jean vicquemare

Don't pity yourself. You've managed not to die thus far. You'll manage now.

Don't make this about Lieutenant Kitsuragi. He's a *great* cop -- and you almost got him killed. I don't even understand why you're *here* after he got shot.

Thank you, Cuno, (he says with an amused half-smile.)

Did you? (He adjusts his tie.) Or did you literally not recognize my face?

(‟You seem like a bit of a drag. No offence, but I could do better.”)
None taken, my friend -- none taken. (He waves his hands.) Let's be honest, there's been some purely fictional talk in our imaginary station in regards of who'd even *be* worthy of your partnership...

Harry... you're bleeding all over the place. You're half dead.

Even the insect -- I don't care. But you're an *alcoholic*. And you've been drinking -- again. I won't let my life unravel because of this.

Let's be crazy... let's say you and I are partners. How's that for a thought experiment?

Harry, you're a cop with 'Pissf****ts' on his back!

No, Harry -- FUCK YOU. You already fucked us -- I've already explained this shit to Pryce *twice*. To Berdyayeva -- *four times*. I'm your partner. I answer for you when you're not there.

Where have *we* been? We've been fucking off, as far as I remember. (He crosses his arms.)

Oh, you think it was *cool* -- you saying that? *Aesthetic* somehow? You were crying when we got here. Breaking things. You said we were going 'into the abyss'. None of us wanted to see the abyss, so we fucked off. (He sighs.) Like you told us to.

Did he lose his memory along with his fucking badge? (The man in the background sounds like he's losing his patience.)

Fucking *politics* again... You know what I'm more interested in?
(‟No.”)
You solving the case you're on. (He takes a quick breath.) I'm passionate about that. So maybe -- get to it?

*Far Out* Son of Liver Failure -- the supercop who voluntarily enters an alcohol induced delirium to solve crimes.

You know what he told me? 'I don't want to get better -- I want to get worse.' Those were his words.

The tie's talking again -- that's it. No more phasmid-talk. There's no PR-value in delirium tremens.

Lieutenant -- is it somehow *connected* to the case? (He pays you no heed.)

(However, your partner -- JV -- is against the removal, citing public support for conservation.)

There's one less person for me -- and everyone else -- to rely on.

Harry, you're a cop with 'Pissf****ts' on his back! Do you have any idea how hard the liberals are going to fuck us for this?

Harry, you're a cop with 'Pissf****ts' on his back! Do you have any idea how hard the liberals are going to fuck us for this?

You're not going to believe this, but... (The man pauses for dramatic effect.) ... police officers! Yes sir, solving crimes, locking up bad guys and... *AND* get this... and *not* getting their drink on at two o'clock.

(The man doesn't reply. He's too busy furiously squinting at you.)

That's right -- 'worried'. I'm always worried about you. Every time you don't show up to work, or when you do -- but *stink*. You're a *worry-fest*. She's worried about you. I'm worried about you. Even Special Consultant Backpedal is worried about you.

(He collects himself again -- dusts off his black suit, although it's completely clean.)

Okay, Trant, thank you. That's absolutely meaningless. You really are a lefty dink. Will he or will he not be able to work in the Major Crimes Unit? Is he a cretin now? I want to know *that*.

Fuck you, you're part of this shit-show.

He can't be a cop, Harry. He's twelve. And he says 'f****t' every four seconds.

Thank you, Cuno. You bring light to my day.