"Let me see if I've got this straight," says Lt. Tank Driscoll, a.k.a. the douche. "You're telling me you're not here for questioning?"
Words cannot express how much he's loving this right now. Hericane and I standing in his station with hat in hand, asking for his help. After the way we made him and his buddies scamper away from the Mardi Gras murder scene like frightened mice.
Now he gets to humiliate us in front of those same buddies. And we have to take it.
Open mouth, insert s**t.
"That is correct," I tell him. "We're here because we need a favor."
"A favor." Tank's feet are planted far apart, and his hands are on his scrawny hips. His cheap navy sports coat is spread open wide as if to spotlight his package, as if to rub in the fact that he's won the biggest-d**k contest.
