How To Be A Good Sport

Regrettably, it was morning. Pale sunlight filtered through the blinds. Erwin tossed the file on his desk, set his mug (Number One Dad, though he was nobody's father) next to it, and sank heavily into his chair. The station coffee managed to be both watery and bitter-burnt, so it was really only bearable when it was still steaming. He had developed the trick of distracting himself while he drank so that he would notice as little of the scalding or the taste as possible.

Today's reading was the report Lieutenant Levi had put together after the nasty situation at the chemical plant a few weeks back. He leafed through the pages. A straightforward homicide case, disgruntled worker, two bodies, a co-worker and a supervisor, dumped into a vat of solvent in an attempt to hide the evidence. The suspect had been spotted on site and Levi had run him down on foot, apparently sprinting over a walkway and hauling his ass up a 15-meter scaffold to do so. The thought of it sent a familiar chill down Erwin's spine, not unpleasantly.

He'd see Levi soon enough. Probably he was cleaning up last night's paperwork, and waiting, in his cunning way, for Captain Smith to be awake enough to fully appreciate what was coming to him. And Captain Smith did wonder what it was going to be - ugly sweater? Silly hat? Levi's sense of humor was very strange and Erwin didn't put it past him to show up with some instrument of minor torture, like shoes in the wrong size.

But then, if he didn't want to be a good sport about losing a bet, he shouldn't have been betting with Levi in the first place.