Skippy

Parks and Gore

I sipped from the Styrofoam cup, the gravel part of coffee that the police department's coffee machine pissed out. I adjusted the leather holster cap and sighed out whatever anxiety I had remaining. I scooted out of the chair, the tiny feet of the chair squealin'. John looked up and rose his ugly-ass caterpillar brows at me. Jesus Christ was that man annoying. Somehow I've remained buds with him.

"You look like an idiot." I laughed, the laugh was hearty, from my gut, or what was of it.

"Shut the fuck up Nora," John whined, his throat was like wet gravel. He glanced around a couple of times before fixing his glare back at the file he was holding, between his index finger and thumb. He said some other "hmrmeghghh"'s before he stood up.

"Listen, Voss, if there's anything stupider, it's you." He grumbled out of his disgusting weed-reeking mouth.

I pondered in a daydream before I could respond. John knows I could pound the shit out of him like a goddamn bug, yet he still tries to get on my nerves.

John muttered something about my tattoos, before walking into his office and slamming the door shut, probably going to answer emails or to look at them and leave them for me to answer. I glanced at the tattoos trailing up and down my arms. 

"Noraaaa!" John yelped, yet still his groan.

He scared the shit out of me, I jumped up, almost kicking the chair across the room.

"What," I said firmly.

"Get your ass over here!" He grunted, I walked into the office, he pointed to the new report. Some bastard was in a fight with his brother. Micheal Peterson, 180-200 lbs, 5'6. I sighed, grabbing my radio.

"Voss, Walsh on-duty," I said, "searching for Michael Peterson." I let go of the button on the radio. John trailed along as I walked to the cruiser. I ducked my head, sitting inside and slamming the door, and finally ramming the keys into the keyhole. I twisted them, the engine vrrr'd loudly. John sat down in the passenger, closing his door. I pulled out, heading to the back of the game store this bastard was at. Knowing myself, I sped. John grasped the oh-shit handle

"Fucking Christ, could you drive any faster?" John mimicked.

"Shut up, you'll be fine." I returned. I swerved, pulling into the parking lot. The neon sign glared at me, "Gamestop" it read. I burped inside my mouth a bit. I climbed out of the cruiser, the uncomfortable 'officer' shoes suffocated my pinky toe. John walked quicker, entering the Gamestop as if he was a 12-year-old boy on his birthday. I walked behind him. The woman at the front desk greeted us, her eyes were covered with blue eyeshadow, and her hair was bright purple. She was around 40-50 years old.

"Do you know anyone here by the name Michael Peterson?"

The frail woman nodded quickly, pointing outback. I slid past John as he attempted to flirt with the cashier. Fucking milfs. I walked outback, nothing. The green recycling bin stared at me. I opened it, to find a goddamn mauled body.

"Yo Walsh! I think I found Michael! He's fuckin' dead!"

The body's eyes were rolled to the back of its head. I sighed, a bit shaken by the sight of that guy. John walked over, examining the body in the garbage. He gagged a bit. John turned back, sighing.

"Well, now we need to find his brother," He said. "He's still out there somewhere."

I rested my hand on the back of my head.

"Well, FBI better figures shit out better, we're just two dumbass officers."

God, I regret going into John's office.