My transition into the night is not going so smoothly.  I’m stuck with a misogynist, racist cretin living out a bullied boy’s fantasy of revenge against the dissociated poor. Hordes of obese, aged caricatures of men gather whenever I’m called in to search a female, then make disgusting remarks about their level of (physically impossible, given their combined girth + age) arousal.  I’m no better, as whenever a “good shooting” comes over the radio, I’m called to ogle the corpse under the pretense of training. I found that paradoxically, the longer I stare at a series of mutilated corpses, the less jaded I become.  Yet I am still amused at the sight of a K9 jumping in and out of the trunk of a repurposed heroin-smuggling car. 

The night passes so slowly, I long for the days on the Southside, where I was building quite the reputation.  More than one prostitute told a third party that I was “cool” and even “cute.”  It is there that I must return.