9. Blode

Blode didn't have much luck when it came to changing the toner in the Xerox machine.

The amber light traitorously flicked on and off at Blode as his blood pressure increased. It was the fourth time he'd opened the side hatch and tooled around with the mechanism. He was sure he'd done everything right.
"Fucking shitstick cockerel," he muttered.
With great effort, Blode did not kick the machine with a foot that that had proven itself capable of reducing a crackhouse door to splinters in one go. Nor did he punch it with the fist that had floored more than a few pushers, pimps, and low-level thugs. Blode just walked out.
"Betty, if you could get the copier working, my reports need to get Xeroxed for the D.A.," he called across the typing pool. "They're on my desk."
"Sure thing, Sarge," she called back.
Blode left the station and looked at his watch. Three fifteen. Time for a drink.

"Pint of stout and one shot Johnny Black," he barked at the bartender, some new kid who barely looked old enough to be drinking, let alone pouring them. The kid got to work fast enough, at least. "Where's old Saul? Don't tell me he's retired," he asked, and threw back the shot.
"Oh, Saul's gone. He passed away a couple weeks ago."
Blode didn't choke on the whiskey, but he slammed the empty glass down so hard that he broke his pinkie finger.