Iceman

Buckhead Station

When the drought finally broke, it did so with a vengeance. It was one of those drippy-looking Mondays that all but the incurably cheerful abominate, and the two huge salt-and-pepper cops were decidedly not of such temperament. Fat Dana Tuny and his new partner, tough, ace-black Monroe Tucker, stood at the top of the steps leading to the squad bay arguing about whose turn it was to drive the Dodge, bickering like two little boys choosing up to see who gets the bat.

“I'll drive,” Dana insisted. The massive black detective just stared at him like he'd enjoy throwing him down the stairs.

“Whatever, just do it.” Dumb fuck, they each thought simultaneously. And just as they started out the side door to the parking lot, the clouds unzipped a dark fly and relieved themselves in a sudden, wet, splashing pisser of a rainstorm.

“Fuckin’ great,” Tucker mumbled with disgust.

“You won't melt,” Tuny said, flinging open the door and breaking for the unmarked Dodge in a fast, waddling run. The two huge men flung themselves into the rump-sprung bench seat, the springs moaning in protest at the hundreds of pounds of abuse, and Dana Tuny ground the ignition and they wheeled out into traffic.

“What's invisible ... and stinks like CARROTS?” the fat, white cop asked in a sneering voice, switching on the wipers.

“How the fuck would I know?"

“Bunny farts,” he said, loosing a loud and vile explosion of flatulence into the car's already malodorous interior.

“OH, JEEZUS! YOU FUCKIN’ MORON!” Tucker fought to get the window down, fat Dana giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Sorry about that,” he said, “I hadda make poo-poo in my pants."

Monroe thought how he'd like to smash a big fist into this giggling blubbergut and watch him fold up like a goddamned accordion. Water streamed onto the arm of his new sportscoat.

“Hey, you know,” he said, his voice taking on a cold and dangerous edge, “I wanna ax you something.” He was trying not to inhale any of the poisonous air in the car, and rain was hitting him in the face. “How the hell you ever get hold of a detective's shield?"

“Just lucky,” the incredible, corpulent hulk riding beside him said. “I was the fourth caller on Name It and Claim It."

“Uh huh. But for real, man. How the fuck did you get a detective's shield, as fuckin’ STUPID as you are?"

“I'm glad you axed me that, Monroe. I stole it off a dead nigger."