Lansing slid into the passenger seat of the car, adjusting the gold badge on his belt as he sat. He looked at the dashboard in front of him, identical to all the other unmarked patrol cars in all but one, irritating aspect. Lansing massaged his forehead. He sighed. The pile of plastic Twinkie wrappers completely blocked his view of their target building.
To his left, Lansing heard his partner Carver stifle a belch. A ravaged, cream smeared wrapper floated towards the pile of its brethren, landing on top with all the delicacy of a snowflake.
Lansing knocked the wrappers to the floor with a growl. “Christ, Carver, this is a stake-out; not an eating contest.”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Lansing,” Carver’s voice was unfortunately still audible through his mouthful of pastry. “Not like anything’s happening out there.”
Lansing had gotten saddled with Carver after the IAB had finished their ‘investigation’. Apparently Lansing had an “aggressive temperament”. He was “prone to violence” and needed a “more mature, experienced officer to aid his development”.
Carver was a year from retiring with his full pension and he knew it. Lansing knew that as far as he was concerned the city could go to shit around him, just as long as he could afford another box of his goddamn Twinkies.
Lansing jerked away from the rancid sugar smell of the treat shoved under his nose.
Carver laughed, taking a bite out of the yellow stick of cake and shaking his head. “Eh, you’re probably right not to. My doctor says these things are gonna kill me.”
Lansing leaned back in his seat, blood pounding in his ears. His hand caressed the butt of his gun.
If they don’t, I will.
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