This is part 3 of a serial, you’ll find the other parts here
Johnson wasn't superstitious but you never know he figured and spat three times over his left shoulder as he watched a black cat run across the street on the other side of the lot. He took a drag of his cigarette. Hands still trembling. Jesus, what a bitch, she could have made a real mess. Still maybe would. Williams could snitch too, he no doubt felt more solidarity with a alcoholic welfare-dependent bitch of his own race than he felt any sort of cop solidarity with a white cop. They were all the same. Hell, things just weren’t the same. It wasn't like the good old days when you could come in with a bad hangover and kick a handcuffed punk out a flights of stairs, to get your kicks off, to get even, because it was fun. The internet and dark people had ruined it.
Without thinking, he flicked his cigarette so that it landed on the mutilated corpse in front of him. Shit, he took a quick look around and then bent down to pick it up, it had landed on the guys t-shirt but left no mark. He remained crouched, looking at Symanski's blue, swollen, lifeless, yet peaceful face. They always said that people looked peaceful in death, it's not death, it's life, life is hell, a damn marathon, of course you look peaceful when you no longer have to exert yourself. And it is purely physical. If there is anything after this this dead fuck had no good reason to be at peace. Johnson noted a swastika tattoo on the hellbound sinner’s knee, on the other knee an eye. Gang related? Certainly some aryan thing. Prison stuff. Johnson wasn't sure, he had never cared about the fine print, about the details of the job. He'd never actually liked it, he'd never liked cops, that is before he became one himself, but he wasn't so sure if he liked cops now either. A fucking cult, of course he had become good friends with some, they were all gone now, but most of them were dumb and prudent faggots.
His eyes registered the fleshy, half-coagulated wound where Symanski's cock had been. Who had this fool messed with? What a place to die, a wasteland, a dying ghetto, in a dying city, in a dying country in a dying world. Everyone would die but preferably with their dick intact and preferably not here. Some places could be magical, but magic is not constant, some places are more magical than others. Key West for example, Johnson could imagine dying there, of natural causes or by his own hand, one day he’d know.
Williams was now standing behind him, Johnson stood up, still with his back to Williams.
“Thank you for stepping in.”
"No problem, I saw where things were going." Williams said.
“Did you find anything out?”
“Not much more than we already knew. He came running from apartment 18 up there.” Williams nodded in that direction. "Gonzales has spoken to the landlord, a woman, Trang, lives there but he strongly suspects that she rents it out via Airbnb or or something. She hasn't been seen in months. We will try to get hold of her and find out who was currently staying there.”
“That’s good, Williams. Keep me posted. I'm visiting this poor enuch at the morgue tomorrow. See what that old necrophile coroner has to say. Do you know who this is?”
“Symanski. From California. Felon. Been out a decade, no reason trouble from him.”
“Symanski….. And oh, Williams, excuse me for almost saying that word you know."
"It's not me you need to apologize to" said Williams.
"No, but that's your race, I’m saying sorry to all of you, ok.. You're one of the good guys, if you know what what I mean."
"Yes. I think I understand.”
Johnson drove up on the freeway. Dead tired. Piccolo Boogie was playing on the radio. He hadn't slept well in ages. He hadn't been not hungover in ages. Everything had been at a stand still for ages. It had rained since November, it was now February, but tonight there was a break. He opened the sunroof of his 2003 Chrysler Cirrus. Some air. Symanski rang a bell.
i cant wait to hear what this necrophile coroner has to say hahaha