Re: how 'bout...
crank
hoot
treble
marksmanship
door
politics
satire
loyal
water
Denise stored her gun inside the security locker and dropped the key in her pocket. Next, she held her identification up to the camera and waited for the jailer to trigger the electronic door. Seconds later, the loudspeaker emitted a shrill whistle, and a metallic-sounding voice told her to “please step through the door, Detective Loudon.”
“Damn it, Mike! Adjust the treble on that thing before you rupture an eardrum out here!”
After a brisk walk through a maze of well-lit corridors she came to the Observation Room. She took a seat in front of the two-way glass and watched passively as another strung-out teenager pounded his head against a concrete wall in an adjacent room. Crank, she thought. The kid’s tweaked out of his gourd. Probably has a tab of acid in him, too.
Denise pulled a copy of the arrest report from her satchel, then opened her notebook and scribbled a few notes on a clean sheet of paper. She was still writing when Phillip Conley stepped inside the room. Denise suppressed a grimace. She despised the man and everything he stood for. His meteoric rise through the ranks was nothing more than a testimony to “good old boy” politics within the department. Of course, that his uncle was Chief of Detectives didn’t hurt. The old man took care of him and in return, Conley was as loyal as a lapdog. Arrogant bastard!
Conley wasted little time stepping on her last nerve. “So, Dee-Dee, whatda’ we got here? Another 51-50? Damn, look at him go! Maybe we should just turn the nutcase loose and practice a little marksmanship. You know, save the taxpayers a few bucks.”
Denise felt her teeth grind at the term “51-50”, an old and derogatory reference to the mentally ill. She swallowed hard and counted to ten before answering. “Yeah, the kid is a real hoot. I’m so glad you were around for the show. Maybe you’ll get to see some gray matter before they EMTs show up with the leather restraints.”
“Hey, lose the attitude, baby doll,” Conley said, smiling crookedly. You know what your problem is? You never learned to play nice with others.”
Denise stood up and walked around the table. “Oh, I’ve got a problem, all right. But it has nothing to do with my social habits. My problem is with you and that fat-assed Boss Hog uncle of yours.”
Conley’s eyebrows knitted together and he glared hotly at Denise. “What did you call Uncle Horace?”
“Boss Hog, you moron! You know, from…oh, never mind. I should have known that the satire would be lost on you! Tell you what, Dick Tracy, you work this case. Or not. I’m out of here!”
Denise picked up her satchel and headed for the door. Conley, his eyes flashing dangerously, moved to intercept her. “I think you owe me an apology!”
“You really don’t want to do this, Phillip,” Denise said.
“Oh, I think I do. You're like a fish out of water around here, baby doll, and it’s time somebody put you in your place. Now, be a good girl and apologize.” In one fluid motion, Denise dropped the satchel, reached, grabbed, and squeezed.
Seconds later, she was met in the hallway by an anxious jailer. “Hey, Detective! Are you okay? I--I thought I heard a scream over the intercom.
Denise smiled warmly and nodded. “No problems, Mike. I was just adjusting Conley’s treble.”
(Is it my turn to provide the words for the next round?)