Everything hurts. Revachol, Martinaise is, quite literally, dead space. The single vector on the Motorway South is slowly fading away. It's pale. The train leaves the station at 21:00 every evening, shit-pig. You've thought about it before. How much they'll miss you. Fingering the edge of the eject button. Gagging on metal. It's cold.
Load it up, and roll the dice, limp-dick! You have a job to do remember? First, get that body down, and then worry what you're going to do next after. You're not the first in this fuckfest parade, nor will you be the last. Maybe, you could use your superior intellect to conceptualise yourself actually doing your job? Or maybe, you're one of those manipulative bastards who'd get the job done for you! Still no? Maybe you're really good with your hands then. Honed abilities and skills are the backbone of any good investigation. Or, could you be one of those branched-off superior genus of humans that evolved muscles that strap the body like armour, and nudge off pain like sweat?
No. You are an amnesiac dead-drunk cop. Your brain is filled with liquor and your muscles are filled with drugs. But you know what? Fuck it. Fuck that dead body.
Ascend above cop-hood and worry about more important things. Like this sick bug you found out about the other day. It's really cool. I'm sure Kim would really love this one. Tell him about how you want to become homeless, or about your sudden inexplicable urge to adopt both facism AND the feminist agenda to fight off the - ahem - "ultraliberals" (yuck!). Nobody likes the ultraliberals.
Yes!! You've done it!! The locomotive heart of the man-engine is firing up again at full speed. Choo Choo! Strap back the expression and get back out onto the street, superstar! Tonight, Revachol is dancing to DISCO.
Load it up, and roll the dice, limp-dick! You have a job to do remember? First, get that body down, and then worry what you're going to do next after. You're not the first in this fuckfest parade, nor will you be the last. Maybe, you could use your superior intellect to conceptualise yourself actually doing your job? Or maybe, you're one of those manipulative bastards who'd get the job done for you! Still no? Maybe you're really good with your hands then. Honed abilities and skills are the backbone of any good investigation. Or, could you be one of those branched-off superior genus of humans that evolved muscles that strap the body like armour, and nudge off pain like sweat?
No. You are an amnesiac dead-drunk cop. Your brain is filled with liquor and your muscles are filled with drugs. But you know what? Fuck it. Fuck that dead body.
Ascend above cop-hood and worry about more important things. Like this sick bug you found out about the other day. It's really cool. I'm sure Kim would really love this one. Tell him about how you want to become homeless, or about your sudden inexplicable urge to adopt both facism AND the feminist agenda to fight off the - ahem - "ultraliberals" (yuck!). Nobody likes the ultraliberals.
Yes!! You've done it!! The locomotive heart of the man-engine is firing up again at full speed. Choo Choo! Strap back the expression and get back out onto the street, superstar! Tonight, Revachol is dancing to DISCO.