Slaw and Erdor: Spittle Venoms Unee.

I knew it, but was impelled forward--knew I was at risk of blowing the case, like the moral imperatives on the Dick Wolf shows, one-dimensional policeman characters that can't get out of their own way for the good of a case, always bent on making a point.

The DA didn't just have a file on my discrepancies and abuses of authority, but had a whole drawer full of my stuff, extensive files and details, such that IA didn't even want to begin processing it: my saving grace.

An Ace detective with a tendency to skirt the rules, to show his own rump-end, and sometimes in front of the media, too, at the press conferences where the bosses would line up like nesting ducks.

I should have went into the PI trade, but I felt I had more to give as a badger.  Above board was a place for the squeaky clean, I did not presume or usurp, but kept in my lane, marched to my own cadence, and generally I was good at raising my nose to what was worthwhile in terms of instinct and the job.

It was by chance, a combing of a beachfront, a four chords of deadwood stashed.

He was a Chad by day, and a Chud when he disappeared around the corner.  And that by day, cloudy afternoons, his penis a vanilla pudding, her sex as cold oatmeal, and he went to the professionals when he wanted it better, his predator mind needing more and more stimulation over the years, desensitization such that he had to hunt better and better game, and more and more profound kicks.

They arrested him with his pocket protector intact, and his red woolen shirt: a bit of space cowboy of the tax law arena.  A Chad, as attested earlier, with his eyes dotted and his peas quequed and all, and not even a stray hair on his butthole; yet the wolf Chud left hair on the packing tape, the painter's tape, and even the Hulk Hogan Sex Tape where Terry Bollea boned Gloria Allred.

Ashley would have an afternoon out in the park, and the potato salad getting warm and all, at the edge of the circle of baseball fields, meanwhile, afternoon siesta for her Chad beaux, taking a drink while using his spoof phone, making dirty, evil solicitations, as the dirty as the world would tolerate without his own spontaneous combustion.

He had bagged his muddy gets; and it was as if the voice of the Lord himself giving rise to his own self-loathing, and his self-loathing provided an image of sin, and as much as the Chad version hated the sin, the Chud version took it up and made a practice of it as an interesting, and to him, noteworthy, inspiring ensample.

And if the DA couldn't get him, there were yet thousands of ways to bring it off otherwise, in the eyes of insolent, dubious badger that worked both sides: Mounds and Almond Joy.  Twix Red and Twix Gold.  Coke and Pepsi.  Dogs and Cats.