Well I thought I'd do something a little different. There were several reasons for this, the primary one being catharsis; more explicitly, cathartic release from the agony that is Song For The Solo Dancer, which was driving me nuts. Frankly, I needed a break from it...and now, I can happily resume my – seemingly eternal – torture.

This standalone piece is, for me, an experiment in writing an internal monologue, which explains the somewhat funky punctuation; you don't, at least to my mind, think in complete sentences.

Finally, why Brass? I think Jim Brass is seriously overlooked in the CSI Fanfiction

Universe – I guess too many people are figuring out ways for Grissom to bonk Sara or Catherine [or both] or Sara to bang Nick...or something. Anyway, here's Brass with his singularly cynical view of the world.

Please review if you like this...or if you hate it. Thanks

I'm older than God.

At least that's what my joints tell me.

Each time I haul myself out of bed and stand before the bathroom mirror I wonder if I have really sinned that much.

That the lines on my face aren't a testament of having seen far more than any person should.

Sometimes, I wish I could forget. Of course it's hard to forget things that are imprinted on your soul with a phosphor-like intensity; it's no wonder that I feel like a photographic negative for the morass that optimistically calls itself humanity

Actually, it would have been nice if I had been reaping the wages of sin; they pay more than my current salary, the health plan, however, is questionable.

It's a wonder I'm not bitter.

What I am is tired.

I vaguely remember the words of a particularly ignorant philosopher rambling on about 'man's inhumanity to man' or something. Forget inhumanity, sick sums things up quite nicely: usually with a side order of stupid. Despite what television would suggest, your average criminal is not an insane genius, nor grievously wronged. Your average criminal is an idiot with neither the intelligence nor the social skills to articulate their issues.

Most people. Normal people. Respectable. Upstanding. Law-abiding people. That special one percent of the population. Take responsibility for their actions and get on with their lives. The rest look for an excuse.

Isn't there a contradiction?


How can one percent equate to 'most' of the population?

My maths. My rules.

Do I really think that ninety-nine percent of the population are criminals?


So why, if the majority of the population are criminals aren't we swamped in a continually expanding crime wave?

Simple. While the criminal population are stupid, even more are lazy and more still both lazy and stupid; the biggest challenge for these people is programming their video, which taking up the vast majority of their time and mental capacity, leaves few available resources for anything else...

...such as committing crimes other than passing on their questionable genetic heritage.

OK...maybe I am just a little bit bitter.

I believe in justice. But, perhaps more importantly, I believe that people get what they deserve; or they would...if I had my way. The law, to my mind, is not only an ass, but a purebred Jesus donkey complete with palm leaf parade and rapturous reception. Take the death penalty for example, it shouldn't be seen as a last-ditch exemplar of retributive justice but rather as a socially sanctioned cleansing of the gene pool.

Of course, if I had control, the death penalty would be proactive and retrospective.

How, you may ask, can a death penalty be retrospective? Simple. Not only will those who have committed a capital crime be summarily dealt with, but also those who have thought about committing a crime, those who watched someone committing a crime and those who watched someone thinking about committing a crime...

...and their families.

Just to make sure

I was talking to Grissom the other day, hardly surprising since I work with the man, but the crux of the conversation was that I should get a life; this, from Grissom. I thanked him for the thought but questioned whether someone whom had gone rapidly from racing Beetles to playing 'hide the appliance' with a certain 'Lady of the Night' was really in a position to provide a balanced assessment of my leisure-time activities.

But that's Grissom for you.

It's never ceases to amaze me just how many people underestimate the man. Let's face it; if the rumours of Grissom's ignorance of human foibles were accurate then Helen Keller was a televangelist. It's true that at times he's annoyingly oblivious to what's right in front of his nose – something that is generally Sidle-shaped - but oft times he's deliberately oblivious. I think maybe that's Grissom's way of letting people down gently, or at least giving them the opportunity to give up gracefully. For all that Grissom will remove your lungs manually if you screw your work, up he can be disarmingly empathic; look at how he deals with Greg.

When Sanders hit this place I seriously thought about resigning. I felt old. It was like the department had hired my daughter, except that Greg is male and has less fashion sense. During the first week of Sanders I thought Grissom was going to pitch a fit from which he'd never recover for not only did Greg tell Grissom not to bother him, but he also informed Grissom that he was 'down' with procedure and that the Ramones helped him think.

Al Robbins swears he saw Grissom tying a noose in his office.

The only thing that stopped Gil ceremonially lynching the lab tech was the presentation of five lab reports, four DNA samples, three fibres tracked, two suspects cleared and the closing of a ten-year-old case in record time, with no errors; it was like Christmas had come early.

Not that Grissom said anything complimentary to Greg about this; instead he asked why the lab tech hadn't completed the blood work from the multiple nun explosion of the previous week and while Greg went off and sulked and Grissom went and had Greg's pay increased.

Not that he told Greg.

Of course obliviousness isn't the special province of Grissom; when you get down to it Catherine and Warrick are right up there when it comes to gormless ignorance. I'm not sure what the problem is but I'll accept any odds that Catherine's attitude is at the heart of things. While Cath is an excellent CSI, I can't help but think that her time as a stripper has hardened her heart towards the softer side of the human experience; added to that her time as a CSI and I wonder how she manages to raise her kid as well as she does.

You deal with the dregs of human society for long enough and you become like me, and Cath's had it double dose. Sure, Catherine likes men, or reasonable facsimiles thereof: I won't stoop to labelling that scumbag of an ex-husband of hers a 'man'. Also, she's hardly celibate, but I sometimes think she sees men as schmoes or punters and not as a potential mate, and yet, she still flirts with Warrick constantly; maybe she sees him as some sort of untouchable emotional redemption that she won't allow herself to have.

And then there's Warrick.

There's a demon on that man's back and he won't let it get off no matter how much the demon might want to leave. Maybe if Warrick spent a little less time waiting for himself to screw up and a little more time stopping to sniff and smell what's right under his damn nose he might actually get what he wants. Ever since he started, he has been drawn to Catherine like a paedophile to a scout hall.

Forget I said that. I've been here too long. Let's just say that he found Cath attractive from the outset.

It's pathetic.

I thought about locking them both in the cells overnight but decided that was, even by my standards, inhumane. I enjoy playing bad cop-worse cop as much as the next person, but no prisoner should have to be subjected to those two for an extended period; it's almost, but not quite, as bad as the passive/aggressive display that is Sidle on the prowl. Watching Sara, it's no wonder that Grissom ran screaming into the arms of Lady Heather. Yes. No. Yes. Maybe. Yes Hank Yes. No. You Bastard. Make up your mind Grissom. Yes. No. It was enough to make me dizzy and I was just watching.

But what do I know?

My home life is hardly an exemplar of the American domestic bliss. If someone were to paint it, it would more likely be Munch's 'Scream' or possibly Hopper's 'Nighthawks' the image resonates, especially the lone figure with his back to the street. It's not loneliness. Isolation is perhaps a better synonym. Self-imposed isolation. But unlike the figure in the painting I can't turn my back.

The city won't let me.