Clever Sleazoid
Skunk.
The bass line to an unknown piece of techno music pulsates through my apartment, waking me up and putting me into a foul mood. It grows quieter, the glass from my window gradually stops trembling and silence falls once again. I squint at my alarm clock, cursing the young drivers, the boy racers intent on destroying the eardrums of those too old to really understand the language of the youths. I sigh. It’s half past nine. An hour ago, I told myself I’d have five more minutes, wrapped up warm in my flowery duvet. It still smells of him. David.
That same old musky aroma. Skin and cigarettes and fabric softener. I’ve washed this duvet countless times and yet, he lingers. Bastard.
I reluctantly heave myself up out of my pit and turn my attention to the mirror, glaring at the woman reflected on the glass. My mousey hair is wild, tousled by nightmares, restless tossing and turning throughout the night. My drowsy eyes are rimmed with red, glowing against the sallow skin of my face. I once considered myself good-looking. I was considered good-looking, when I changed my blouse each day and made an effort. I just can’t be arsed anymore.
”It’s work, not a fashion show.”
I sigh before attempting to make myself presentable, slipping a cigarette into my hand and holding it elegantly, hoping I look like Audrey Hepburn. All I see is age written all over my face and a nose that grows bigger everyday. But it doesn’t matter. This murderer is all that matters.
I move swiftly through my apartment, throwing on whatever I happen to pick up, my tights slipping and sliding on the laminated fake wood of the floor. The place is surprisingly tidy, the sunlight radiates off the cream walls, making the place look half decent. Almost like home.
I find myself cackling at this revelation, almost hysterically, sounding like an evil witch. The cat is frightened, staring at me wide eyed from his perch on top of the television. I swear at him, the words half choked by chuckles.
I’m still laughing to myself as I get into the drivers seat of my shiny black car. Company car. Sleek and stylish. Well, the job has to have some perks. The radio is set to a moderate volume, instead of spewing out noise pollution throughout the streets of Hydra. The world whizzes past me, the scenery growing increasingly repetitive with each spin of the screeching tyres. Building, building, whore, building. One day, I tell myself, I will get away from here.
And half an hour later, entering the conference room where the investigation meeting is taking place and has been for the last hour, I find myself wishing I was already somewhere else as suddenly fifteen pairs of eyes are fixed eagerly on me.
“You’re late, Inspector Cox,” The chief reminds me sternly, his chubby face set to thoroughly annoyed mode. “It concerns me that you’re not taking this job seriously.”
“On the contrary, Sir,” My foul mood has made me snappy and my tone is sarcastic and laced with annoyance. “I was up at two in the morning, hanging round a murder scene, while you were all snuggled up in your bed, nice and cosy. I think I’m entitled to catch up on my sleep, thank you, very much.”
He glares at me, his face becoming redder with fury at my defiance, his bulbous nose glowing like a light bulb. He looks hilarious but I don’t laugh. He opens his mouth to rant at me, but is cut off by a deep, unfamiliar voice coming from the doorway.
“I think she has a fair point.”
All eyes focus on the person behind me, wide with curiosity and intrigue. I turn slowly and blink as I take in the thin, delicate frame of the man leaning against the wall, a bored expression playing on his face. He doesn’t look much like a man. His face is relatively feminine, high cheekbones and soft lips. His hair is long, dyed white, with the roots and one part the fringe left dark brown, almost black. One eye is visible, a bright green eye that stares coldly at the chief. And in his hand, is a chocolate ice cream; dripping drops of frozen chocolate flavoured milk on the carpet. He doesn’t notice. Or appear to care. He simply waits, silently daring the other, much older, man to argue with him.
“You’re also late,” The chief tries to regain control, his face now resembling a bloated tomato. The young man laughs darkly, not out of amusement, more like sarcasm or pity. “Gentlemen, this is the infamous Snake. I’m sure you’ve all been dying to meet him.”
An excited whisper rushes through the group of middle-aged men collected here, curious and furious eyes stare at our feminine guest and a sudden urgency swells up in the room. I can’t remember where I’ve heard the name Snake before. Besides, he looks more like a skunk with that hair.
“Hello,” Snake half smiles, waving in a way that seems condescending – if a wave can seem that way. He doesn’t want to be here. It’s easy to see his discomfort behind his nonchalance and as I suddenly remember who he is, I find I don’t blame him.
The famous detective Snake, solver of hundreds of cases, saver of hundreds of lives. Loved by the public, loathed by the police. He’s been stealing our glory for years, raining on our parade by solving cases before we even take a breath. This huge unit of qualified officers can’t beat one solitary young man. And we question why the public don’t trust us.
“You don’t look much like a detective,” Inspector Simon Grange snarls, his long, angular face contorted in revulsion. “You look more like a hippy.”
Snake smiles again, his visible eye narrowed, his brow furrowed in frustration. “What would be the point in looking like a detective?” He pushes himself upright, taking a slow step forward. “In fact, if you don’t mind me asking, how does one look like a detective? Is there some kind of detective shop where you can buy all the essential detective gear? Like a magnifying glass, perhaps?” By now, he’s at the front of the room, clutching his soft scoop ice cream tightly, standing in front of the chief who is currently fuming behind him. He still addresses the Inspector, his tone polite but not really managing to hide his annoyance. “If you know of such a place, I’d love to pay a visit. But for now, I think we have more important issues to deal with.”
“Well… you can’t talk since you were over an hour late,” The chief butts in, finally plucking up the courage to answer back to the arrogant young man. He receives a dirty glare from Snake, which silences him. For once in his life, the chief can’t retaliate. The detective isn’t under his control.
“That is true. But I think, since I’ve been doing your job for the last five years, I think I deserve a lie in now and then,” Snake smiles wryly, looking at me. I suddenly feel uneasy beneath his ice-cold gaze and turn my attention to my fingernails. They’re too long and the red nail polish is chipped at the corners. He chuckles softly and carries on, taking a bite from his ice cream, “You guys aren’t exactly hot on teamwork, are you? You just slag each other off. No wonder you’re failing at your duties.”
“Er. I don’t think you’re in a position to comment-“
“So… now that everyone’s here,” Snake ignores the interruption, sitting down on the cluttered desk at the front of the room. He grins with mock enthusiasm, slamming his empty hand down on the table and speaking in a cheesy, upbeat voice that I assume is meant to be motivational. “Lets get started!”
That same old musky aroma. Skin and cigarettes and fabric softener. I’ve washed this duvet countless times and yet, he lingers. Bastard.
I reluctantly heave myself up out of my pit and turn my attention to the mirror, glaring at the woman reflected on the glass. My mousey hair is wild, tousled by nightmares, restless tossing and turning throughout the night. My drowsy eyes are rimmed with red, glowing against the sallow skin of my face. I once considered myself good-looking. I was considered good-looking, when I changed my blouse each day and made an effort. I just can’t be arsed anymore.
”It’s work, not a fashion show.”
I sigh before attempting to make myself presentable, slipping a cigarette into my hand and holding it elegantly, hoping I look like Audrey Hepburn. All I see is age written all over my face and a nose that grows bigger everyday. But it doesn’t matter. This murderer is all that matters.
I move swiftly through my apartment, throwing on whatever I happen to pick up, my tights slipping and sliding on the laminated fake wood of the floor. The place is surprisingly tidy, the sunlight radiates off the cream walls, making the place look half decent. Almost like home.
I find myself cackling at this revelation, almost hysterically, sounding like an evil witch. The cat is frightened, staring at me wide eyed from his perch on top of the television. I swear at him, the words half choked by chuckles.
I’m still laughing to myself as I get into the drivers seat of my shiny black car. Company car. Sleek and stylish. Well, the job has to have some perks. The radio is set to a moderate volume, instead of spewing out noise pollution throughout the streets of Hydra. The world whizzes past me, the scenery growing increasingly repetitive with each spin of the screeching tyres. Building, building, whore, building. One day, I tell myself, I will get away from here.
And half an hour later, entering the conference room where the investigation meeting is taking place and has been for the last hour, I find myself wishing I was already somewhere else as suddenly fifteen pairs of eyes are fixed eagerly on me.
“You’re late, Inspector Cox,” The chief reminds me sternly, his chubby face set to thoroughly annoyed mode. “It concerns me that you’re not taking this job seriously.”
“On the contrary, Sir,” My foul mood has made me snappy and my tone is sarcastic and laced with annoyance. “I was up at two in the morning, hanging round a murder scene, while you were all snuggled up in your bed, nice and cosy. I think I’m entitled to catch up on my sleep, thank you, very much.”
He glares at me, his face becoming redder with fury at my defiance, his bulbous nose glowing like a light bulb. He looks hilarious but I don’t laugh. He opens his mouth to rant at me, but is cut off by a deep, unfamiliar voice coming from the doorway.
“I think she has a fair point.”
All eyes focus on the person behind me, wide with curiosity and intrigue. I turn slowly and blink as I take in the thin, delicate frame of the man leaning against the wall, a bored expression playing on his face. He doesn’t look much like a man. His face is relatively feminine, high cheekbones and soft lips. His hair is long, dyed white, with the roots and one part the fringe left dark brown, almost black. One eye is visible, a bright green eye that stares coldly at the chief. And in his hand, is a chocolate ice cream; dripping drops of frozen chocolate flavoured milk on the carpet. He doesn’t notice. Or appear to care. He simply waits, silently daring the other, much older, man to argue with him.
“You’re also late,” The chief tries to regain control, his face now resembling a bloated tomato. The young man laughs darkly, not out of amusement, more like sarcasm or pity. “Gentlemen, this is the infamous Snake. I’m sure you’ve all been dying to meet him.”
An excited whisper rushes through the group of middle-aged men collected here, curious and furious eyes stare at our feminine guest and a sudden urgency swells up in the room. I can’t remember where I’ve heard the name Snake before. Besides, he looks more like a skunk with that hair.
“Hello,” Snake half smiles, waving in a way that seems condescending – if a wave can seem that way. He doesn’t want to be here. It’s easy to see his discomfort behind his nonchalance and as I suddenly remember who he is, I find I don’t blame him.
The famous detective Snake, solver of hundreds of cases, saver of hundreds of lives. Loved by the public, loathed by the police. He’s been stealing our glory for years, raining on our parade by solving cases before we even take a breath. This huge unit of qualified officers can’t beat one solitary young man. And we question why the public don’t trust us.
“You don’t look much like a detective,” Inspector Simon Grange snarls, his long, angular face contorted in revulsion. “You look more like a hippy.”
Snake smiles again, his visible eye narrowed, his brow furrowed in frustration. “What would be the point in looking like a detective?” He pushes himself upright, taking a slow step forward. “In fact, if you don’t mind me asking, how does one look like a detective? Is there some kind of detective shop where you can buy all the essential detective gear? Like a magnifying glass, perhaps?” By now, he’s at the front of the room, clutching his soft scoop ice cream tightly, standing in front of the chief who is currently fuming behind him. He still addresses the Inspector, his tone polite but not really managing to hide his annoyance. “If you know of such a place, I’d love to pay a visit. But for now, I think we have more important issues to deal with.”
“Well… you can’t talk since you were over an hour late,” The chief butts in, finally plucking up the courage to answer back to the arrogant young man. He receives a dirty glare from Snake, which silences him. For once in his life, the chief can’t retaliate. The detective isn’t under his control.
“That is true. But I think, since I’ve been doing your job for the last five years, I think I deserve a lie in now and then,” Snake smiles wryly, looking at me. I suddenly feel uneasy beneath his ice-cold gaze and turn my attention to my fingernails. They’re too long and the red nail polish is chipped at the corners. He chuckles softly and carries on, taking a bite from his ice cream, “You guys aren’t exactly hot on teamwork, are you? You just slag each other off. No wonder you’re failing at your duties.”
“Er. I don’t think you’re in a position to comment-“
“So… now that everyone’s here,” Snake ignores the interruption, sitting down on the cluttered desk at the front of the room. He grins with mock enthusiasm, slamming his empty hand down on the table and speaking in a cheesy, upbeat voice that I assume is meant to be motivational. “Lets get started!”