Tuesday, 4 August 2009

The name's Hartman. Hank Hartmon. I'm a cop.
Two weeks ago, my partner was killed by a maniac known only as the Frenchman. He was 3 days away from retirement. I tracked down the guy responsible, but I broke procedure. They let him go, and I've been suspended. So I'm going to have to get justice myself.
I drink too much. Same with smokes. That's why I'm here in this shitty bar, drinking generic beers, and throwing back scotch like my neck's convulsing. But soon, I'll be faced with an important challenge in my quest for justice. I'll be able to stop the drinking straight away. Hell, I won't even shake. Be able to fire a handgun accurately up to half a mile, even though I've got a litre of alcohol in me.

Speaking of a litre of alcohol, I really need to pee. But I'm a Hollywood Cliché, and they don't use the bathroom. Not ever.

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