Sunday, January 24, 2010

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Part Twenty-two, copyright 2010 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-two, An Unholy Alliance
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Detective Randy Blake, at just over three hundred pounds, was undeniably a large man. What most people wouldn't have guessed about him was that his heart was just as large as the rest of his parts. By all outward appearances he was a tough as nails cop with zero tolerance for bullshit and a short fuse. But appearances can be deceiving. Detective Blake was a man who cared.
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So when the midget with the gray beard marched into his office demanding to know the whereabouts of his friend who'd been missing for two days, standing on a chair and shaking a finger in his face for emphasis, Randy couldn't help but feel a small twinge of guilt for whatever small part his actions may have played in the event's that had undoubtedly transpired. And he was sure that whatever else those events might have been, they were in no way pleasant for the missing man in question.
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Sure, he'd told the guy that he hoped him and the biker killed each other, but that was just part of his badass cop routine, nothing more. In truth he'd wanted to help the man because he felt bad about hitting him, and about what happened to his car. Not that he had anything to do with that, at least not directly. Some fellow detectives, thinking they were doing him a favor, had trashed the man's car (and shit in the backseat apparently) to get back at him for making Detective Blake, and thus the entire department, look like regular practitioners of police brutality. Which of course most of them were.
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"YOU told him where the clubhouse was!" Oscar exclaimed wildly. "Not only that, you gave him a fucking car to get there in! And now, thanks to you, he hasn't been home in two days and the clubhouse is locked up tighter than the knees of fifteen year old Amish girl! If anything happens to my friend I'll hold you personally responsible. And trust me, you don't want that."
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In spite of the man's diminuitive stature, Randy was inclined to believe him. There was something about the dwarf that commanded respect, fear even. And he did feel responsible. "Alright, calm down, I'll do what I can to help ya." said Detective Blake. "But without enough evidence to take to a judge and get a warrant, I don't know how to get inside the clubhouse to take a look around. Anything we do has to be in a strictly unoffical capacity. If shit gets really bad I can call for backup but otherwise we're on our own here. You get me?"
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"Fine, good." said Oscar. "We don't need the cops for this shit anyway. I got a plan, I just need another guy to pull it off. Someone who won't lose their head if all Hell breaks loose, which it probably will. Here's what we do..."
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He began to talk. Randy listened.
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TO BE CONTINUED...

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