…that I have Intermittent Explosive Disorder, but what the fuck does he know? Son of a bitch wears fucking sandals with socks and has one of those Goddamn Tom Selleck moustaches. I bet he pops open a bottle of some fancy-ass merlot, turns on some fucking Mozart, gets out a tub of Vaseline, and jacks off to kiddie porn when he gets off work. Says I have sociopathic tendencies too. Fuck him. The hell does he know about me?

If I find out who turned me in to Internal Affairs, I’m going to pull that rat-bastard tongue right out of their mouth through their asshole. ‘Preliminary Investigation’… What the fuck is that supposed to mean? An investigation before an investigation? Shitheads who push paper for a living, ain’t never done a day of hard work in their trust-fund baby pencil-pushing lives. Got the nerve to come tell me… ME… that I’m under suspicion of corruption and brutality. Fuck you all.

Ain’t never kicked an ass that didn’t need it. People don’t understand respect in this fucking town. Everyone I run into thinks they’re King of Shit Mountain, and got to prove how badass they are. Of course I got to knock those fuckers back into line. They deserve it. So what if a few hundred bucks come up missing from some drug dealer’s pocket. I deserve it. Some cunt wants to parade around the ghetto showing off her tits and ass? I got needs. She deserves it.

Got some pretty sweet deals rolling right now, and there is no fucking way anyone is going to try and take my Goddamn golden goose. Matter of fact, things the way they are, life is fucking grand. Got me a new job in the Department – Detective Jestyr. It’s a good racket. I get to cherry-pick the people I fuck with, wear whatever I want to work, and I even get a pay grade bump. I should have thought of this years ago. After two tours in Patrol, working my way up to Sergeant not once but twice… Think I finally found my niche. Nobody seems to really give a shit about how the cases get solved, so long as there’s a nice ‘Case Closed’ stamp on the outside of that manilla folder. Closure, man. It’s all about closure.

Got myself a pretty sweet deal in the personal sector, too. Never thought I’d end up hooking up with a broad who don’t ask questions, pays all the bills, and is a fucking tiger in the sack. Going to hang onto that one for a while.

So yeah. Why the fuck they got to piss in my Cheerios and put me through this bullshit investigation is beyond me. I got my life squared away. Easy street. Only reason I’m writing this stupid inner monologue crap is because that merlot-sucking sandal-wearing faggot thinks it would be a good idea to re-read my thoughts and reflect on my psychological turmoil. The fuck is his problem, anyway? Can answer that easy enough. His problem is me. Going to pay that bitch a visit tonight with my forty-five and put a few new holes in his head. Burn his house to the ground and piss on the ashes. Read in his DMV record that he’s got a wife and two kids. Think I’ll cuff the fucker, then parade him from room to room while I execute everything he holds dear. Show him exactly what happens when someone tries to mess with the top of the food chain.

You know, writing this shit down does feel pretty fucking fantastic. Might do it a little more often. Later, though. It’s almost midnight, and I got some psychological evaluations to burn and a hippie to kill.