Night and Day.
Not that there's much difference any more.
But the differences between my 'day' job with the LAPD - which, while badly paid, terrifying, and frustrating, at least has a sense of purpose and a little gratitude to it - and my 'night' job as a P.I. are starting to get to me.
Case in point: tonight's surveillance.
Never, if you are going to cheat on your not-stupid not-yet-ex-wife, ever, go directly to the Silver Lake Motor Lodge after telling her you have an "over-night business conference" in La Jolla. Especially not after using this excuse five times in seven weeks. Most especially not when your lovely (albeit structurally-enhanced) business-and-pleasure associate got herself vamped sometime in the last 24 hours.
Usually I don't pass judgment on other people's monkey business, but I kinda felt that I had an obligation to break up this particular party and at least tell Mr. Stupid the full facts about his playmate (which became obvious to me when I couldn't see her reflection in the motel's mirror when she was standing right in front of it). Said playmate didn't see it that way. Mr. Stupid, as it turns out, didn't see it that way either, at least not until she went full vamp-face on me and nearly broke my arm. And even then, I think he would've been fine with it if she hadn't made Cujo look good with that face on.
He was also just as pissed off that I was working for his soon-to-be-ex as he was that his date for the evening now fit into the Dustbuster in the closet. In between offering to buy back the negatives and making a pass at me, he threatened to get me arrested for assault and attempted murder.
I told him I was sure the LAPD would love to hear all about it. Right after they finished booking the other 5,000 "tourists" to our fair city for various kinds of 'theft of blood' and raising the dead without a license.
Mrs. Soon-to-be-Ex-Stupid is going to pay me a lot of money for these photos. I just made the rent until May. So tell me why I feel so grimy?
I'm catching six hours of zz's, then going back out on another ride-along - hopefully, I'll run into Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, Charles Gunn, someone named Fred Burkle, and another A.I. associate called Connor out there on this sweep. Cordelia's still okay - I kind of doubt Angelus is still in the hotel at this point, since she seems completely unworried, despite her ghostly friend's concern. After all, she'd be dead by now if he were still there, right?
Which just leaves the rest of Los Angeles at risk.
Locking the doors, putting a crossbow under the bead, hanging onto that cross....
But the differences between my 'day' job with the LAPD - which, while badly paid, terrifying, and frustrating, at least has a sense of purpose and a little gratitude to it - and my 'night' job as a P.I. are starting to get to me.
Case in point: tonight's surveillance.
Never, if you are going to cheat on your not-stupid not-yet-ex-wife, ever, go directly to the Silver Lake Motor Lodge after telling her you have an "over-night business conference" in La Jolla. Especially not after using this excuse five times in seven weeks. Most especially not when your lovely (albeit structurally-enhanced) business-and-pleasure associate got herself vamped sometime in the last 24 hours.
Usually I don't pass judgment on other people's monkey business, but I kinda felt that I had an obligation to break up this particular party and at least tell Mr. Stupid the full facts about his playmate (which became obvious to me when I couldn't see her reflection in the motel's mirror when she was standing right in front of it). Said playmate didn't see it that way. Mr. Stupid, as it turns out, didn't see it that way either, at least not until she went full vamp-face on me and nearly broke my arm. And even then, I think he would've been fine with it if she hadn't made Cujo look good with that face on.
He was also just as pissed off that I was working for his soon-to-be-ex as he was that his date for the evening now fit into the Dustbuster in the closet. In between offering to buy back the negatives and making a pass at me, he threatened to get me arrested for assault and attempted murder.
I told him I was sure the LAPD would love to hear all about it. Right after they finished booking the other 5,000 "tourists" to our fair city for various kinds of 'theft of blood' and raising the dead without a license.
Mrs. Soon-to-be-Ex-Stupid is going to pay me a lot of money for these photos. I just made the rent until May. So tell me why I feel so grimy?
I'm catching six hours of zz's, then going back out on another ride-along - hopefully, I'll run into Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, Charles Gunn, someone named Fred Burkle, and another A.I. associate called Connor out there on this sweep. Cordelia's still okay - I kind of doubt Angelus is still in the hotel at this point, since she seems completely unworried, despite her ghostly friend's concern. After all, she'd be dead by now if he were still there, right?
Which just leaves the rest of Los Angeles at risk.
Locking the doors, putting a crossbow under the bead, hanging onto that cross....