The boot was opened and Mitch was blinded by the sun once again. He couldn't even become infuriated as he was before because he was struggling to even exhale, forget inhaling. He was all mangled in the boot and holding his abdomen. He felt like crying.
"You..fuckin...asshole" he managed to wheeze out. The boss grabbed Mitch by the lapels of his coat and pulled him up.
"Alright come on" the boss said, followed by a slap to Mitchs face in an attempt to get him to gain more consciousness and steady himself. "How many fingers?" He held up three fingers in front of Mitchs face. Mitch blinked and stared at the fingers
"Four?"
"No but damn close. You're fine" the boss pulled him out of the boot and steadied him "now come on. Quick time, quick time, quick time." He rushed up the steps of the police station and through the doors.
Mitch felt like he was in slow motion. He weakly shut the boot door and made his way up the steps and into the station. Slow and steady. He entered holding his stomach. Trish made her way over to him.
"Again? He nodded in response. His face contorted into a pained expression. "Here sit down" she said as she guided him to a chair and sat him down.
He saw surfer shirt man Tony smoking and talking to another man, also smoking. Why do they all smoke? It's suffocating and disgusting.
The other man had a moustache. It's not a moustache, it's a perm. If it's not a perm, it's a mullet. If it's not a mullet, it's a fucking moustache. Well he can't really talk. He had a moustache and a mullet at the moment. He liked it if he was honest and he cant necessarily be mad, Every decade has it's symbolic fashions and cultures. It's just does every single fucking man or woman or anything he looks at have to have at least one? It's tiring.
The boss came out of his office to begin writing on the whiteboard.
"So." He announced aggressively, gaining everyones attention.
"Tony?"
"Nothing"
"Robins?"
"Nothing"
"What the fucking hell is happening to this department? Neither of you could find me anything? Robins did just have a chat with some old bints. Play a bit if bingo with them to did you? Absolutely fucking useless"
Mitch had to intervene.
"Don't do that?"
"Do what?"
"Both DI Kennedy and PC Robins found no lead you didn't have to single out Trish."
"Oh I see are we getting friendly with 'Trish'?"
"No that's her name also shes a PC. It's worse that a DI got nothing" he saw Tony frown and turn towards him
"Thanks"
"I'm just saying" the boss continued
"Well dont...and Kennedy step your game up you slushy brained punk. Wes?" The moustache guy made his way over to the whiteboard to attach things with magnets.
"So I was able to get a few absences. Phoned around and I got a match to the description. Kenneth Fronzo."
"Address?"
"Right here" He pointed to the board.
"Right. Robin's you go over take a picture show to whoever answers the door" Mitch intervened again
"Woah. No you can't do that"
"Why cant I?"
"You cant just show a picture of a possible dead relative to whoever answers the door"
"Why. Cant. I?"
"What if it's a child, his wife or his mother who answers the door? And its not proper policing"
"Dont you dare talk to me about proper policing I'll give you a slap maybe a harder punch directly to your ribcage" the boss had made his way over to Mitch and was standing infront of him. Towering over him. He stopped to think. What is wrong with his brain? Why, of all people or things or whatever, does this have to be what he imagines? Why does this irritating bastard have to be his boss?
Mitch stood up infront of the boss. Almost squaring up to him and the room was dead silent. He shrugged.
"Do it. I'm still going to get back up and annoy you" the boss glared down at him.
"Well what do you suppose we do, Poirot? Just wave Au revoir to our murderer and entire case just because you're too much of sensitive froggy bastard?"
"Now you see..." Mitch sighed "That bit of racism doesnt work because Poirot is Belgian"
"...Smartass"
"Thanks. You have to go to the address and ask if anyone knows a Kenneth Fronzo and if they do you say that we suspect Kenneth was murdered and we need someone to come into the morgue to identify the body. That's how it works. That is code of conduct, in the books, in black and white"
"Will you shut up for five minutes?...Robins what are you still doing hear you daft cow? You've got a job to do so fucking do it" Trish nodded
"Yes sir. Am I going to need a photo?"
"Fuck the fucking photo and fuck off" The boss turned back to write on the whiteboard and Trish left. Mitch took that as his cue to sit down.
"So we have a name and we have an address. What is this?" The boss pointed at the board and the moustache leaned over with his cigarette hanging out his mouth
"The company he worked for. They have a site just around the corner"
"Right loud mouth here is looking a bit faint. He could do with a walk. Get out." Mitch rose from his seat that he had literally just sat down in. He looked at the board to see the street name and left.
He hated everything right now. He hated that he was here. He hated that he couldn't breathe. He hated the stupid figments he worked with. He hated the stupid fucking figments that walked past him. He hated the cars. He hated the walls. Anything and everything he saw, he hated it.
Say if these people were real. It was clear that the boss suffered with an aggressive personality disorder, he's definitely controlling. All this 'Robins check this' after his women detectives remark just seems like some form of dementia. Or just good old hypocrisy. He's so loud and obnoxious. He has to either shout or punch something every few minutes. Mitch wondered what would happen if he didnt shout or punch something every few minutes. He'd probably spontaneously combust. Ugh fuck him.