Lead Crime Scene Investigator Peter Laskey—average height, 30 or so, balding jaundice-blond with emerging gray hairs and matching walrus mustache, wearing the same CSI polo shirt as the rest of his team, and blessed with an extraordinary number of forehead wrinkles for a man his age, whom I had never met in person but a few details of whose reputation preceded him—came out of nowhere and failed to introduce himself as he told me with not a milligram of cheer, “Congratulations on the express train promotion from fired to detective.” I immediately prepared to go on the offensive by scanning his face for anything that could shed light on his hostility. His eyes told me he suspected some kind of favoritism was to blame, but his mouth bore the frustration of not knowing the details. His failure to offer a handshake was redundant in signaling that he didn’t care for me. “We’re being denied entry until they’ve inspected the whole building for asbestos.”
“I’ve hammered out an agreement with HIRT. They’re going to clear a path to the room for us as quickly as they can.”
He shrugged. “Are they removing the asbestos from the route?”
As far as I knew, they were not responsible for removing asbestos, but rather for verifying its absence. This distinction, however, seemed irrelevant to me. “They’ll be verifying that there isn’t any asbestos along the route before marking it with tape.”
He shook his head. “I want verification that any asbestos has been removed before I send my men in there.”
“Peter… If they’ve verified there’s no asbestos, there is nothing to remove. If they say there’s no asbestos here, that’s just as good as them saying, ‘there used to be asbestos here, but it’s been removed.’ Does that make sense?”
His voice rose to a level of hostility that pushed the norms of civility. “You’re playing semantics, and in this situation that means you’re also playing with the health and safety of my men. If you continue harassing me about this…” He left the threat unsaid as my irritation made itself apparent through my expression.
((Oh my God, he’s an idiot. I’m working with idiots. They gave me a team of nincompoops. Did they do this on purpose? Does the captain hate me? Is it because I’m the fuckup who he expects to fail miserably at her job and embarrass the squad, or is it because I’m Somers’s property?)) Then, an infuriating possibility occurred to me. ((Do they know whose body I’m looking for? Did they delay the CSI team intentionally, so that the demolition would happen before the investigators arrived? Did they send a bunch of incompetent slackers to thwart the investigation by fucking up the evidence collection?)) I fumed, as my hastily formed hunches gave the same answer for each question: ‘yes’ after ‘yes’ after ‘yes’. Or, more succinctly, ‘all of the above’.
He somehow took on an even more infuriatingly defiant tone. “Bachman, are you angry? Because if you take your anger out on anyone here, we’re going to have a probl—”
((He isn’t just an idiot, he’s an asshole.)) “No,” I said, cutting him off. “I’m not angry.” I was doing a terrible job of hiding the fact that I was angry, but as long as I didn’t violate his contractual or civil rights, that didn’t really matter. “I am merely struggling to communicate with you.”
“Perhaps you should work on your communication skills, then. I would expect anybody else in your position to be competent in them, but I can’t say you’re inspiring any confidence.”
I managed to keep myself from scowling. I did such a good job that I was able to smile. A furious, jagged smile, full of teeth that probably looked much sharper than they were.
“Esti, this guy is an obstacle, and you need to eliminate him.”
“You’re right,” I told her. “And I will do so as soon as an opportunity presents itself.”
Laskey’s eyebrows popped up briefly in surprise, then relaxed as he smiled in victorious satisfaction.
“Peter, you’ve been on the force for almost 10 years, right? That’s coming up on August 11th.”
At first surprised, then suspicious, he replied, “Yes. How did you know?”
“I remember dates. You celebrated 5 years of service in 2019; there was a party, I was invited, I didn’t attend because I didn’t know you. Do you know how long I had been on the force when they let me go?”
“No.”
“Twelve-and-a-half.”
He scoffed. “Barely a year.”
“Years,” ((dingus,)) “not months. I just said I was invited to your party 5 years ago, which means I’d have to be around at least that far back. Twelve-and-a-half years.”
“So?”
“I’ve been on the force longer than you. I worked the one beat that no one else could tolerate for the last year of my career. I was miserable. You know what I got out of slaving away as a meter maid, the most hated kind of cop, the scum on the soles of the shoes worn by other scum?”
“An officer of the month commendation.” He was smirking. Smirking. I wanted to slap him, which was unusual for me, I had never been violent in the past.
“I was kicked to the curb,” I said, maintaining my strained smile, which had some authenticity to it despite my rage, because I had something delicious planned for him.
“I heard you were underperforming.”
“My talents were misallocated. When I was rehired, I was given a job that better aligns with my skill set.”
“You have skills?” He was trying not to snicker at his own wit.
“I wouldn’t have this job if the chief didn’t like me.”
He scoffed. “We both know his liking you is the reason you have this job. Everybody knows.”
I nodded, and in a low voice, replied, “(We’re finally on the same page. If I go to Dennis…)” By using the chief’s first name, I was implying that he and I were close. “(…and tell him that my CSI team is unable to start their investigation because the Lead Investigator refused to accept the green light from another agency, and that, after I tried to explain to him why proceeding would be perfectly safe, he called me a ‘fire crotch whore’…)” I paused for effect, and his smirk disappeared. “(…do you think you would keep your job for as long as I kept mine?)”
His eyes grew big.
“He likes me more than he likes you. I wonder… if I were to look into your disciplinary history, would I find anything derogatory?”
Higher-ups love the word ‘derogatory’—and the people at the bottom hate it. It is a particularly potent invocation, an arcane utterance that cannot be countered by the simple magics of rank-and-file police officers, a curse whose effects they must instead endure with patience and courage and emotional restraint, lest they fall victim to its career-ending effects. He was silent as he struggled to figure out his next move. I could see the fear growing, wrapping around his face, like a vine choking a tree, slowly lapping up his sap.
“They’re going to be working on that route for the next hour. If you’d like, that can be your deadline for deciding to follow my orders. Does that work for you? Yes or no.”
“You’re giving me an ultimatum? This is bullshit,” he hissed.
“That was not a yes or a no, so I’ve decided to change your deadline. You have until I’ve finished setting up my account on my G-phone to tell me that you’re going in there.”
I unholstered my work phone and typed in my username.
“Ma’am, I don’t—” ((Oh, I’m ‘ma’am’, now? You’re scared shitless, ain’tcha?))
I shushed him and typed in my password.
“We can’t go—”
“‘Yes’ or ‘no’, Laskey.”
“But if they don’t fully—”
“Is that a ‘no’? Am I telling the big boss about your dereliction of duty, or are we doing our jobs once HIRT tells us it’s safe?”
My phone authenticated with the server and began configuring my email and apps. “Ma’am…”
“It’s gonna take a while for the contacts to load from the server, so at this point I would have to wait to call the chief, unless I knew his number by heart.” I opened the phone app and tapped in the chief’s number by heart.
He breathed an insignificant breath of relief.
“Unfortunately for you…” I showed him my phone screen, ready for me to initiate the call. “…I do know his number by heart.”
“Wait!”
I hit the ‘call’ button.
“Detective, please!” The phone rang once.
I reveled in his anxiety, my mouth stretching into a wide, satisfied smirk.
“Detective Bachman, I didn’t call you a— (fire crotch whore…)” He whispered ‘fire crotch whore’, fully aware that he shouldn’t be saying it. The phone rang twice.
“I didn’t understand you over the ringing, can you tell me what you didn’t call me a little bit louder?” The phone rang thrice.
“I didn’t say ‘fire crotch whore’,” he repeated a little more forcefully.
“You’re gonna have to say those last three words again.” The phone rang a fourth time.
“Fire crotch whore,” he enunciated, clearly, passionately, not shouted but plenty loud enough for all the other investigators to hear. The phone rang a fifth time as every head waiting by the hotel swiveled to face us, eyes wide with dreadful disbelief, darting back and forth between the man who had with frantic deliberation uttered those words and the tiny redhead woman at whom he had directed them. Under most conditions in that department, it was okay to say these kinds of things about a woman as long as either: A, only people other than her hear it, such that everyone can plausibly deny that it was said; or B, only she hears it, such that there are no witnesses to corroborate her claim. His sin was in allowing the two categories to mix.
Silence ensued, then, “Chief Plaut’s office, Tia Reagan speaking, how may I help you?”
Loudly enough for the other CSIs to overhear, I replied, “Hello Missus Reagan, this is Detective Andrea Bachman; I have a matter that the chief will wish to nip in the bud forthwith.” To Laskey, I whispered, “(It’s not too late.)” But he was frozen.
“Andrea… Oh! Of course, Detective, right away.”
Silence as I was placed on hold. “Laskey…?” I asked, giving him one last chance. But dread’s grip on his throat was so strong that he couldn’t speak.
The phone picked up. “Chief Plaut, what’s the problem, Detective?”
“Sorry to bother you sir, I would normally go to the concerned employee’s immediate superior, but this is a very delicate situation, and I believe you are the best equipped to deal with it.”
“Fire away,” he replied cheerfully.
“I’m putting you on speaker.” I tapped the button, then held the phone between myself and Laskey. “The Lead CSI for my current investigation, Peter Laskey, spoke a few interesting words a few seconds ago. Laskey, would you care to repeat them for the chief?” He was still petrified, unable to reply. “I’m sorry, Chief, he’s not complying. I suppose I’ll have to be the one to tell you what he said to me within earshot of his entire team.”
“Alright. What did he say?”
“‘Fire… crotch… whore’.”
His sigh was audible. “Can you take me off speaker, Detective?” I tapped and held the phone to my ear. “Andrea, this is… unfortunate, and unacceptable. Have him report to his superior immediately… one of the patrol cars can take him back to base. In the meantime, use your best judgment to pick a temporary Lead Investigator. If he or she performs admirably, he or she will take Laskey’s position permanently.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry this happened, Andrea, and on your first day back on the job, of all days. Have his words affected you?”
“It hurts,” I half-lied, “and I’m feeling somewhat unsafe now,” I lied, operating under the delusion that my work environment harbored no serious threats to my safety, “but I’ll be fine. I think a few days without the responsibility of a job did some good for my resiliency.”
“I’m glad you’re confident that you’ll make it through this, but even if the harm wasn’t permanent, we can’t tolerate Laskey’s sexual harassment. I’ll see to it this gets taken care of in a manner that satisfies the department’s standards as well as yours. In the meantime, continue doing your best.”
((Laskey’s tongue is doggerel next to your eager hands, Tommy—but all my complaints were shredded before they could make it to the chief’s desk. I couldn’t bring myself to report you. It would make me a hypocrite. And I don’t want you to think of me that way.)) We exchanged farewells and hung up. “Laskey, Chief wants you to report back to your supervisor. Immediately. Hitch a ride with one of the patrol cars.” He stood there dumbly, half angry, half scared shitless. “Laskey, I told you what the chief told me. Do you want to add insubordination to your growing rap sheet?”
He pondered his response, then, meekly, muttered, “(No, ma’am.)” He departed. I shivered. ((God damn, I’m a motherfucking girlboss.))
“Who wants a temporary promotion?” I asked the CSI team with a less-aggressive smile.
Several raised their hands.
“If you do a good job, you’re looking at a permanent promotion. If you fuck up, you will answer to the chief. Unless you feel confident you can do the job competently, keep your hand down.”
All but one disappeared; the remaining hand belonged to Georgina Dominguez, who’d had her 31st birthday back in March, standing 5′5″, boyish features, black hair in a bun, wearing the same white ‘CSI’-emblazoned polo and navy slacks as all the other investigators.
What little I’d overheard about Georgina indicated a skillful and willful diligence, and a ferociously competitive attitude towards climbing the ladder—so ferocious that she had a reputation for not hesitating to reach for opportunities by stepping on others or destroying their careers, whether by snitching on others’ procedural mistakes or going for the juiciest evidence on the scene or downplaying the importance of her fellow officers’ evidence in court to make hers more important. Everyone in her team, including her lead (but, unfortunately for her, no one higher up), tried to stay on her good side. In other words, she was the perfect replacement for the oppositional dick I had just disposed of—assuming she didn’t try to cut my throat, too. “Alright. Dominguez, you’re in charge. Don’t be afraid to make that clear to anyone who questions your authority.” I thought perhaps a hint of a grin showed through her serious exterior.
HIRT successfully blocking the demolition, the very enjoyable threesome in the van, bullying Jessica and Jacklyn into giving me what I wanted, obliterating Laskey’s career with a bit of manipulation and abuse of the favoritism that installed me, finding a replacement Lead Investigator who I knew would do everything short of sexually pleasuring me to prove herself my equal if not superior to me… These accomplishments left my brain buzzing like I’d just taken a few dozen doses of Adderall and sucked every cock that cruised down Adams Avenue at a kilodollar per head; I felt like nothing short of superhuman. I was getting things done, I was asserting myself, I was a boss.
And I wanted the victories to keep on comin’. A quiet voice fluttered up to me and landed on my shoulder and whispered that I might be the greatest detective of all time. And it was so, so tempting to believe it. So I did, for the time being.
But… there wasn’t any more bossing around to be done until the path to our objective had been cleared, so I checked my emails. To both my relief and my annoyance, I counted only a handful to keep me occupied until we could proceed.
The first was HR asking me to fill out a survey which I ignored but held onto in case I became desperate for a diversion.
The second was Data Systems Unit letting me know that my laptop was waiting for me on my desk, and that I had been granted full access to the SVPD Offender/Suspect Database, the CAP Unit SharePoint intranet site, and the CAP Unit Person of Interest (POI) Database, as well as limited access to the POI Databases of the Organized Crime and Domestic Extremism Units. ((Excellent.))
The third let me know that I had been granted unlimited access to the National Sex Offender Registry. ((I do not give a damn.))
The fourth was a reminder that until I completed Criminal Justice Information Services (or CJIS) Security Awareness Training, I would have to ask my supervisor, Detective Sergeant Daniel Matthews, to submit my requests to NCIC (the FBI’s National Crime Information Center central crime database), but I didn’t trust Matthews. Then again, I didn’t trust men in general. The only man in that entire department who had ever treated me with anything resembling sincere kindness and genuine character was Captain Hobarth, back in Parking Enforcement. (Or so I told myself.)
The fifth was my good ol’ pal Peter Laskey informing me that the CSI team was having to load their equipment the ‘long and hard’ way (his choice of words forced me to snicker), because they had been unable to park their van next to their loading dock.
A yellow BMW had parked in the reserved spot abutting the dock. A yellow flag popped up in my head.
The car couldn’t be moved because the clearance for that section of the garage was too low for the tow truck; and to complicate matters further the van was moved further from the loading spot by an unknown individual—and to make things worse, the key had been removed from the ignition, necessitating that they hunt down the spare.
I had a hunch, a dreadful hunch, which guided my hand into my coat pocket and curled my fingers around a key that I had used only once before, in the recent past. “Well. Okay. I fucked up.” I could feel my high slipping away. “They were late because of me, this place could have been demolished because of my mistake. This whole case could have been ruined because of my carelessness.” I spiraled. “I’m not cut out for this.” I scrutinized my badge with wretched self-disdain. “I’m not qualified to carry this. I’m the last person who ought to be on this case.”
“Esti, don’t blame yourself.”
“I parked in the CSI loading zone and stranded their van. I fucked up. This case was nearly completely fucked because of me.”
“It probably didn’t make that big a difference in time. You… um… did your business with those people in the time it took them to get here, it wasn’t a huge delay. And if it was a big deal, they should have phoned you to let you know about the delay, not send the warning via email.”
“If they’d told me what happened… I could’ve brought back the van key.”
“See? It’s not your fault.”
“Not my fault… entirely.”
She patted me on the shoulder. “No one’s perfect. Not even me.”
“You aren’t quite perfect. I’m far from it.”
“You’ve been doing a good job. You made one little mistake. And what really mattered was the warrant getting here in a timely manner, which it didn’t. The patrol officers made a much bigger mistake. You saved the day by getting these people to stop the demolition. And now, apparently, they’re letting you in within the hour, I’m guessing that’s your work, too. Your mistake cost them a few minutes, while your quick wits bought you time, cut the wait by 71 hours, and saved the day.”
“Hm.” ((It isn’t that simple…))
“Point to the part of my argument that’s wrong. Go ahead. Tell me I have no idea what I’m talking about.”
I thought about it. And I had nothing. She was right, my failure was outweighed by my success. “Alright. Thanks, Shosh. You saved me from crashing. But if I want to avoid future emotional catastrophes, I’ll need more victories. A string of them, an uninterrupted stream of success, to maintain my 737 MAX-worthy altitude. I need to be high-on-life at all times; if I allow my mood to falter for even a moment, I risk spiraling into oblivion. Eternal depression.”
“I think there’s something else wrong with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Worse than just depression, and it’s gonna kill you if you don’t rein it in, or something else just as bad. Most of the time you’re down in the dumps, but sometimes you’re very passionate, sometimes you’re… kind of wild. But I could never put my finger on it. Still can’t.”
“Huh.” I needed to be able to land and refuel eventually, but I was afraid I was going to crash instead, and spectacularly. I stared at Laskey’s email, which had so easily cracked the foundation of my ego after so many other events had built that ego up higher and higher. ((I’m so fragile. Not just depressive, I’m volatile. I need to see my psychiatrist. He’s kind of incompetent, though, he only ever responds to my complaints by filling out a sheet or two from his prescription pad.))
My purse was slipping off my shoulder, so I took it off to reposition it. And in the middle of the mess within the unzipped maw, I spotted a business card. I reached for it and read, ‘UCSV Medical Center…’ Two letters into reading the organization name, I remembered where it came from—the desk of the woman who had listened to me ramble about how horrible and hated I felt being a police officer then determined that I was unfit for duty. ((Yes. I should see Doctor Huygen, instead. I checked the time. It’ll be another 35 minutes until we’re ready to proceed.))
I dialed the number on her card and navigated a couple of automated menus until somebody picked up: “UCSV Medical Center Adult Outpatient Psychiatric, this is Margie, how may I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Andrea Bachman, I’m calling to talk to Doctor Huygen, she said she was accepting new patients. And she seemed to really want me to be one of them.”
“Yes, she is currently taking on new patients. Let’s see what we have… Oh, you’re in luck! There’s a cancellation tomorrow at 3:30. Does that work for you?”
((It’s after the end of my shift, so that should work for me. But…)) “That would be—I’m kind of—I’m thinking really fast and I need to talk to her. Like, now.”
“I can transfer you to our access and crisis line.”
“No, I need to talk to her, she was able to analyze my problems and help me when I saw her.”
“I’m afraid we can’t discuss protected health information over the telephone without prior written consent.”
“If I don’t talk to her now, I’m going to fall from a cliff into a pit of despair.”
Her tone shifted, becoming saccharinely gentle. “Are you safe, Miss Bachman?”
“Yes, but I feel like I’m really high in the air and like I’ll fall if—” I heard indistinct chatter in the background of the call. “—if I don’t talk to her, if I don’t do everything I can to keep myself going. I’m like a bullet train at full speed and I’m afraid of being derailed by something.” I waited for her to reply. “Hello? I’m kind of… scared. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.”
“Miss Bachman, Doctor Huygen just came out of her office and is able to talk to you.”
I heard the phone being handed over. “Andrea?” I felt comforted by her voice.
“Oh, thank God…”
“This is Doctor Huygen.”
“Yes, I recognized your voice.”
“You mentioned that you’re somewhere very high.”
“No, I’m sitting on the hood of my car.”
“Oh! So you’re safe.” Her voice swelled with relief. “Alright. You aren’t thinking about harming yourself, you’re simply feeling unwell.”
“I feel great. But that’s the problem. I feel good. No—better than good.”
“I see. That’s unexpected for someone with major depressive disorder. How long have you felt this way?”
“Since this morning. I officially have a girlfriend as of last night, I got my job back and a promotion to detective, my dream job… Getting my badge was absolutely magical. I got my first case, and I negotiated with some agents from the Department of Environmental Health to get them to make my job easier, I had sex with them to convince them to get them to work faster so that we can start our investigation, I—”
“I hate to interrupt you, Andrea, but did you say that you had sex with government officials for a favor?”
“Yes, in the back of one of their work vans. In exchange they agreed to prioritize clearing a path to the crime scene so my CSI team can do their job sooner.”
“Do you use sex to get what you want on a regular basis?”
((Do I? I do, now.)) “Before Saturday, no; and I only agreed to become someone’s sex slave to get my job this morning.”
“You’re saying… that you’re trading sexual favors in exchange for a career.”
“I don’t think the word ‘favors’ fully encapsulates the extent of my service to her.” There was silence on the other end. “Doctor?”
“Does any of this seem ‘normal’ to you, Andrea?”
“Um. It’s… not something most people would do as willingly as I have. Or… as enthusiastically.”
“I’m glad you still have a grasp on normalcy. Do you think that what you’re doing is healthy?”
“I’m happy. Well. For now, at least.”
“‘Happy’… Hm. Hopefully we can find a way to ensure your happiness is a healthy one. Have you ever felt this way before this morning?”
“The first time I took lomoxetine for a couple of weeks, about 12 years back. I felt like I could do anything I wanted to, and I started… (um…) stealing from people. Nothing valuable, just pencils and pens and sticky note pads and beverages and lunches. Just little things. I got a huge rush out of it. I thought I could be a great thief, with ambitions of someday stealing paintings and statues and fortunes. So when the time came to take the next step in my career as a thief, I started thinking about stealing people’s car keys and holding them ransom, and then maybe the cars themselves… but I blabbed to Doctor Freeman about my exciting plans before I did anything felonious, and he took me off the stuff.”
“Ah. I see. Have you been using any controlled substances as of late?”
“Other than Adderall, no. And—well, I’ve been microdosing psilocybin, but that isn’t doing anything as far as I can tell. But I definitely feel like I’m high on something right now.”
“Can you describe this high you are experiencing?”
“I have so much energy, and I feel driven. I have goals, not just dreams, goals that I know I can fulfill and I’m trying to fulfill them, and I’m good at the things I do so I know it’s going to be so easy to make them come true. My path has never been more brightly lit… and… the view from here has never been so beautiful.”
“That’s a pretty radical change in perspective from when we last spoke. I may have a new diagnosis for you, but the hospital’s HIPAA policies don’t allow me to discuss it over an incoming phone call. You and I and the rest of your care team will find a way to incorporate optimism and enthusiasm into your treatment, but with a little more moderation. And on the note of you receiving treatment, can you come in to see me, right now?”
“No, I’m at work. We’re inspecting the crime scene in half an hour.”
“Alright. Then we can wait for you to be finished with work. Can you spare an hour to talk with me in my office at the end of your shift?”
“I don’t really know how long this is going to take. It’s just one hotel room, but CSI could end up being extra thorough and send me into overtime.”
“Andrea, it’s very important that you see me as soon as possible so that I can help you land gracefully. If it’s at all possible, you would be doing yourself a favor if you were to wrap up what you’re doing as soon as is feasible, then come see me so that I can prepare you for a soft, cushy landing when you eventually come down. And if you can’t manage that before our office closes, you can come to our emergency department, where the on-call psychiatrist will give you the help you need.”
That last suggestion nearly sent me into a panic. “I’m not going to the emergency room! They’re going to think I’m crazy and they’re going to put me in a straitjacket and lock me up in a padded cell, and then they’ll take away my job again, my dream job, I don’t want them to take it away, I just got it, it’s been twelve years and just now I—”
“(Andrea, Andrea, you have no need to worry about any of that happening,)” she said softly, “(but I understand from experience that overcoming your fears can be an intimidating, complex, long-term process, and you don’t need to get started on it right away. So don’t worry about the emergency department unless you find yourself in danger. Just come see me right now so that I can help you.)”
“Okay, but… I can’t leave work right now.” My exact words earlier had been ‘I need to talk to her. Like, now.’
“Can’t you ask someone to take over your task?”
“No. I’m the only person I trust.”
“You’re not the only detective at the police department, I’m sure there are plenty of others with enough experience to fill in for the day.”
“I don’t trust them because—” I cupped my hand over the microphone and whispered, “—because the victim was someone the cops hated. And I have to be careful who I share information with.”
“There aren’t any other detectives you trust?”
“None.”
She sighed, then with muffled voices talked with the clerk for a couple of seconds. “Andrea, can you come in first thing in the morning? 8 o’clock?”
“That’s eating into my shift. I need to be here every moment of my workday to sift through the evidence.”
“What time does your shift start?”
“7.”
“Alright. If I come in at 5:30 in the morning to meet with you for an hour, will you be here?”
((It’s going to be hard getting up that early if the overtime runs too late, but…)) “I… guess I can do that.”
“Good. I’m relieved we were able to work something out that works for you. I’ll see you tomorrow at 5:30, bright and early. Stay safe. And remember, if you feel any urges to act on thoughts of harming yourself or others, please call 911 or have someone take you to the nearest emergency department.”
“Sure.” ((Yeah, right. I’m not going to the ER, and if I was stupid enough to let them put me in a straitjacket, I’d save myself the cost of an ambulance ride and just drive myself.)) We said our goodbyes and hung up. “(I am so fucked up.)”