Go straight to the police station

Jonny drove to the station like a bat out of hell, sirens blazing the whole way. He skidded into the marking lot and into the specialized parking space reserved for Chief McCarthy. He exited the car and walked into the station and was blasted with a plethora of noises as the whole places hummed with activity. Papers flew about; cops and detectives talked on phones and via text and e-mail, contacting every informant and shady ex-con they knew in a **** attempt to figure out why Officer Brown had seemingly attempted to kill the Mayor and had successfully killed a number of other officials, as well as just what his crazed screams were about. A few people in the area when Jonny walked in noted the entrance of the chief, or at least of her body, and briefly acknowledged her.

Jonny made his way through the throngs of people, with most people politely moving aside as they saw their superior approach. Jonny came to the desk of one Eric Martinez, a 7-year veteran of the ****, which Jonny knew from Selina’s memories, as Martinez sat at his desk filling out paperwork. “Martinez! Up!” Jonny yelled, which he had to do to be heard over all the commotion. Martinez quickly stood from his chair, awaiting the chief’s next order. Jonny climbed on to Martinez’s chair and used that to climb next on to his desk, where he stood upon the papers that littered its surface.

“EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Jonny screamed at the top of his host’s lungs. All of the commotion came to a halt in a few seconds as officers all looked to their chief. “Okay everybody,” Jonny started, now not having to yell as loudly as possible, “we’ve got a lot of shit going on tonight, so we need to stay coordinated, and I need all you to make sure you’re focused on the right stuff. Here’s what I want you to do. Number one priority is making sure the Mayor is as safe as we can make her, so I want guards at her house and at her office. Number two priority is figuring out what the hell was going through Brown’s mind and why, and what was he talking about when he said what he did was for JM? Did he mean a person? If so, who? Did he mean a company? Did whoever it was for—whoever JM is—get to other people, and are there going to be more crimes like this? Relatedly, I need to see Helen Gaston in my office immediately, so somebody get on the horn to her and tell her to see me pronto. Let’s go to work people!” Jonny screamed as he started to get down from the desk, having given the officers who happened to be behind her a wonderful view of her ass of which they surely took advantage. Of course, “JM” meant Jonny Macs, but that did not have to come out just yet.

“Martinez,” he said to the officer whose desk he had commandeered, “there’s a guy named Arthur Fineburg who seems to have gone missing . . . fat guy with nerdy glasses and an accountant in the same building where the attack happened. I want to know where he is, and I want to know whether the fact that we can’t find his fat ass has anything to do with whatever happened on the roof tonight.” “Yes mam,” Martinez said, nodding and running off. Jonny slowly made his way to the chief’s office. He opened the door and made his way in, then closed the door again as he made his way into the room and looked at all the pictures on the walls, most of them of the chief in various big-time events. Jonny plopped his generous posterior down on the chair behind the chief’s desk and took stock of his handiwork, visible through the office window—the cops were in a state of only semi-organized chaos, all because of the malevolent spirit now inhabiting their curvy chief.

After a few minutes, there came a knock at the door. “Enter,” Jonny called out, and the door opened. The figure who stepped in was Helen Gaston, a woman of 29 years. She had received an MSc in accounting some years before—forensic accounting to be precise—and quickly found a job with the police station. Most of her time was spent tracking **** money that came in and out of local business that were suspected to be fronts for **** organizations and other illegal operations. Even well-laundered money had to go somewhere, and Helen’s job was to find it. In order to clamp down on corrupt cops, she also did periodic financial work-ups on the various members of the police **** just to make sure none of them were the target of improper influence from those who might want to have a cop in their pocket.

Helen’s work had not served her body well. Hers was a sedentary vocation, often done in front of a computer our pouring over accounting and tax forms, which she mostly did from her desk as she scarfed down doughnuts. Helen’s body was rather sloppy, with her breasts sagging under their own weight and a blouse about to surrender to her bouncing belly fat as she walked. Her rear and her legs were likewise abundantly pudgy, so she probably did not get out much. Thick glasses adorned her face, and her sense of humor left a bit to be desired. “Come on in Helen; have a seat, and close the shades,” Jonny said. Helen ambled in, closed the blinds in the office, and wedged her ass into a chair, which took some effort.

“Where are we on Brown?” Jonny said as he stood and walked around the front of his desk, plopping his beautiful form on the front of the desk and a few feet from Gaston. “I’ve done the numbers on him 2 or 3 times. He’s clean, no big money transfers into his account or that of anyone in his family. He must have just snapped . . . at least the people of the city can remember him as a good cop who had a psychotic break, not a dirty cop who was never on their side to begin with,” Gaston said positively.

“See . . . Helen, that’s no good for me,” Jonny said. Helen tilted her head to the side, confused. “What do you mea—“ she began, just before Jonny leapt from the desk and wrapped his host’s hands around Helen’s thunder-thighs, his eyes glowing a familiar red. Helen’s sloppy, fat-filled body relaxed as her eyes took on the same glow. “Helen,” Jonny said, “you’re going to forge some documents for me. I want you to create some records showing that Officer Brown was not the squeaky clean officer we all believed him to be. I want him to have gotten several large pay-outs from a certain person or firm of undeniably shady character who had some reason to want their mayor dead. I want the city to know that their white knight was really just a liar and a thief, I want their ideals crushed. Understand?” “Liar . . . thief . . . bribes,” came the mindless response of the enthralled woman. “Good,” Jonny said as he released the woman, “now get to it.” The accountant stood from the chair and left the office silently, off to shake the city’s faith in its golden boy.

Jonny walked back around and sat down at Selina’s desk. After a couple minutes of pondering, he hit a button on the phone, and a pleasant secretary-like woman answered. “Gladys,” Jonny said to the secretary, “there were people injured at the event tonight, and they’ll be in the hospital. I want to meet with them in the hospital, and I want the media there to see it, after which I want to spend some time alone with the victims. Get the on the calendar as soon as possible.” “Yes mam,” came the response over the phone.