The Monster Within by Jeremy Laszlo

hanging up on him. This is not what I signed up for. These assholes are going to owe me big time if I have to lose more sleep over this. I don’t want my last month on the job to be one that’s full of blood, stress, and bodies.
    I hop into my Shelby and roar out of the parking lot, past the squad cars and the minivans, before I pull out onto the busy streets. The front of the building is littered with people being released, victims demanding more be done for them, concerned citizens making life harder, lawyers going to their various clients, and officers going about their business. It’s a madhouse at the front of the precinct and I’m completely fine with putting it behind me for a few hours to dismiss whatever it is that Owens is going to try and convince me of.
    My half hour lead is dwindling, thanks to traffic. By the time I find the apartments that Owens told me about, there’s already a sea of people standing around, trying to get a look at the scene. I’ve always been disgusted by the people that linger around crime scenes, trying to get a hint at what’s happening across the street. It’s the piece of human nature that makes me think that deep down inside, people are really just trash. Why do we need to know what’s going on in the houses of neighbors that we never knew, that we never cared about? Why do we see dead bodies in the shadows of garages across the way or suspect everyone of sinister, devious acts? I don’t approve of people expecting the worse of their neighbors.
    But what really drives me mad are the ghouls and the vultures who chase ambulances and flashing lights. They follow the defenders of the peace to the crime scenes and hope to get pictures or scoops so they can post their filth and trash online so other ghouls and vultures can read it and get their kicks. There’s too many people out there who like to hear the stories about how someone ripped apart some girl on the way home or how a mother butchered her husband while he slept peacefully in their bed because he wouldn’t let her go out with the gals. They’re perverts that feed on the carnage and suffering of people. It’s madness and there’s no reason people should like that sort of thing.
    I flash my ID to one of the uniforms who leads me in, telling everyone to scatter and get out of the way while I park up at the yellow line. Getting out of my Shelby, I lock her with a nervous feeling in the back of my mind. I hate it when there are crowds like this all around. I will pull out my pistol and end anyone who thinks that it’s cool to scratch my paint job. It’ll be the highlight of my day.
    “Get these assholes out of here,” I tell the uniform closest to me.
    Some dick with circular glasses and curly hair overhears me and shouts back at me, “We have just as much of a right to be here as you do.” The man’s holding up his smartphone, goading me into doing something stupid. This amateur probably thinks he’s some sort of liberal fighter for the common people, tearing down the walls of injustice and white oppression. I look at him, pulling off my aviators and approaching him. He stands his ground, holding his phone up like it’s some sort of shield to protect him. Fucking smartphones. Why do people need that much shit on them all the time? I wish the common Joe and Jane had a fucking clue how many times phones and computers end up being their downfall whenever they do something stupid.
    “You get your kicks by getting pictures of dead people?” I ask the man, who looks up from his screen to me, and then back to his screen, making sure that he heard what it was he thought he heard. I take another step closer toward him.
    “This is harassment, man,” the liberal dumbass chirps like a moron.
    “No, kid, it isn’t,” I tell him blatantly. “So if you’re looking to run down to the precinct to file a report against me, then go ahead. Just make sure that you fill it out properly. Make sure you tell them that you showed