The Way They Flinch at my Touch
This is my first L.A. Noire fanfiction, and the first fanfiction that I will really stick to as I enjoyed writing it so much. I'm a newbie to this so constructive criticism is welcome, don't forget to take a couple of minutes to review as it inspires me to continue writing! Thank you!
"That's it! Get lost, you freak!" yelled Wiston as he took another drink of whisky from the scratched tumbler in his worn hands. The woman he was referring to as a freak was around mid-20s and was wearing a hitched up violet skirt and flowery vest top, she was not the mutant that Wiston implied, in fact she was quite pretty, if you thought about it.
"Wiston, just calm down and have another drink." Charlie, the bartender said in his calming tone, taking the tumbler from Wiston swiftly. I sat on the battered old stool inside our favourite bar, Ripley's on 6th street and Sheerin. My name is Jim Plarity and I am a detective at LAPD. This is me and my partner, the aforementioned Wiston Trail's night off. After trying to catch a ride with the woman, if you get my meaning, Wiston isn't very happy. She tried to pull some fancy new move on him she had learnt in her experiences, and he wasn't having any of it.
Nothing much has happened down at the station recently, a few assault cases but nothing major. That's good for most of the force, as they get to relax and put their feet up for a while, but not for me. I love my job, and I love it because it involves being active, being inquisitive. I'm new to the department, you see, and I need to make my mark in the horde of detectives trying to impress the captain, James Donnelly. I work in the Homicide department, and not a single murder has taken place in Los Angeles for 3 weeks. And believe me, for L.A. that's a very, very rare occurrence. It seems that almost every day there is usually a new psychopath on a rampage in the mean streets of California. As the title of my department suggest, we often come across a lot of homicide cases and the culprit is usually some homeless buff who a woman has done wrong and now he's hell bent on killing every female he sees. I don't think anyone quite knows why it's the women that seem to be targeted, I guess it's because they don't put up much of a fight. If you tried to castrate a man, I'm sure you'd be on the floor with a broken jaw faster than you could say 'aberration'. There are some tough guys in Los Angeles, and a lot of them are in senseless gangs, who walk the streets, laying into anyone that gets in their path of violent destruction. I'll be honest, the LAPD aren't good with gangs, sure we have guns, but the enemy always seem to be able to get one up on the small number of cops that we can afford to send out to deal with them. They always, I repeat, always have the faster cars. We have no idea how they get them, the main theory is that they have them shipped from other parts of the state and then tweak all the mechanics in a garage somewhere up north, where we currently have two patrol teams set up to catch them with the finely tuned goods.
It's now 1:07am, Wednesday 11th April and I'm still sat with Wiston, watching him drown his imaginary sorrows in glass after glass of Ripley's finest whisky, brandy and any other form of alcohol he can get his hands on. I'm stone cold sober as I'm the designated driver, apparently. I've been sipping on water for about three hours and it's starting to taste like the end stall in the men's bathroom, which coincidentally is where Wiston and the 'freak' had their little interaction earlier in the evening. The only other people in the bar are a few regulars, sat on the same line of stools as us, chatting between themselves and then a possibly married couple in a booth in the back corner. I think they must own around five records in Ripley's because every time we enter the bar, the same songs play on repeat. Luckily, our favourite bartender Charlie is on hand for a chat and a cigarette, when he isn't being pestered by one of the regulars for another round of drinks, that is. Charlie is a good man, around mid-40s, with dark skin and large brown eyes. He is married to a lovely woman called Marie and they have a fourteen year old son called Liam whom I have never met personally, but we get plenty of tales of his son's antics from his father, so I feel like he's one of my closest friends.
As Wiston orders another round, a strange looking man walks into the bar; he looks young, about 25 years old I would say but with a mysterious look in his eyes. He is wearing a large brown coat and black work trousers with 'ER' printed on the front of each garment. He keeps a stern face and walks steadily into the bathroom at the back of the bar. This bar is old and you can hear the faucet running. After about a minute of this, the door opens again and the man begins to make his way out, and that's when I see the spot of blood on his collar.
Thank you very much for reading the whole thing if you did, I appreciate it. Hope you like the cliffhanger. If you can, please review it as it inspires me to write more and hopefully improve upon my work. I know this chapter is a little short but I needed to put this out there to see if anyone would like it. Thank you again.