Some cops love themselves. Some cops know they’re human garbage.

I was a parking cop, the rotten ichor stubbornly coating the bottom of the bin. I’d been there 12 years, tearing up parking tickets and watching the world pass me by from the comfort of my fancy air-conditioned tricycle. I refused to play by the rules. “ACAB,” goes the day’s refrain. I’m ashamed to admit that included me—the baddest cop in the department.

But even a bastard might redeem herself, if you give her a second chance.

Then I got lucky. A dame came into my life, the kind that rolls with hot commodities and deals in illicit medication. She forgave me my sins and gave me that second chance in exchange for my virginity, and helped me pick up the trail of a missing activist the police were doing nil to find.

I made my way to the Red-Light District to continue my search for our gone guy, where I made an unexpected customer: another dame, powerful and corrupt, only asking for a little company… and my complete and eternal loyalty, for which I would receive an easy grand and a special job. Then another dame with a knack for picking locks and pissing off her coworkers joined me in sexual servitude… then a pretty little cupcake and a dapper gentleman showed me what real men are like… then a doll with hazel eyes and a doctor of the dead joined my growing found family… In less than a week, I was drowning in nookie.

I could have stopped at the one dame, but I can’t resist a hot muffin or a silky creampie. My nose is as good at picking up on perfume as it is at sniffing out crime.

And I’m a sucker for the human bouquet.