The air in the car was rank, mostly due to the smoke from the three packs of cigarettes that had been smoked inside it over the last two hours and partly from the fact that the car was never clean to begin with. Perched on the back seat was a gym bag, filled to bursting with sweat soaked clothes and stale socks. Next to it was a forlorn stack of pizza boxes six layers deep with crusted cheese and sauce sandwiched between them like some god forsaken glue desperately trying to hold them together. Not least of all was a putrid stench welling up from beneath the passenger’s seat, the origins of which were as yet unknown and for all Glen Beagle cared it could stay that way. This was his stake out vehicle, and sometimes you had to get right into people’s heads. The people he chased every day were deranged sickos, used to wallowing in their own filth. Heaven forbid, these dirty pimps and whores would even have liked his car. Oh yeah, he was sure one of those good for nothing pencil dick coke snorting cock suckers would just love to get their hands on it, it would be a rare find. It would keep them coked and jazzed up to their eye balls for a week on heroin if they could stay conscious long enough to strip it for parts.
Yeah, that was it, sometimes you had to get into character, even if it meant assuming the mentality of a dirty cunt licker. As he thought this, he watched a girl sauntering down the street towards him. She was wearing a short red miniskirt, her dishevelled dirty blonde hair drawn across her face and she walked with laboured strides, pausing every so often to have a confused look around her. She wore as well a worn looking jacket with plush fur around the cuffs and collar that framed her head like a frosted halo. Surely the material had once been white, before it took on its current vomit inducing hues of brown and grey, just as surely as anyone with one good eye would have been able to see she was a prostitute, not to mention the fact that she was an addict looking for a way to pay for her next fix. She kept scratching at her arm and silently mouthing a vehement conversation to herself.
Slowly she made her way unsteadily to Glen’s black and beat up old Toyota. Course it was a Toyota, that’s the kind of shit these people drove. You had to understand them, they were at the bottom of the pile and that’s the way it would always be. A Ford in these parts? Ha, you could forget that one buddy. That was too good for these people, those were only driven by the drug dealers who’d really made it around here who could at least afford to buy hub caps to go with their death-traps. Those kinds of people would be going out for attention, and Glen wasn’t going for attention. He’d been patiently watching the house two blocks down on the opposite side of the street, watching the lights flickering and the shadows moving behind thread bare veils, like a silent shadow-play pantomime. It had been five hours, and he was tired and frustrated.
The hooker finally reached his car, and with one slender, manicured hand, she wrapped a soft tattoo on the window. Immediately, it made Glen’s blood boil. In his one hand he held a can of iced tea, and his fist now began to clamp down on it, squeezing it as he tried to control his annoyance, but it was a losing battle. The whore knocked on the window again, this time a little bit more persistent, and he faintly heard her say, “Hey Mister, I can help you if you’ve got a hundred bucks.”
But the voice was very faint indeed. In his mind he was trying to go over how many times he’d been through this shit, how many times girls like her just didn’t fucking understand… No matter how told a bitch like her, they’d never listen. No wonder the world was going down the shitter, how could you trust anyone in this world? The more he gritted his teeth and tried to control it, the tighter his hand squeezed on the can, constricting it and savouring the steady rhythmic crumpling sound it made, enjoying the sharp exquisite pain that pierced his palm as he squeezed it, feeling the metal pierce into his skin. A third, rather urgent knock on the window snapped him out of it, and he abruptly let go of the can which clanked to the floor of the car. He was breathing heavily now and he hadn’t even noticed, and he felt slightly cold from a thin layer of sweat that had formed on his torso and most noticeably of all he was slightly hard.
“Glen…” he heard through the window, a panicked whisper.
With that he gave an exasperated grunt and fiercely cranked down the window, shooting out his hand and tightly grabbing onto the wench’s wrists, forcefully wrenching it towards him, forcing her head through the open window, but not before she cracked her forehead against the frame on the way in. Her neck whipped back with a sickening crack, and she let out a muted, terrified shriek.
“How many times have I told you,” he hissed, looking straight into her terrified grey eyes, shaking with rage. “You stupid, stupid… How many time?! Never use names! And what the fuck is this…”
Saying this he wrenched her arm around, causing her shoulder to pop loudly and forcing out another pained squeak. He stared at her nails, painted bright red and freshly manicured, obviously not the hands of a street whore. How many time had he told her about blending in? But this stupid girl never listened. She might as well be a whore, so that he could slap some sense into her, though he doubted if she’d even make a could tramp. She was fucked enough as a police officer. To make matters worse she’d fucked up the code phrase. She was meant to ask for one hundred and seven dollars, not one hundred.

“I’m sorry!” She yelped, terrified and in pain, contorting her body sideways to try relieve the pain in her arm. She was so closed to him her face was firmly pressed up against his muscular shoulder. She could smell him, the smell of sweat, of cigarettes, and another smell that wasn’t ever too far away from the Inspector Glen Beagle, alcohol.
Roughly, he shoved her back through the window, looking at her with contempt but also an expectant air. Quickly, she swallowed and tried to ignore the pain in her right arm, which hung limp by her side, her left hand wrapped around the shoulder.
“The two men inside just left, there’s only him and an unknown female inside.”
Glen grunted, apparently sated if not satisfied. He popped open the glove compartment and removed a dull metal pistol and a set of brass knuckles, stained and covered in a crusted layer of blood. He had a raging hard on now that he was trying very hard to ignore. Now was time for business, police work. He’d be able to find some whore around here somewhere when he was done and satisfy himself with her, but for now he had work to do. He slipped the brass knuckles into the pocket of his jacket, sullenly handing the gun to the sergeant standing outside, freezing to death in her hooker get up. She fumbled with the gun for a second, the attempt to take it sending a sliver of pain up her bruised arm. It wasn’t the first time he’d hurt her. It was probably sprained. She’d probably deserved it, too. Glen forced the door open, knocking into her, interrupting her thoughts and almost sending her to the floor.
“God, ” He hissed, slamming the door and letting out a snort, “You’re a useless piece of shit! I hope you can remember how to pull a fucking trigger. Come.”
The pair walked up the street, then crossed the road, pausing momentarily outside the target building.
“Point of entry,” Glen commanded.
“Rear door,” Riley replied promptly, “I already picked the lock, it was easy.”
“Glad you got one fucking thing right.” It was by far the closest thing to a complement she could ever have remembered receiving from her commanding officer.
Glen lead the way down the alley next to the building which lead to a chain linked fence surrounding a sorry excuse for a garden which looked more like a pathetic cemetery, broken chairs and random furniture poking out of the knee length grass like tombstones, but it reminded Riley more of a dead man’s teeth.