Even in small city America there'd been crimes that were unknown to occur between just average joe shmoes who hate each other. There were waves of drugs and waves of people being skinned. "No regard for the human life," small groups of detectives would arrive, cotton in ears, heavy-scented menthol under their noses, rubber gloves, and booties on shoes. "This shit is primitive." A lady detective would hush and hand out basic forms for recording wounds and gunshots, and observations. "We'll have to update these," one told a superior as the crime scenes kept getting weirder and weirder.
"Did you yell at my kid?"
"Not really yelling." The torso skin on the person had been slashed quickly and pulled up towards the head. "Not sure, quickly, maybe jaggedly or..."
"Didn't really yell at, but strongly suggested the kids leave the room. I hate them getting so desensitized about all this and what's his face can't finish a meal before talking case."
"Why would they leave this man's hands on him but take the rest?" A detective reached for it and took it in hand to feel for warmth. The squeeze woke the wounded.
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