Desmond Bryant stepped into the office with a heavy sigh.

Frowning at the shark like grin as boss John Mason was flashing him.

The smile was large and obscene, it made Desmond extremely nervous.

He'd been summoned from the basement hobble, who called an office up to the hallowed halls

of the top floor, and that could only mean one thing.

He was about to be handed another shitty assignment.

Come in, come in.

John said, his toothy grin growing wider.

Take a seat, Desmond, my boy, take a seat.

But another sigh, Desmond plunked himself down at John's desk, but said nothing.

Glaring at his boss with an open dislike.

At this John burst out laughing.

How's the new office, he said, letting up a cigar and blowing luxurious clouds of smoke into the air?

You settling in all right?

It's a goddamn shithole, Desmond snapped, and you know it.

And you shouldn't have been a bad boy.

John replied, blowing a cloud of acreage smelling smoke right into Desmond's face.

Bigging into a crime scene is an arrestable offense.

If I hadn't pulled the right strings, you could have been looking at some serious time.

You pulled strings to cover your ass.

Story of the century, he said,

do whatever it takes to get the scoop.

...