By 
I hate this city. It’s filled with the unused sweat of the hopeless and the putrid ejaculate of the wicked. Nothing matters anymore. I’ve been a cop for twenty years and I know in my heart that it’s accomplished nothing. Nothing but pain and psychological damage. Now, I sit in my least favorite bar surrounded by broken souls and drunken lechers. People who I should slam down on the floor and stomp on until my feet are covered in blood and brains and satisfaction, but I’m off the clock. For now they are my equals. Sinners who have sinned just as long as I have and who feel just as disgusted with the cards that life has dealt them. People who have little reason not to stick their 96 Berettas in their mouth and taste the sweet release of its end. No reason other than they’re out of bullets, because they sold them for whatever vice they had that day. Me on the other hand, I had plenty of bullets, I just needed them all. I need them to stop the other bullets from destroying the beauty that once saved this city. Until men took control of the shops then the clubs then the bars then the schools then the courts then the prisons and then the police stations. You can’t spit in this town and not hit something corrupt.
Some days I wonder if I can’t stop them all. I wonder if I have lost my touch and if the refuse of the living has turned me into the walking dead. A man who knows right from wrong but who was turned on his ear when society changed what right and wrong meant. I know I’m right, but tell that to the papers who call me a “cop on the loose”. A “junkyard dog” and a “loose cannon”. A loose cannon? Sometimes, a loose cannon is the only way to kill the spoilers who are using the cannon for injustice in the first place. I’ve seen pederasts, and drug dealers, and pimps, and murderers bloodied and staring into my gun, only to watch them walk back on the streets thanks to a broken system, as if it was a game. To say they slipped through the cracks is to suggest that the cracks were small, when it’s more like the slipped through the gaping vortex. But no longer. I have just a little more time on the force and I intend to use it wisely. I wish I could play by the book but the book they use is outdated and written with the blood of the innocent.
“You want another one, officer?” Slimes the bartender Lou, who is about to be late for his appointment to beat his wife.
“Go fuck yourself, Lou, and give me another, if you have the time.” I say without looking into his empty eyes.
I hate this place. But it’s the only joint that lets me carry my gun. And by “lets me” I mean “doesn’t know I’m carrying”. It used to be the only thing that would keep me going would be the sight of my wife’s smile and the smell of my daughters head, but that was until the cunt left me. I call her house sometimes but I can’t find the words. At least not any words that are true. I guess work did get in the way. I guess I was closed off. But to be honest, it’s hard to look your daughter in the eyes and tell her the world is special and beautiful place and not laugh. It’s hard to look at your wife and tell her it will be ok, and you’ll see her when you get home, knowing full well that was a lie. But it’s ok. Its better they haven’t seen what I have become. A washed up cop who can’t figure out the good guys from the bad guys. But in a town like this, chances are they are all bad guys. Which makes my itchy trigger finger useful.
Back at my shitty apartment I throw money at the hooker that I’m done with. Her name is Trixie and she doesn’t ask questions and she keeps me from having to watch her get roughed up by her pimp.
“You can stay for a little while longer if you like” I mutter through my deep whiskey breath.
“No, that would be extra. And I already know you don’t have anymore.” She says as she lights her cigarette with slim fingers. I put on my pants but I’m too drunk to keep my tail in its hole.
“You want to do a line? I know you guys like that.” She says as she is fixing her hair. She shows me a bag of Nip and I shake my head.
“That’s just a stereotype. And it will kill you.” I say, just as I notice the cum that has got on my fur. Jesus Christ what has happened to me? I glance in the mirror to see if recognize who is staring back at me. I don’t, so that’s normal. I like Trixie though. She looks at me and doesn’t notice the blackness in my heart. I sit down and extend my leg to lick the unclean parts of my body.
“Could you not do that it’s gross.” She coughs at me through yellow teeth. She’s getting dressed now. It’s usually at this point when I wonder what her parents look like.
“I have to stay clean if I’m gonna see you tomorrow.” I say realizing that work is in four hours.
“I don’t think you can afford me tomorrow, officer Anthropomorphic Cat.” She says showing me my own badge, as if I have never seen it.
“DETECTIVE Anthropomorphic Cat, and never call me that, bitch.” I snap at her and snatch the badge from her repugnant fingers. Grabbing her by the pieces of straw she calls hair, I throw her out of my apartment as if she had broken in. I slam the door, causing my picture frames to violently collapse on the floor. I look up and turn to see my empty apartment silently laughing at me. I stare into the mirror across my bed and look at the person staring back with his crooked whiskers and blood shot eyes, his patchy orange fur begging to be brushed. I touch his face and see my right paw, still declawed, still a reminder of that fateful night. I scream just before I throw my chair into the mirror. Four more hours…. I better take another shot.
