I have something I’ve very proud of: I’ve kept every single New Year’s resolution throughout my life. I have never failed to live up to my expectations, delivering on my promises to myself decade after decade. What I’m particularly proud of is the fact that I’ve managed this feat without so much as lifting a finger on my part, having accomplished this challenge just by being myself.

“How is this possible?” you clamor, wishing to eat from the tree of my knowledge.

The secret is so simple that anyone can do it (even you, profligate). Ready? Here it is:

I don’t make any damned New Year’s Resolutions. And you know what? It feels great.

“But Mr. Harrison,” you say, “you’ve written articles on setting goals and having structure in your tasks, especially in regards to writing.”

You are correct, young Padawan, but there’s a big difference between setting solid goals based on long term commitment vs. jumping on a train you know is going to derail a week into the New Year.

I fully understand the concept behind the New Year’s Resolution. You set goals for yourself, you announce them to the world, and then you hope that in doing so you will not only have committed yourself, but that other people will recognize what you are trying to accomplish and remind you when you stray, keeping you on course to achieve a monumental new step in your life. This works in many support group scenarios, such as exercise partners, AA, and crime syndicates.

When it comes to New Year’s resolutions, however, there’s one tiny snag that unravels the whole sweater of support and pressure to succeed. There’s a technical term for it used in scientific circles, a condition known as “nobody gives a shit.”

It’s critical to understand the core difference between a dedicated support group of like minded individuals vs. the mass rabble shouting into the abyss about all the things they are going to accomplish come hell or high water. The reality is that when everyone is making resolutions, nobody is paying any attention to yours. Add to that all sorts of unrealistic expectations and poor planning, and you’ve got a recipe for total failure.

Real change takes real commitment, not just jotting something down or verbalizing it. It requires a change in your daily habits and a state of conscious vigilance in order to correct the bad habit you’re trying to ditch or adhere to the good habit you’re trying to form. These things do not happen overnight; time and energy must be invested. There is no deity that descends on New Year’s who hands out patience, grit, and determination. That has to come from within.

It’s my belief that you are better served not joining the crowd in making resolutions, in caving to a tradition where failure is an expectation and thus an easy way out. “I didn’t keep my resolution, but really, who does?” Unacceptable. You made a choice to change, so do it. Make the choice, make a plan, and execute on it. Do it when people aren’t all trying the same thing. Try summer in Phoenix, when people are trying to not die in the sun. You’ll find a certain catharsis that comes from being out there on your own, finding your own way and pushing through your own shortcomings and hesitations.

Should you have support? Absolutely. That’s why it’s important that you make goals when people aren’t focused on their own. Choose one or two people who will be as committed as you are, because they’re going to be in it for the long haul. Outside of that, put on blinders and earmuffs. All you’re going to get from others is either criticism or false hope.

Or don’t do any of that, tell yourself on December 31 that you’re going to lose 20 pounds in 2015, join in the rabble as they take turns going around the table talking about their resolutions and not listening, then go eat a whole box of BoSa donuts on January 5 and sob while you sell off all the exercise equipment you just bought.


A.C. Harrison
Like what you see here? Spread the word and support indie authors! Follow me on Facebook or Twitter. Find me on Smashwords and Kindlemojo.

A quick post this week just to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I hope that everyone is getting some time off to spend with their family and friends. Next week I'll be back to my normal updating schedule, and I have a list of blog topics to produce, so you can look forward to some fresh and interesting reading.

In the meantime, I'll be continuing to edit "Unto Persephone." Also, as a reminder: "Jupiter Symphony" is on sale from now until the New Year. You can find it at Amazon, Smashwords, and other ebook retailers for only $2.99. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

A.C. Harrison
Like what you see here? Spread the word and support indie authors! Follow me on Facebook or Twitter. Find me on Smashwords and Kindlemojo.

Disclaimer: writing is hard. Writing professionally is harder. Writing as your sole source of income can be nearly impossible.

The world is full of talented, bright authors, all putting forth their best effort and producing brilliant works. For whatever reason, though, they never manage to gain traction, either spending their lives composing epics that will never be read, or else quitting the game altogether, letting their dream job slip through their fingers.

If you fall into either of these camps, I have one word for you: don't. Don't give in. Don't give up. Right now I'm grappling with the first major hurdle in my emerging career as a writer. November marked the first month that saw a downturn in site trafffic, and December is on track to come out about even. Now, I attribute some of this to the holidays, but if anything I would like more traffic and more eyes on my work during the shopping season.

My sales surge from my book launch was nice, and I've had a handful of reviews come in, all positive. I've seen my first external sales (beyond family and friends) and even received my first royalty payment. The problem is I've hit sales wall, and things have gone completely flat over the course of the last month.

I could give up, admit the world is cruel and cold, and walk away.

I won't.

I could scale things back, writing for fun and releasing my books whenever they happen to finish.

I refuse.

I got into this for the long haul. Writing professionally is something I avoided for the longest time because of fear of failure. Now that I'm in it, I'm not going to concede defeat at any point.

So the question stands: what's the problem and how do I fix it?

As the great Hattori Hanzo of Kill Bill fame said, "...like a forest, it's easy to lose your way... To get lost... To forget where you came in." It is of the utmost importance that one finds their way the forest, that they discover what it is that is holding them back and vanquishes it. This involves a plan of attack. I like plans of attack.

Let's go through this together, so others that are in the same boat can follow along, yes?

The first step is to take inventory.
I have a published novel. Good.
I have a professionally done book cover. Excellent.
I have a number of growing book reviews, all positive. This could be improved on.
I have a social networking base that I use to promote my brand. This can be scaled up.
I have a book description that I wrote in haste the night I was pushing to get my book online. Ah, now that's something, isn't it? We'll come back to it.
I have no exposure on major book blogs, websites, or podcasts. This is something I clearly have been deficient in.

So, if we break things down, we find that even though I am getting lots of eyes on my work (despite not having as much exposure as I need), these viewings are not resulting in purchases. Book description, I'm looking at you.

The weak points have been identified; now I can put them in order and knock them down.

First thing is first, I'll be doing research on book descriptions and finding out what makes for a compelling blurb that makes a potential reader into a buyer. What gets people to really sink their teeth in? This is something I can do even with my day job, and so it will get top priority.

Social networking can be rolled into lack of major exposure. This is where things get tricky. Do you need to sell books to get exposure, or do you need to get exposure to sell books? Well, I'm not selling books and I don't have exposure, so it's likely the second option. In this I will need to exercise patience and allocate my resources carefully, those being time and money. As I've said, I can't quit my day job. So we start small scale. Develop a game plan that may involve writing reviews for other new authors and asking them to read and reciprocate. Reach out to smaller blogs and offer to do a guest article. After that, it's merely a matter of scaling up.

Will this work? There is absolutely no way to tell, but it's essential that anyone with a professional mindset take the time to analyze their situation and find the best way to move forward. This is not a one time thing, either. In six months or a year, circumstances will have changed and it will be time to take inventory again. This is a loop, a habit, a methodology that has to become engrained if you are an independent author. You are your agent, you are your publisher. Strap on your boots, put on your gloves, and get out there.

At the end of the day, it'll ask everything of you. All you can do is drive forward with true grit. After you've done absolutely everything in your power to make things work, then you can blame fate. Anything else is just giving up on your dream.

A.C. Harrison
Like what you see here? Spread the word and support indie authors! Follow me on Facebook or Twitter. Find me on Smashwords and Kindlemojo.

As I may have mentioned before, while I edit my second novel I'm also working on various side projects. Chief among them is a series of novellas titled "Whisky & Rye," featuring two loose-cannon detectives that play by their own rules, roll hard in a Darth Vader black GNX, and still think it's 1979. The project is moving along so I'm finally able to give a (rough, unedited, probably crap) early preview for your enjoyment. Enjoy "Whisky & Rye, Episode I: On the House."

Chapter I

*clink* *clink* *clink*

With each flick of the weathered thumb, the black and gray cloth interior of the car was illuminated for the briefest of moments. Tiny sparks arced through the air, disappearing less than a heartbeat later. With one final, authoritative *CLINK*, the lighter sprung to life, a tiny flame flickering and dancing, only to be brought to a waiting mouth where a cigarette hung limply. Bringing his other hand up to hold the cigarette steady, Detective Rye lit the cigarette and extinguished the lighter, the soft cherry glow lingering on in the already smoke filled car. Shifting in the passenger seat, Rye leaned forward and squinted, looking out over the squat warehouse that sat across the street from the alley he was parked in, hard, steely eyes seeking out any movement, any hints at what could be going on inside.

The low, ugly building offered up no answers from its flecked white paint and boarded up windows. It stood mute amongst larger, more legitimate warehouses that surrounded it. Through bleary eyes, Rye checked his watch. 3:25 in the morning. Nineteen hours on stakeout. A jet aircraft roared through the darkness overhead, making a final approach to Phoenix Sky Harbor. Then the detective snapped awake, his senses tingling, as he saw what he had been waiting for. A pair of headlights bobbed and hopped over the pockmarked back roads leading up to the warehouse. Leaning in, Rye could just make out the shape of a white panel van, an old company name roughly scoured off the side, the letters still partially visible. Leaning over, Rye elbowed his partner in the driver's seat, jostling him awake.

"Whisky," Rye whispered. "Whisky, wake up."

Detective Whisky only groaned in response, so Rye delivered an elbow to the man's gut, lurching him awake.

"Jesus, what!?" Whisky shouted as he awoke, snarling and karate chopping blindly at the air.

"Get it together, Whisky," Rye said, looking directly at his long-time partner. "It's on."

Reacting to his partner, Whisky sat up, bringing his chair back from the reclined position it had been in.

"Hand me those binos," he said. "Get on the horn and let HQ know 'the hen house is full.'"

"10-4, pardner," Rye said, passing over a large set of high magnification binoculars before reaching for the dust encrusted radio unit that sat askew atop the dashboard.

Whisky took the humongous binoculars and set them atop the steering wheel, leaning in and focusing on the van as it squeaked to a stop, brake lights momentarily lighting up the side entrance to the warehouse. At the same time, Rye began fiddling with the dials on the radio, getting a clean channel back to police dispatch.

"Show me your naughty bits," Whisky whispered to himself as two Hispanic men got out of the front of the van, one holding a rifle and looking around cautiously as the other moved to open the back door of the vehicle.

"Dispatch, this is Bootlegger," Rye spoke in hushed tones, paranoid they might be spotted.

A sigh came through the other side, followed by the voice of a woman putting forth every effort not to walk out on her job.

"Bootlegger, this is dispatch, go ahead."

"The hen house is full," Rye hissed. "I repeat, the hen house is full."

Whisky was now tingling with excitement, events playing out in rapid order. He zoomed in closer on the van and focused the binoculars, watching as several young women, barely clothed, were roughly hauled out of the back of the van, their high heels clicking on the concrete, short skirts moving in the breeze and failing to hide the flesh underneath. Meanwhile, the radio exchange continued.

"Bootlegger, what the hell are you talking about?" the woman on the other end said, exasperated. "And for God's sake, can't you just say Detective Rye?"

"Oh shit," Rye said, immediately reaching over to the radio and scrambling all the dials. "Code blue, Defcon 5, red alert."

"What, what happened?" Whisky demanded.

"She used my name. We might be compromised," Rye said angrily.

"Shit!" Whisky swore, looking back through the binoculars and seeing that the group had moved inside the warehouse. "Then we can't wait for backup, we have to go in now."

"Rock and roll," Rye said, reaching down into the footwell to pick up his blued Smith & Wesson Model 29, the 8 3/8" blued barrel gleaming in the moonlight. The detective casually opened the cylinder and ensured the gun was loaded. On the back of each casing were the words ".44 Magnum."

"Make my day," Whisky chimed in, pulling a 6" blued Colt Python in .357 Magnum from his shoulder rig before slipping an unlit cigar into his mouth, the end already heavily chewed.

"Wait, wait, wait," Rye said suddenly. "Hold on."

Reaching into the breast pocket of his short-sleeved dress shirt, he pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboros. Flipping the top open, he extracted a fresh cigarette, lighting it off the one that was already in his mouth which he had started on only minutes ago. He tossed the old cigarette out the window where it landed in a substantial pile that had grown next to the car during the stakeout. He then opened the glove box and pulled out a steel flask, quickly twisting off the top. He then proceeded to drink copiously from the container, gulp after gulp, small rivulets of alcohol running down the sides of his mouth to mix into his mustache. The drinking went on for several minutes until Rye finally pulled the flask away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and capping the flask.

"Okay," he said. "Let's--"

"Wait, wait, wait," Whisky said, his own flask now in his off hand, the cap already off.

Leaning back in his chair, Whisky proceeded to drink, his Adam's apple bobbing as he consumed a frightening quantity, finally finishing with a satisfied sigh, promptly followed by a roiling belch.

"Okay," he said. "Let's roll."

Blinking off the effects of the whisky he had just doused himself in, Whisky reached up and fired up the ignition, the engine roaring to life before settling into a low rumble that gently shook the car from side to side. Reaching down, the detective threw the gear selector into drive and mashed on the accelerator, the car launching forward out of the alley, scattering the piles of beer cans and fast food wrappers that had served to hide the vehicle during the long stakeout. The sinister, black on black, 1987 Buick GNX accelerated hard, forcing both detectives back into their seats. The car skipped over a set of railroad tracks and skidded across the road. Whisky spun the wheel into the skid and aimed the car for the chain-link gate that marked the edge of the warehouse property. The car plowed through the fence, blowing it off its rusted hinges and sending it skittering into the dead bushes. Slamming on the brakes, Whisky brought the car to a stop directly in front of the van, blocking it in.

Both doors flew open and the two detectives dove out, Rye executing a shoulder roll, coming up on his feet with his back to the warehouse wall. Whisky nodded in appreciation of the righteous move, giving a thumbs up. He then jerked his head, signaling that Rye should move up the stairs to the doorway. The taller detective complied, his 6 foot 2 inch frame taking the steps three at a time. Once at the top, he took up a defensive position, allowing Whisky to back up and then spring forward, sliding legs first across the hood of his car, bringing him to the base of the stairs. Cocking his ear, he heard voices of alarm coming from inside. Rushing up to join his partner at the top, the two took deep breaths, preparing to storm the building.

With a glance and a nod to his partner, Whisky reached forward and turned the handle to the wooden door, pushing it open forcefully even as he sprang back behind cover. The door flew open and then bounced off a door stop just as Rye was diving inside. Swinging back with great force, the door struck Rye bodily, tossing him aside and into a pile of cardboard boxes just past the doorframe.

"Officer down!" Whisky shouted, pushing the door open and jumping inside.

Rye scrambled to his feet and shook off his partner, aiming his massive pistol into the warehouse, Whisky remaining in a kneeling position as he scanned for targets with his own revolver. The two found themselves on a platform that was raised over the warehouse floor, the section at one point in the past having been used for storage. It was now a scattered collection of loose packing materials, broken down boxes, and the occasional wooden crate. Above them, a single string of bare bulbs stretched across to the opposite side of the warehouse, creating tiny pools of light in an otherwise dark interior. The smell of dust, sweat, and urine wafted through the open spaces, though neither Whisky or Rye could pick up those things over the alcohol they had doused themselves in.

"Who the hell is up there?" an angry voice called up from below. "You got five seconds to show yourselves or else we're going to cut you deep!"

Whisky raised his revolver and fired a round into the ceiling, the sound of the Magnum round deafening in the enclosed space.

"Warning shot!" he shouted over his ringing ears. "That was a legal warning shot!"

"Geneva Convention!" Rye shouted in support.

"Geneva... what the hell are you lunatics talking about?" the angry voice continued to shout. "Gimmie your guns and maybe we don't kill you slowly."

"You know what that means," Rye said, glancing over to Whisky.

"On three," Whisky nodded.

"One..." Rye started.

"Two..." Whisky joined him.

"Three!" the two shouted in unison as they sprang forward, diving over the debris and launching themselves into the air over the warehouse proper.

As the two cleared the wooden platform they had been previously hiding on, they took in the scene below them. With vision like that of a hawk, they saw the two Hispanic men from earlier, both still armed with their Kalashnikov and large folding knife. They were standing around a plastic card table, the requisite lawn chairs of similar material having been knocked over by the men once they had stood up in alarm. A third man was also present at the table, white, and dressed similarly to his two Hispanic colleagues: jeans and a plain white t-shirt, over which he wore a plaid button down, untucked and open in the front. In his hand was what appeared to be a surplus Beretta M9, his finger already on the trigger. Further back, huddled away from the men and behind the cover of several stacked shipping pallets, was the group of girls that had been unloaded from the van.

Time seemed to slow as the bodies of the two detectives soared through the dust filled air, the eyes of the three men below going wide in amazement. Three targets, two guns, a split second. Whisky aimed and fired, catching the man with the rifle square in the chest. Meanwhile, Rye flipped his heavy pistol around in his hand, bringing his large frame down directly atop the man with the knife and pistol whipping him over the head. A great gout of blood sprayed up into the air as the man staggered back into an open crate, falling over into the straw lined inside, completely unconscious from the blow.

The two detectives landed with expertly executed shoulder rolls, coming up in low crouches, both of their pistols pointed at the last perp who hadn't even had a chance to raise his weapon. Seeing the fate of his two accomplices, the man dropped his pistol, the worn gun clattering to the ground. There was a moment of terrified silence, and then the man spun on his heel and took off running, tearing straight through the wall of screaming women behind him.

"He's mine!" Whisky shouted, taking off after the fleeing man, flashing his badge at the huddled women. "It's okay, I'm Detective Whisky," he called back, trying to peel his eyes off of the wares on display, careening off a support pillar in the process as he continued his pursuit.

"It's okay, ladies," Rye said with a smooth, collected coolness. "I'm Detective Rye," he said, flashing his own badge. "By the way, you're all under arrest."

As soon as the words left his mouth, the women scattered in all directions, heels clicking and clacking, skirts riding high, tops barely staying on.

"Shit," Rye muttered to himself.

Shaking his head, he casually walked over to the groaning puddle of a man that he had viciously pistol whipped, collecting the knife that had wound up on the floor and then grabbing the bleeding man by the scruff of his shirt. Dragging him up, Rye hauled him over to the card table and slammed him down atop the dingy white plastic, the soft material and weak legs giving far too little satisfaction to the impact.

"Alright my little Spanish friend," Rye said, cocking his massive piece, "let's you and I talk."

Meanwhile, Whisky had burst out of the back of the warehouse, hot on the heels of the man that was desperately trying to escape. To his right he heard the rattle of a chain link fence, and took off after the sound, passing through the shadows that surrounded the building complex. He saw the silhouette of the man land on the other side of the fence, pushing the detective to run harder. Holstering his revolver, Whisky leaped through the air and dug one of his tan wingtips into the fence and clambered upward with his hands, rolling over the top of the fence and coming down the other side, now only a few paces behind the man who was clearly headed for the parked van. As the wheezing man drew closer, he saw that the van was blocked in by Whisky's car, causing him to finally cease his frantic escape. Breathing hard, he turned to face Whisky.

"I surr-"

Whisky hit the man full on in the chest, throwing himself bodily through the air, his well aimed shoulder slamming straight into the solar plexus of the man and knocking him to the ground, Whisky's weight crashing down atop him as a torrent of air blasted from his collapsed gut.

"Put your hands up!" Whisky shouted in the man's ear, his hearing still fuzzy.

"Wha-- but we-- I'm on the ground," the man replied in confusion.

Whisky leaned back and drew his revolver, aiming it at the man's head.

"Get those hands in the air where I can see them."

Puzzlement continued to flash through the man's face as he started to extend his hands up above his head, then thought it better to perhaps raise them up into the air perpendicular to the ground, then finally settled on a 45 degree angle, his arms uncomfortably stretched out into space.

Satisfied, Whisky kept his right hand on his gun while he patted down the man with his other hand, searching for any concealed weapons. Not finding any, he got up onto his feet, his weapon still trained, his aim rock steady.

"Roll over and put your hands behind your back," he commanded.

The man did so, glad to no longer be holding his arms out in the air. As soon as he finished rolling over, Whisky holstered his gun and pulled out a set of handcuffs, lashing the man's hands together tightly. As he was doing so, the side door he and Rye had originally entered in was suddenly pulled open, the frame filled by the silhouette of his partner. Behind him was the limp body of the other perp, his body suffering from several bruises after having been dragged up to the warehouse storage platform. As the two detectives nodded acknowledgement to one another, the sound of approaching sirens began to drift through the air.

"Shit," Whisky muttered.

"Great," Rye assented, "here come the blues."

The cacophony of sirens came to a clattering crescendo as several patrol Malibus came screeching to a halt, doors flinging open and uniformed officers stepping out. The flash of the LED light bulbs cast red and blue shadows across the warehouse district as the spotlights from the cars were quickly centered on Whisky and Rye. Standing up from his arrest, Whisky stepped forward and flashed his badge.

"It's alright, fellas. Detective Whisky," he said nonchalantly. "My partner Rye," he added, tossing his head.

"We know who you are, dumbass," came a high pitched voice that could register as either feminine and masculine. Whisky and Rye recognized it immediately.

"Double shit," Whisky said under his breath.

"Why the hell did you run off half cocked when you knew we wanted to surround these guys?" came the voice of Lieutenant Walter Asses.

"Hey, don't blame us, el-tee," Rye spoke up. "If dispatch hadn't compromised our position we wouldn't have had to break protocol."

"Compromised your... what?" Walter said, flabbergasted.

"It's true, sir," Whisky said. "Rye delivered the code phrase but then dispatch used Rye's real name."

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," the lieutenant said, shaking his head. "So how many marks did you let go this time?"

Whisky turned to Rye, awaiting his response.

"Well, sir," Rye said, "I think it's important we stay positive here. We got all pimps. Two of 'em are even alive."

"You killed somebody?!" William's voice amazingly managed to go up again in pitch.

"Self-defense in the line of duty, el-tee," Whisky said. "We did fire a warning shot."

"A warning... you know what, just get in your shitty car and get back to the precinct while we clean up this mess."

"Now wait just a God damn second," Whisky said, an edge coming into his voice. "I'll take a lot of heat from you, el-tee, but the moment you berate my car... I can't promise anything."

"Get. In. Your. Car." Walter managed to deliver the line without exploding.

"Let's go, Whisky," Rye said. "This ain't our fight anymore."

"10-4, pardner," Whisky said, stepping on his perp at his feet, the man letting out a gasp as the detective proceeded back to his Buick.

"Don't step on suspects," Walter berated.

"Uh, sorry, el-tee, didn't see him there," Whisky covered.

"It's the lights, sir," Rye said. "Gives him night blindness."

The pair walked past the collection of stunned officers, climbing into the GNX, the doors clanging shut as only GM cars are able to. Inside and with the windows rolled up, the pair exhaled, then turned towards one another. Grinning, they exchanged a fist bump.

"No clean up duty, man," Rye said.

"You know it," Whisky agreed. "That guy you hit was fucked up."

"Well what about the guy you drilled through the chest?" Rye asked. "He splattered halfway across the warehouse."

"Oh, shit, you're right," Whisky said, pulling out his revolver and a pocket knife, working another notch into the crowded handle.

At the same time, Rye pulled his flask from his jacket, taking a disturbingly long pull from the metal container. Finished with his pistol, Whisky holstered the piece and followed suit, chugging on his flask before capping and stowing it.

"Well, lieutenant said to go to the precinct," Rye said.

"Then The Precinct it is," Whisky smiled knowingly.

Reaching up, he turned over the ignition of his car. Throwing it in reverse, he lit up the tires, the rubber howling in protest as he threw the car into a perfect Rockford, the nose of the car whipping around as he spun the wheel. Slamming the car into drive, he punched the accelerator and the Vader-black Buick roared off into the night, the open exhaust accented by the sound of the oversized turbocharger. All they left in their wake were coughing officers, choking on tire smoke and chunks of rubber, long black strips remaining as a testament to their night of law enforcement.


Chapter II

Roughly twenty minutes later, the howling GNX came to a screeching halt in a cracked and desiccated parking lot, the only vehicle in sight. With all the lights of the parking lot out, the headlights of the Buick were the only source of illumination. They pointed at a small, dilapidated building with several boarded up windows. The building had originally been painted in a color that was halfway between salmon and spam, that had now deteriorated into a baby puke brown. Above the double doors to the establishment was a hand-painted sign that read 'The Precinct'. Whisky looked down at the clock in the Buick and saw that it wasn't even 4 in the morning yet.

"God damn, two hours before opening," he said.

"Well I'm not waiting," Rye said, opening his door and climbing out as Whisky killed the ignition.

Whisky joined his friend at the front of the car, the pair leaning back on the hood, taking pulls from their flasks as they whittled away the hours, trading stories of past arrests and adventures. By the time 6 AM rolled around, a perimeter of half smoked cigarettes had been constructed around the car, the burned butts turning into misshapen shadows in the dawn light. As the sun began to creep over the mountains to the east, Whisky and Rye donned large aviator sunglasses, squinting their bloodshot eyes against the intrusion. At 6:05 a silver Honda Civic pulled into the lot and parked, a tall, blond woman stepping out, keys in hand. As she walked towards the door, Whisky and Rye wordlessly fell into step behind her. She unlocked the door and held it open for the two detectives who sauntered inside, glad to be away from the encroaching sunlight.

The pair took a seat atop cracked and weathered bar stools, leaning on the black plastic countertop, leaving their sunglasses on. Still keeping silent, the woman went around the back of the bar and put on an apron before approaching the two detectives.

"The usual, boys?" she said.

"Thanks, Jenn," Rye said.

"Right," she nodded, turning to grab two tumblers. She set them before the two detectives and fetched two bottles: a bottle of Old Overholt and and a bottle of 16 year aged Lagavulin.

"Leave the bottles?" Jenn asked.

"You have to ask?" Whisky replied.

"No, I just like to see how bad you've gotten," she smirked.

"Cute," Rye said.

"Let me guess, you were told to report to the precinct?" Jenn said, placing both hands on the bar and leaning forward, showcasing her ample cleavage, Whisky unconsciously leaning in.

"We're here, aren't we?" Whisky asked.

"That you are," Jenn said, moving away from the two to start opening the rest of the bar in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, some other customers would come and save her from these two jokers.

They spent the next two hours in the bar, silently drinking together. Though no words were spoken, entire conversations passed between the two partners, conveyed through nuance, gesture, and drunken belligerence. With a certain finality, the pair of detectives finished their last pours, setting their empty tumblers down on the dingy bar with authority.

"'Bout that time, eh, Whisky?" Rye asked.

"Yeah," Whisky sighed, "time to deal with the lieutenant."

"How much do we owe you, Jenn," Rye called out as the owner of The Precinct sauntered over, hips swaying.

"For you two loves? Buck fifty," she smiled.

"Put it on my tab," Whisky said.

"You don't have a tab," Jenn said patiently. "You've never had a tab. I don't run you a tab."

"Oh," whisky said lamely, feeling around for his wallet. "Well, uh, can we start a--"

"No," Jenn cut him off.

"I got this one," Rye said. "Partner's Code."

Rye fished out several loose, crumpled bills form his back pocket and set them on the counter.

"Keep the change," he said.

"You're short," Jenn replied.

"Mother fucker!" Rye swore, picking up his bar stool and throwing it across the room where it smashed to pieces against a booth.

"Easy, big fella," Whisky said, putting a hand on his partner's shoulder.

Rye spun and karate chopped, but Whisky deftly side-stepped. Panting, Rye let his anger pass, finally straightening up and adjusting his tie.

"I'm cool," he said.

"Good, because now it's two hundred," Jenn said.

"Jenn, you know we'll cover it," Whisky said.

"I know," Jenn said. "Get out before I change my mind."

The two dragged themselves off their bar stools and staggered out into the scorching daylight, the merciless Phoenix heat already in the 90s. They crawled into the interior of the GNX, the black painted car already reading over 100 degrees. Wordlessly, Whisky started the car and cranked the A/C, then threw the transmission in drive, peeling out of the parking lot. It took the pair just over ten minutes to reach the central precinct building on 7th and Washintgon, the Buick sticking out as it parked amongst the rows of white and black painted Malibus and Crown Victorias. They clambered out of the car and scurried into the air conditioned building, making their way down busy hallways to the Investigations Division. Entering into their home turf, they were immediately accosted by Seargent Blackmore.

"You two, lieutenant's office, now," he barked.

"Hey, we just--" Rye started

"Now."

"Alright, alright."

Exchanging a glance of disgust, Whisky and Rye navigated the rows of desks to the corner of the building, entering into the lieutenant's office without knocking. Inside, Walter was at work on his computer, a slave to endless paperwork.

"Oh, great, it's my two favorite lunatics," he said by way of greeting. "Sit down."

The two detectives complied, remaining silent as school boys called to the principal's office.

"I'll deal with you two just as soon as I finish this report," Walter said.

"Lot of paperwork, lieutenant?" Whisky asked.

"Only since I started having to babysit you two," the lieutenant responded.

"Job security, sir," Rye jabbed.

Walter's hands paused on the keyboard, then he shook off the barb, letting it slide.

"Alright, let's just get this done with," he said, pushing his keyboard away.

The lieutenant stood up glared down at Whisky and Rye, looking them over, disgust readily apparent on his face.

"Do you two realize how badly you fucked things up last night?" he said.

Whisky looked at Rye and shrugged. Rye nodded. The two took out their badges and their guns, setting them on the lieutenant's desk. Walter looked down at the proffered items, his face a combined mask of rage and confusion.

"What the hell are you two idiots doing?"

"Aren't you having us turn in our badges and guns?" Whisky asked.

"No I'm not..." Walter exhaled heavily. "I swear to God, if it wasn't for that grandfathered union clause that the mayor won't let expire, I'd have the two of you out on the stree so fast your heads would spin. Pick up your damned badges and guns."

The two complied, holstering their weapons as the lieutenant continued.

"It doesn't matter," Walter said. "I've decided to keep my sanity, so I've already put in for a transfer to Strategic Services. And you two," the lieutenant chuckled, "you two are in for a treat. The new el-tee they have coming in has already promised to make your lives hell. He may not be able to fire you, but he'll sure as shit make you wish you were dead every day of your miserable lives."

"You were mentioning how we fucked up, sir?" Rye put in helpfully.

Walter took a breath before continuing.

"All you had to do... all you had to do was watch and observe. Once the pimps showed up, you just had to call in for backup and let the beat cops surround the place and make the arrests. Instead, you decide to go all Dirty Harry and kill one suspect, put another in the hospital, and send all the hookers scattering into the night. Now, what do you have to say for yourselves?"

"Sir, as we stated before, dispatch compromised our position...again," Whisky said. "We had to assume that the perps were running scanners. If they heard our names, they would have cut and run. Moving in was the only logical option."

Walter balled his hands into fists, resisting the urge to throw his computer across the room.

"It's 2014," he growled. "We have encrypted and encoded radio frequencies. You do understand that, do you not?"

"Sir, we haven't survived this long on the streets by taking chances like that. The encodtion might be good enough for the nerds in Tactical Support, but we get by on our wits and our guts," Rye explained.

"I told you before sending you out on this operation how important this whole operation is to Councilwoman Ramirez. Her whole reelection campaign hinges on cracking down on the ongoing and blatant abuse of female prostitutes in this city," Walter explained.

“Lieutenant, I’m here to reelect justice,” Rye growled.

“Shut up, you’re done,” Walter said, turning to Whisky before Rye could get another word in. “As much as it pains me to say this, you two made the arrest on the only suspect that can still form words, so you two get to question him.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll work that scumbag over,” Whisky said.

“No,” Walter protested, putting up his hands “No working over, no good cop bad cop, and no pistol whipping.”

Rye stood, mouth agape, raising a hand in protest but unable to find the words to express his loss. Whisky patted him on the shoulder in consolation.

“We’ll take care of it, partner,” he said. Turning to Walter, “Alright el-tee, we’ll go talk to our suspect. We’re detectives, after all.”

Walter seemed to relax a little at Whisky’s seemingly normal attitude.

“Good,” he nodded. “Good. Just go and take care of things by the book.”

“By the book, Lieutenant,” Whisky said, steering Rye out of the office, his partner still distraught at the ‘no pistol whipping’ edict.

Once outside and back in the chaos of the Investigations Division wing of the precinct, Rye finally found his voice, turning to Whisky.

“Did you mean what you said back in there? All that stuff about going by the book?”

Whisky just threw his head back and laughed. “Fuck no. We’re going to bash this guy’s teeth in.”

“Hell yes!” Rye said, reinvigorated. “Let me grab my brass knuckles.”

“Get the nunchucks, too,” Whisky said.

“Ooh, good call,” Rye said. “How pissed do you think Walter’s gonna be when he sees what we’ve done?”

“He already said he’s leaving the department,” Whisky said. “C’mon, can’t you see? He’s sending us a signal.”

“Hey, you’re right,” Rye said. “That would make sense, or else why tell us? If he really wanted out, that pussy would just slink away one night and never say anything.”

“Exactly,” Whisky nodded. “Reverse psychiatry.”

Rye winked and pointed his finger at his partner, working his thumb like a pistol hammer as he clicked his tongue. The partners navigated the maze of desks, chairs, and personnel, heading out of the department and down the hall to the locker room. Stepping into the sweat drenched room full of cracked tile and dented, gray lockers, the pair went down to the very end where their old units were situated. While the rest of the lockers were clean, repainted, neatly arranged and padlocked, Whisky’s and Rye’s were both devoid of any such precautions. Instead, the pair quickly disarmed the various booby traps set into their respective storage units before cracking open the doors, hinges creaking in room that had suddenly become empty upon their arrival.

Vast and varied quantities of objects tumbled out of their lockers, a testament to the catastrophe theory of organization both detectives abided by. The floor was quickly littered with empty liquor bottles, loose rounds of ammunition, nudie mags, rubbers, blunt instruments including blackjacks, bricks, baseball bats, tubes of rebar, lead pipes, and a pipe wrench, as well as various melee weapons, such as nunchucks, a machete, brass knuckles, a single ninja star, knives, rolls of quarters, and a gladius.

Whisky shook his head. “Decisions, decisions. What’cha going with, Rye?”

Rye briefly considered an ice pick, ultimately discarding the weapon before grabbing up a set of brass knuckles.

“Good choice, my friend,” Whisky said.

“How about you?” Rye asked. “Going for the nunchucks?”

“Eh, I’ll keep ‘em handy,” Whisky said, tucking the smashing weapons into the back of his pants. “But I’ve got something else in mind,” he replied, reaching deeper into his locker.

With a grunt, he lifted out a large, deep cycle marine battery and a set of jumper cables, the heavy unit dropping to the floor with a deep *thump*.

Rye raised an eyebrow at the bulky unit. “Not taking any chances, eh?”

“Hey, we know politicians are involved,” Whisky said. “We gotta get good intel here.”

“What about water boarding?” Rye asked.

“Fuck those CIA pussies,” Whisky snapped. “You want info, you get blood on your hands. That, or else fill the air with the smell of burned flesh,” he said, looking down at the heavy battery.

“So, uh…” Rye said, also eyeballing the bulky unit.

“Yeah, I’m not carrying that,” Whisky shook his head. “Go down to the mail room and steal someone’s cart.”

“Back in five,” Rye said.

True to his word Rye came back in ten minutes pushing along a plastic cart, the wheels wobbly and squeaking.

“Might as well load everything up,” Whisky said.

“Yeah, can bring some extras,” Rye agreed enthusiastically.

The two detectives wasted no time heaping various instruments of torture atop the cart, which was soon sagging under the weight, the wheels splayed out and threatening to snap off. Their task complete, they worked together to maneuver the cart out of the locker room and into the station proper, uniformed officers quickly dodging out of the way, often shooting glances of surprise and/or disgust at the vulgar display of third world policing.

“So what’s the news on you and Светлана?” Rye asked, grunting against the weight of the cart.

“I don’t know, man,” Whisky said despondent. “She took off running and next thing I know I’ve got a fresh set of divorce papers in the mailbox.”

“You don’t have a mailbox,” Rye said.

“Yeah, well, you know,” Whisky said. “They dumped them on the foredeck.”

“She getting your boat?”

“That bitch better not try,” Whisky snapped. “She ain’t getting Prince, either.”

“You think she wants him?” Rye asked.

“It’s a moral victory.”

“Right,” Rye nodded, lost. “So what is she getting? She won’t just go away empty handed.”

“Jokes on her, Yukiko and Boon-Mee already took two halves of me, so she’ll only get like, what, a quarter?” Whisky speculated.

“Probably like two-eights,” Rye guessed.

They reached row of holding rooms used for questioning and interrogation. The duty officer, there to ensure protocol was followed to avoid any lawsuits or lost cases, caught sight of Whisky and Rye and immediately began to move for the exit. As he wordlessly passed the pair, his eyes went wide, scanning over the brutal implements that were spilling over the sides of the cart, a breadcrumb trail of billy clubs and blackjacks leading all the way back to the locker room.

Left to their own devices, the two detectives paused outside of holding room three. Exchanging glances, they reached into their jackets and withdrew their flasks, taking long pulls, savoring their respective beverages. Rye snatched the brass knuckles up from the cart and slipping them on his right hand, driving a few test shots into the open palm of his left hand.

“Ready?” Rye asked.

“Ready,” Whisky nodded.

Whisky reached forward and snatched the handle, flinging open the steel door and letting Rye charge through, startling the suspect on the other side. It was the white man Whisky had tackled at the warehouse, his hands cuffed behind an armless plastic chair. Before the man could speak, Rye took two long, quick strides across the room and drove a vicious right hook into the man’s floating ribs, an audible *crack* echoing in the small chamber as the suspect’s bones broke under the impact. The man exhaled sharply, grunting with the pain and then roughly gasping for breath, his eyes tearing up, bloodshot and bugging out of his head.

“Now that we’ve cleared up exactly how this questioning is going to proceed, let’s get started, shall we?” Rye asked, looming over the gasping man, his tall figure casting a long, intimidating shadow.

“What. The. Fuck,” the man finally managed to gasp, wincing in pain with each utterance.

“Wrong answer, pal,” Whisky said, walking over and whipping his nunchucks down atop the man’s thighs, causing him to scream out in pain. “That clear it up, for you?”

“Now talk, uh…” Rye said, stumbling in his words. “Uh… what’s your name?”

“Jesus Christ,” the man stammered. “You kiddin’ me?”

“Alright, Hey-zeus,” Whisky said, “if that’s your real name.”

“I’m white, and my name is Marcus,” the man shouted angrily, prompting Rye to slug him across the jaw.

“We’ll ask the questions,” Rye said calmly, blood dripping off his brass knuckles.

“It was a statement you motherfucker!” Marcus barked.

Whisky just shook his head and moved in with his nunchucks, preparing to deliver another blow.

“Wait! Wait, wait, wait!” the man started shouting, causing Whisky to draw up short. “What the fuck do you psychos want to know?”

“Like I said,” Rye stepped in, “we’ll ask the questions.

“What?” Marcus said, completely caught off guard right up until Whisky’s nunchucks cracked across this shins. “Fuck me, I’ll talk, I’ll talk!”

Whisky crouched down over the man as Rye began shadow boxing in the background, keeping himself limber and ready for more persuasion.

“How many of you pimps are working west of the airport, and how many girls under each of you?” Whisky asked.

“Pimps?” Marcus said, confused. “We ain’t pimps.”

Whisky’s nunchuck hand cocked back.

“Hey, hey, I’ll explain, I’ll explain,” Marcus pleaded, his eyes still filled with tears from the previous blunt force trauma. “Just… please stop hitting me.”

“Well, well, well, you cracked easily,” Whisky shook his head, disappointed and disgusted.

Marcus opened his mouth, thought better of it, shook his head and started to talk.

“I don’t know who told you anything ‘bout pimps. I was just an importer meeting with a couple salesmen,” he said.

“What?” Rye said, stopping cold and turning his head to glare at Marcus.

“Just moving merch, you know?” Marcus said.

Rye faced Marcus and started striding over, only to be caught halfway there as the door to the interrogation room burst open, Lieutenant Walter filling the frame.

“Oh, thank God,” Marcus muttered.

“What the fucking hell do you two mad men think you’re doing?” he shouted, his voice echoing in the small room.

Rye tried to slyly interpose his body between Walter’s view and the stack of weapons, doing his level best to quietly toe a lead pipe under the cart and out of sight.

“You two, get out immediately,” Walter said, motioning for other officers to come into the room and help Marcus up.

“Lieutenant, this man needs an EMT at minimum,” one of the officers reported.

“Hey,” Rye barked, “snitches get stitches. You got any proof?”

Walter looked back and forth between Rye and the cart stacked with weapons, his jaw nearly hitting the floor. Rye remained level faced, a drop of blood falling from his brass knuckles and loudly plinking onto the linoleum floor in the eerily quiet room. Meanwhile, Whisky glanced up into the corner of the room and noticed for the first time the video camera setup to record at all times, slowly lowering his face into his palm.

Straightening, he cleared his throat, “Rye, lets, uh, step out for the lieutenant.”

“Fine,” Rye said flatly.

Rye moved to push out the cart but Walter smacked his hands away, leaving the detective to depart empty handed.

“Need to make sure your officers keep these rooms clean,” Rye said as he moved away from the cart, tossing his brass knuckles atop the pile. “I mean, seriously, a deep cycle marine battery?”

The two stepped out and Walter followed, closing the door to the room and leaving the other officers to attend to Marcus’ battered form.

“Okay Callahan and Bullit,” Walter sighed, putting his hands on his hips, “I’m done. Go back to your desks. You’re on paperwork. I need to pack my office and I’m keeping you two inside until I’m gone. After I go, you two can burn the department down for all I care.”

“Fine,” Whisky said, stomping angrily away. Rye followed behind, casting a dirty glance back at the lieutenant.

A few minutes later and the two dropped down into their worn office chairs, the old seams almost busting under the sudden weight. Instinctively, Rye snatched out a bottle of Maker’s Mark and two tumblers, pouring three fingers in each and sliding one across the top of Whisky’s pitted and cracked desk. Whisky expertly snatched up the glass and lifted it into the air.

“To paperwork,” he muttered.

“Fuck it,” Rye replied, the pair tossing back the hard drink in one gulp.

As Rye refilled the glasses, he began to muse.

“Can’t believe the nerve of that guy, claiming to just be some guy working receiving. Clearly those were whores, not a legit warehouse. It was more like a… a whorehouse.”

Whisky put his head in his hands, lacing his fingers through his dark, luxurious hair.

“Guy was full of shit, man,” Whisky said.

Suddenly he straightened up, almost knocking over his refilled glass of bourbon.

“Rye, wait,” he burst, “what if he meant it. What if the merch was the girls, not the crates?”

Rye lifted his glass and thought, gazing with knitted brow into the amber liquid.

“You know, you might be on to something there. If he’s importing the girls, that means…”

“...human smuggling,” Whisky finished the abhorrent thought.

“Sons of bitches, that explains why all the girls were Mexicans,” Rye realized. “Those weren’t pimps, those were coyotes,” pronouncing it ‘kai-yoats’.

“We needs to cut out before Walter gets here,” Whisky jumped up.

“Right behind you, partner,” Rye said, standing.

The two made a beeline for the exit, only Sergeant Blackmore daring to stand in their way.

“Hey! Lieutenant said you two were tied to your desks,” he barked.

Whisky only flipped him off as he passed by while Rye shoulder checked him.

“Eat a dick, Blackmore,” he fired as a parting shot.

“You two are going to go through hell for this!” Blackmore shouted after them.

“That’s the plan,” Whisky said.


A.C. Harrison
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