder Woman has a pecker and Superman has a pussy.”

“Hmm…” Alexis leaned back in her chair and continued to touch her face like she actually gave a shit about Ryland’s incel rhetoric. “That sounds like a good idea…I used to have a bible around the house…But then…my husband had a really disgusting meal at Taco Bell…and…there was no toilet paper in the bathroom…and…long story short…we don’t have a bible anymore…”

Ryland raised his trembling fist like he was going to strike Alexis, but then she reached for her gun and said, “Ah-ah-ah! I don’t think so, buddy...Don’t even try it…Don’t…fucking…test me!”

There was a knock at the door and a couple of uniformed police officers entered despite not having confirmation from Alexis to come in. She didn’t even look them in the eye. She just gave the jittering Ryland an arrogant smirk like she achieved what she set out to do. “He’s all yours, boys…Ryland Hamm…is our murderer. You’re welcome…”

One of the officers shook his head. “Lady? You don’t even work here.”

“WHAT?!” screamed Ryland. He clutched his own face with both hands and squeezed in anger. His breathing was labored and deep, his muscles vibrated, and his eyes bulged. “All this time, I’ve been interrogated by this feminazi and you guys did nothing to stop her?! She wouldn’t even let me have a lawyer!”

“Mr. Hamm, there’s no need to shout,” said one of the officers while raising his hand defensively.

“It’s a free country! I’ll shout if I damn well want to! I’m a real American and I say that shit proudly!”

“Of course you’re a proud American!” Alexis retorted. “Everybody knows that! You’re white…you’re a man…and you’re a republican, no doubt…Those three things alone would have ensured you a short stay in a county jail…as opposed to a lifetime in prison for murdering a woman who didn’t want to fuck you…tell me I’m wrong, boys. Go ahead. Tell me this privileged white male republican would have spent the rest of his life in prison. Go on…lie to me…”

No response from the cops.

“You all should be thanking me instead of chastising me,” said Alexis. “I’m like those undocumented immigrants you fear so much…I’m doing the job…that nobody else wants to do!”

Ryland had enough. He reached across the table like he wanted to clobber Alexis and she shot him in the head for it. The exploding brains and skull wasn’t nearly as impressive as what he did to the unknown woman in running shorts, but she laughed nonetheless as officers restrained and cuffed her.

“You all saw that, didn’t you?” chuckled Alexis. “He tried to hit me, so I killed him in self-defense. I bet he would have used the self-defense excuse to keep his ass out of prison because his fragile little ego was broken. Then again…he wouldn’t have gone to prison anyways…”

The cops hauled her out of the interrogation room and down the hall. “You’re under arrest for impersonating an officer.”

“What about murder?” she asked. “Are you going to add murder to my rap sheet or are you basically admitting defeat on that one?”

“You have the right to remain silent. I suggest you take advantage of that.”

“Kind of like how Ryland took advantage of that woman, right? You’re still going to give her a proper burial, aren’t you?”

“SHUT…THE FUCK…UP!”

Alexis grinned as she was being taken to a holding cell. “Yep, you’re definitely not impersonating an officer now. Y’all are the real deal.”

Demolition Man

MOVIE TITLE: Demolition Man

DIRECTOR: Marco Brambilla

YEAR: 1993

GENRE: Dystopian Sci-Fi

RATING: R for violence and language

GRADE: B

Imagine a future where everybody is smiling and nothing could go wrong. No foul language, no unhealthy foods, no sex, no music other than TV jingles, no contact sports, no drug use…wow…That’s a lot of no’s for a utopian society. John Spartan, Simon Phoenix, and Edgar Friendly don’t fit into this new future’s plans. So what do they do about it? Edgar Friendly leads an underground rebellion, Simon Phoenix causes violence wherever he goes, and John Spartan does pretty much the same as those two, but under the guise of police work. So much for Dr. Cocteau’s perfect society. Taking the fun completely out of life isn’t utopian at all. It’s dystopian. Already this movie is sounding like the libertarian’s bible, right? But let’s not forget that most left-wingers don’t have a problem with so-called “degenerate” behavior either. We like sex. We like marijuana. We like good food. We like heavy metal music and hip-hop. Everybody has their own interpretation of what Demolition Man means to them. I’ll speak for myself and say that this is generally a fun movie that takes place in a boring society. That’s it. That’s all it needs to be. We don’t need to have bloodbaths across the aisle over this fine piece of cinema. Let’s just sit down and watch it with a bucket of popcorn on our laps. And by the way, that popcorn is going to swim in butter and salt until it’s unrecognizable. Be well indeed.

But of all the major food groups this movie represents, none are more heavily pushed upon the audience than cheese. Good old fashioned cheesy goodness. Enough cheese to open a few Pizza Huts in this world of Taco Bells. I’m of course being metaphorical when I talk about how much cheese this movie has. You can hear it in the dialogue, whether it’s ordinary citizens, police officers, Cocteau’s obese assistant, or the socialites hanging out at Taco Bell. First and last names are used so bloody often. The elite vocabulary sounds awkward and clumsy and it’s enough to make the audience cringe. The TV jingles that are on the radio could drive someone insane if they hear it long enough, let alone in the short screen time they’re given. I get that this cheesy dialogue is supposed to be representative of a new future with a new brainwashed culture. Foul language is banned, so that’s a huge part of it. But after a while, it can grate on the audience’s ears. It’s so noticeable that it keeps the movie from being pitch perfect. But hey, when you’re watching a movie with Sylvester Stallone in the starring role, you can expect a little cheese every few seconds.

Which feels weird to say, because Sylvester Stallone plays John Spartan perfectly. He’s gritty, profane, ultra-violent, and loves to have fun even at the expense of a perfect and pretty future. Instead of using the three seashells once he’s done in the bathroom, he wipes his butt with the tickets he accumulates for swearing so much. He eats a rat burger when it’s the only meat available (and he loves it). He constantly has to correct Lelina Huxley after she butchers a 20th century idiom. You know who else likes to have fun at the expense of the future? Simon Phoenix, who’s played by Wesley Snipes. He can make even the most mundane insult sound intense with his delivery. He comes off like a psychopath loony toon not just in his constant laughter, but also in his movements, be it martial arts or otherwise. Couple these things with a terrorist mindset and you’ve got the most dangerous criminal in the movie. And then there’s Edgar Friendly, played by politically incorrect rapid-fire comedian Denis Leary. When he says he wants to eat salty, fatty, and buttery foods while smoking a cigar in the non-smoking section, you’ll believe he’s like that in real life. Denis Leary could start a revolution right now if he wanted to; that’s how convincing he was as Edgar Friendly. The only other character with halfway decent dialogue was Bob Gunton’s character, Captain Earle, who can be strict and aggressive without breaking the 21st century’s new laws. If he wasn’t a brainwashed pacifist, he could take on Simon Phoenix himself.

Yes, this movie was made in 1993, but it has aged like fine wine. Demolition Man sounds like it predicted the future in a lot of ways, but make no mistake, it was a satire turned up to eleven of things going on at the time. Whether you see it as a “libertarian manifesto” or not, the very least you can do is have fun while watching this movie. It’s action-packed, it’s witty, it’s dramatic, and an all-around good movie if you’re not too bothered by the cheesiness of the futuristic characters. You don’t even have to be drunk or stoned to watch this movie; it can be enjoyed at face value. But if you want to be drunk or stoned in the privacy of your own living room, I’m not going to try and stop you. I don’t want to turn your home into a Dr. Cocteau dystopia. Give this movie any grade you want and have no regrets. Me? I’ll give it a solid B.

My Opinion Is the Only One That Matters

VERSE 1

I’m the one who eats the burgers

You’re the one who’s the burden

I’m the one who eats the fries

You’re the one who spews the lies

I’m the one who swallows the pills

You don’t pay my fucking bills

You don’t have a say in this

‘Cause all you do is rip the piss

CHORUS 1

You can plead your case to the judge

My opinion is the only one that matters

My stubborn ass won’t even budge

My opinion is the only one that matters

VERSE 2

I’m the one who dreams my dreams

OK Boomer, my choice of memes

I’m the one who follows my passion

You’re the one who’s out of fashion

I’m the one who loves the world

You’re the one who rapes the girls

You don’t get to choose my destiny

Conformity is my worst enemy

CHORUS 2

You can bang your gavel all you need

My opinion is the only one that matters

Scream at me until your throat bleeds

My opinion is the only one that matters

BRIDGE

Why should I trust you anyways?

Who invited you to forever stay?

Why should I believe in your rhetoric?

You don’t believe in my betterment

You’ve always wanted complete control

You’ve got an iron fist and a heart so cold

Got a million ideas of what I should be

Yet the only one who matters is me

CHORUS 3

You can send a SWAT team to my home

My opinion is the only one that matters

You can leave me in a prison cell all alone

My opinion is the only one that matters

You can fry my ass in the electric chair

My opinion is the only one that matters

You can do it all because you deeply care

My opinion is the only one that matters

"Souls of the Reaper" by Markie Madden

BOOK TITLE: Souls of the Reaper (Undead Unit 2)

AUTHOR: Markie Madden

YEAR: 2015

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Paranormal Crime Drama

GRADE: Pass

I can say with utmost certainty that this novel is an improvement from the last. Sure, it still has its fair share of typos such as quotation marks that don’t end, but those are little things that can be easily fixed. Colton’s werewolf anger was perfectly justified this time around. His truck gets egged, his suspects are uncooperative, technology malfunctions from time to time, and doing paperwork is still a pain in the neck. As for the shifter newbie, Kazz, her passion for learning is evident as it should be for all rookies, especially those in law enforcement. Marcell comes off as a sweet and gentle soul as does Niall, which makes sense since they’re both in the business of healing people. Lacey Anderson is a believable main character in her own right. She’s tough on crime, sensitive to the victims of said crimes, and vulnerable during her moments of weakness. Being immortal creatures doesn’t make any of these protagonists Mary-Sues, because they still have to rely on police procedure and their own wits to get the job done. The overall team is effective in their duties and that’s something they had to earn throughout the Undead Unit series so far.

I only have two minor complaints when it comes to this book and this is just nitpicky stuff. I would have liked for Lacey’s adopted dog Morgan to get more page time, especially since it would’ve kept the fighting kennel raid scene from becoming a mere side story. Plus, I enjoy stories of former fighting animals finding love in their forever homes. It warms my heart. The other minor complaint I had was the way the final chapter (not the epilogue) concluded. The criminal reaper who’s been stealing souls to satisfy his lust for power, Su Xiong, was billed as this dangerous warrior who could snap at any minute. While I won’t give away what happens to him as this is a spoiler-free review, it was just a tad underwhelming for a guy who’s supposed to be as dangerous as he is. Granted, the path to this ending was by no means easy or pain-free, but the streak of agony should have continued into the final encounter. But again, these two complaints don’t ruin the entire story for me. I’ll always cherish Markie Madden’s way of bringing her worlds to life.

Think of your favorite TV crime show, whether it’s NCIS, CSI, Law & Order, or The Shield among others, and pair it with supernatural themes such as soul reaping, astral projection, and undead racism. That hodgepodge is what you can expect from Souls of the Reaper. It’s fun, clever, creative, and you’ll love it so much that you’ll want to see it on TNT or CBS one day as a full-time show. Even Syfy would love to get their hands on this story if it meant turning it into a well-crafted TV series. Four out of five stars will go to Markie Madden’s wonderful police procedural. I hope to one day finish the Undead Unit series!

Jackie Brown

MOVIE TITLE: Jackie Brown

DIRECTOR: Quentin Tarantino

YEAR: 1997

GENRE: Crime Drama

RATING: R for violence, nudity, and language

GRADE: Pass

LAX flight attendant Jackie Brown is busted by the police for smuggling cocaine and money across the Mexican border. Facing up to five years in prison, the only way out of doing hard time is by ratting out the gun dealer whom the money was supposed to go to, Ordell Robbie. As a sting operation is set up to smuggle the rest of the money out of Mexico, it isn’t always clear who’s double-crossing who. Will Jackie take off with the money herself? Will she stay true to the police or to Ordell? She has the know-how and seductive nature to pull off any deal she wants. Can she do it without getting shot or sent to jail permanently?

First and foremost, the show-stealer of this movie was Samuel L. Jackson as he portrayed Ordell Robbie. His dialogue was delivered naturally and believably. His swearing wasn’t forced at all. He carried himself like the crime lord he was supposed to be. The audience will either be intimidated or thoroughly entertained by Mr. Jackson’s antics (why not both?). However, one of the biggest criticisms this movie got was how frequently the N-word was used by him. To those critics, I say chill out. Quentin Tarantino didn’t write it in the script so many times because he wanted to push a racist agenda. In the criminal underworld, it sounds completely natural, especially coming out of Samuel L. Jackson’s mouth at a hundred miles per hour. This is one instance in cinema history where it’s cool to root for the villain.

Speaking of dialogue, that happens to be one of Quentin Tarantino’s strong suits as a filmmaker and it shows in this movie. While Samuel L. Jackson stole the show, every other cast member could be credited with bringing a believable story to life with their dialogue alone. It could be Pam Grier talking about getting old and starting over again. It could be Bridget Fonda having a casual chitchat with Robert De Niro. It could be Robert Forster talking about how much he hates his job (while still delivering his dialogue like a true professional bondsman). Whether it’s mundane conversation or it actually advances the story, you’ll want to keep your ears open the whole way throughout this movie. It certainly makes up for the oftentimes slow action sequences in between.

If I have one criticism for this movie, it’s that the storyline mechanics were hard to piece together at times. I’m not talking about the audience constantly guessing who Jackie Brown is going to double-cross, that part I’m okay with. I’m talking about keeping up with how the final transaction of Mexican money is supposed to go down. I’m talking about all the ways it went wrong. I’m talking about the climax of the movie and why it couldn’t have happened sooner. I understand that Quentin Tarantino loves his complex storylines, but too much complexity can take the audience out of the viewing experience, especially if things don’t click together by the end credits. But this is a minor criticism at best, so don’t let it discourage you from watching this movie.

I’ve always known that Quentin Tarantino was a master storyteller the minute I watched Pulp Fiction. Watching his other movies, this one included, proves his mantle over and over again. Jackie Brown didn’t feel formulaic. It felt fresh and new despite the fact that it was released in 1997. I hope to one day watch Mr. Tarantino’s entire collection of movies and give them all high praise. But for tonight, Jackie Brown gets a solid four out of five stars.

"Deadly Storm" by Richard Castle

BOOK TITLE: Deadly Storm

AUTHOR: Richard Castle

YEAR: 2011

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Crime Fiction

GRADE: Mixed

Derrick Storm is a smalltime private investigator whose recent assignment opens up an entire world of conspiracies involving money transfers and rogue CIA agents. The case starts off with Derrick spying on a cheating husband in a trailer park and continues with calls from CIA Agent Clara Strike wanting to hire him for a bigger job. Derrick is continually backed into a corner every time he thinks he’s in the clear, yet he figures out creative ways to get himself out of these sticky situations. Can he put the finishing touches on this case or will these rogue CIA agents disappear without a trace forever?

I’ve read a lot of crime fiction in my day and I’ve also watched a lot of police procedurals on TV. I know the formulas they use inside and out, front to back, and side to side. While I can’t piece together every single part of the formula, I do know that this graphic novel follows it down to the last detail. It depends on the formula so much that it becomes just another crime story rather than sticking out from the pack. It was enjoyable for what it was, but I’ve seen this scenario play out over and over again with other books and TV shows. Nothing about this graphic novel was original, but I still liked reading it. To put it mildly, this graphic novel was just plain fine. Not great, not terrible, just fine. Mediocre at best.

I wanted to give this book a higher grade when I read the opening line: “I’m not exactly an expert on what functioning adults do.” I know it’s unrealistic to expect that the opening line from every single likeable book should hook the reader instantly, but this is one of those rare occasions when it does. It had so much potential to show how messed up Derrick Storm really is. But sadly, I never got to see much of that beyond him joking about how his dad messed him up for life. In other words, he told the audience rather than showed them, which is a huge no-no in the writing business. Sure, he has nice one-liners here and there, but then again, so do a lot of hardboiled detectives. What makes Derrick Storm special? I can’t think of anything, really.

And while we’re on the topic of failed attempts to be original and cool, let’s talk about the names of the characters for a moment. We already know the main character’s name is Derrick Storm. We also know that his CIA handler is named Clara Strike. But did you also know that the trailer park prostitute is named Sassy Monroe (that’s a pseudonym, believe it or not)? I appreciate solid over-the-top names in my literature, but not when they’re so obvious that it becomes pretentious after a while. I’m not saying they should have boring names, don’t get me wrong. But there’s a middle ground between boring and over-the-top that would be suitable in a crime fiction setting. This is not it.

I’ve been pretty hard in judging this graphic novel, but don’t think for a moment that it wouldn’t make a nice gift for the mystery-lover in your life. It’s a quick read, it’s pieced together without any continuity issues, and it has all the whistles and bells that any detective story needs. If I hadn’t memorized this formula already, I might have a higher appreciation for it. But as it is, a mediocre graphic novel gets a mediocre mixed grade from me.

Sexy Lunch

“One…two…three!” SMASH! “Go, go, go! Move, move, move!”

These were the orders Detective Joey Roberts barked to five other police officers after kicking down the door to what used to be the Dam Hill Apartment Building. In one hand was her trusty cold magnum. In the other was the breast pocket of her black trench coat as she held it over her face to keep the foul odor from assaulting her senses. To her it was no different from performing a raid on a bus station bathroom. Filthy diapers, empty liquor bottles, rotten food, and buzzing flies covered every square inch of this dilapidated nightmare.

“Clear!” one officer after another hollered from distant corners of the abandoned trash heap of a building. The more Joey heard that word, the more her rage bubbled to the surface. To think that three years of mind games and false hope would lead to a big waste of time killed her inside worse than a dagger to the heart.

“Come on, Sanchez, where are you?! Show yourself!” barked Joey as she continued bolting down the various corridors with her eyes bloodshot and her pistol packing heat. “That smell better be your dead corpse!” Her wishful thinking led to even more spilled trash covered in every human fluid imaginable. She almost tripped over a dead cat being eaten by maggots. One dead cat led to another. And another. And another. The trail of blood brought her to apartment 12A, the door barely hanging on its hinges. One elbow strike was all it took to knock the motherfucker down.

There he was laying on a mattress with his baggy pants around his ankles and his striped shirt pulled up to his chest. Wearing a nearly toothless grin with an unkempt Mohawk was the man of the hour, Matt Sanchez, who smiled at Joey coldly and with psychotic intentions.

This should have been an open and shut case for the detective. However, she lowered her gun slowly and gazed at the wall behind Mr. Sanchez with wide, horrified eyes and quivering lips. Photographs were pinned to the wall, not just of ordinary people, but of Joey and her two elementary school-aged daughters. All three of them were at the beach enjoying a sunny day and…wearing bikinis. Joey’s saucer eyes morphed into angry slits when she saw the words “Sexy Lunch” scrawled across these photos with what appeared to be and smelled like old, crusty feces.

“Were you masturbating to me and my family?!” Joey growled.

“Yep,” said Matt Sanchez matter-of-factly, his lips smacking and tongue clicking as he chuckled insanely.

This would have been the perfect time to put a bullet in her stalker’s brain and get it over with. Joey’s finger edged oh-so-close to the trigger while sweat poured from her palms like a fine mist. That obnoxious laugh of Matt’s echoed through her mind much like the smell of this apartment complex burned her nostrils. Ultimately, she decided to sheath her weapon…but not out of a sudden change of heart.

Joey ripped a hardcover bible away from the bookend on the nightstand and started pounding it relentlessly over Matt’s head, arms, and back. As stiff as each blow sounded, not even the savage beating could drown out the serial killer’s girlish screams as he attempted badly to cover up. Detective Roberts wouldn’t stop. Her eyes flared up like burning gasoline. Drool splashed all over the already filthy carpeted floor. Every strike became more brutal and faster-paced the longer she went.

It took three police officers to clutch her around the arms and waist and yank her away from the beating while two more officers yanked a bloodied and bruised Matt to his feet to cuff him. Even when pulled away, Joey wouldn’t stop thrashing around, growling loudly, and swinging the bible. “Detective, that’s enough!” she heard one officer say, but it was the understatement of the year. She had to be restrained against the piss-stained wall in order to calm down just a little bit.

“What the hell are you doing, Detective?!” asked one of the cops. “You’re not supposed to be doing shit like that!” Holding his body cam, he said, “You’re going to get us all in a whole fuck load of trouble if you keep that up!”

Joey’s thrashing slowly diminished into heavily-breathing calmness at the realization of what she did. Her eyes and thoughts still burned at the sight of Matt Sanchez’s shit-eating grin superimposed on the unwanted photos on the wall. “You’d better listen to your friends, Detective. Your sexy daughters won’t have mommy to come home to otherwise.”

“You son of a bitch!” shouted Joey as she broke free from the officers’ grasps and spear tackled Matt in the ribs, knocking the rotten wall behind him over. Scandalous photos splattered over the two of them as Joey rained down the heaviest fists she could muster, slashing the serial killer over and over again. This time all five officers had to restrain her to the floor and shout orders for her to calm down. Out of the corner of her eye, Detective Roberts could see Matt Sanchez spitting out some teeth (not that his ugliness changed with them in his mouth). Still was that sadistic grin.

“What the hell are you holding me down for?! Get him before he gets away! That’s an order!” belted the Detective. Sure enough, Matt tried to get back on his knees (cuffed hands be damned), but two officers held him down once again and ordered him to shut his “filthy hole”.

Dripping with blood from his mouth, nose, and fresh cuts, Matt was hauled to his feet and carried from the door, still smiling arrogantly at his “sexy lunch”.

“Now, Miss Roberts…can I trust you to not go berserk this time? Is it okay to let you up or are you going to go ballistic some more?” asked an officer. Just as the glassy-eyed, saliva-mouthed detective was about to answer, a resounding thud echoed throughout the building. The three cops and detective headed out to the lobby and found Matt lying on the ground in a pool of blood and vomit. How much of it was his was up for debate. The two cops attending to the serial killer called for a medic while looking disgustedly at Joey.

“Do you not give a shit if our jobs are on the line?” asked one of the cops. It was hard to tell them apart due to Joey’s blurry tunnel vision and traumatic ghosts haunting her mind. “Hey, are you listening to me?! Our suspect just collapsed and it’s all because of you! The captain is going to have our balls for this! What the hell were you thinking?!”

Attempting to form a sentence through her jittery stutter, Joey said, “Did you…see those…pictures? Did you…see what…he called me and my girls?”

“Detective? And I use that term loosely,” said another faceless officer. “You should know by now that this job isn’t supposed to be personal. We need your head in the game and here you are beating the shit out of our suspect. You know how many times my family has been threatened by this asshole? What about the rest of us? Do we get to pound the hell out of him too? No, we don’t! This is a job! Take it seriously!”

Taking longer breaths and lowering her guard, Joey said with quiet anger, “It’s too late now. He’s already dead. What’s done is done. The world isn’t going to miss him and neither are any of you. Those body cams can record whatever they want for all I care. Hopefully, they recorded all of those…pictures…those pictures…those goddamn pictures!”

An officer leaned Matt up in a seated position, the killer’s body fading in and out of consciousness. But still there was that smile, like he had eaten the world’s sexiest lunch and had a comfortable BM afterwards. “What are you smiling at?!” burst Joey. “What the hell are you smiling at, you little rat turd?!”

Spitting blood on the floor, Matt said, “Looks like I’ve got one more kill under my belt. Well…much more than that if the whole police department gets taken down. My life…is complete…my work…is done!”

With a mile-long stare into Matt’s soulless eyes, Joey said, “You heard him, boys. His life is complete. His work is done. There’s nothing left for him to do. We’re all screwed one way or another. Hell, he probably put those pictures up just so we’d find them and commit career suicide. Mission accomplished. Now that we’re dead, let’s go have a few beers.”

Seeing the writing on the wall, the cop that was attending to Matt Sanchez pulled out his gun and blew the killer’s brains out, doing no more damage to the apartment complex than already stated. The legal shitstorm would come quickly and destructively. But the joke was on the DA because the cops and detective didn’t have any money to give to the plaintiffs. They spent it all on hot wings and beer!