"Move!" Scratchy barges through a crowd of people as he reaches the eye of the storm, officers have quarentined the area with manpower, "His my son, i'm family - tell me what the fuck happened?" Looking with dialted eyes - high from cocaine with powder still touching his nose, 

"We have to wait until the detectives come in, but there is foul play," Officer Bryson says softly, a constable holding a guarding stance between the crowd of onlookers and Scratchy himself,

"N-no," Single sordid thought crossed his mind, flashes of his sons eyes when he was only a baby courses through as he looks through the officer, the last bit of cocaine hitting his system wakes him up - full of adrenaline he attempts to jump through the officer - but his small stacture is easily repelled,

"Sir!" Officer Bryson shouts into Scratchy's ear as the sirens blair in the background, "I ensure you, when we have all the details-" Officer Bryson stops, as Scratchy goes limp, holds him infront of him, " - i can't let you in, but your son is in critcal condition," Scratchy gives back, taking a few steps before walking back through the crowd. 

Heard from the back of a bar, deep smoke masks a radio that plays through the sound of glasses clinking, and laughter through the happy hour on a late saturday evening. 

"Well Jax, a string of robberies occured yester-late afternoon - $350 was taken from the cash register on 71st street in a local convience store, as two 40 year women witnessed the whole ordeal, and one man left barely alive, recieving a beating with a tire iron which he commented while in the hospital, 'I wouldn't back down, it's just not american' in the same evening."

"What a hero Mike," 

"What a hero indeed, but - just down the road near the Avem-an-Co - two people found dead after an apparent drug-deal gone bad, one offender that was apparently  is still in the hospital - the names are still not released to the public but it's a horrowing sight for the great city of LA.. In other news-" 

In the damp recoils of the hospital - three LA finest sit outside of ward 13B, with sunglasses and the constant chewing of gum, they're mouths patter to eachother as giarrafes would eat Acacia in the barren deserts, "What'you doin' after your shift?" 

"Ah, ya'know, probably hit the bar - there was a girl eye-fucking me yesterday, see if i can't get her actually fucking me," The group laugh, one of the senior officers in the group looked more serious,

"What about sherry?" The older officer denotes,

"What about her?" The officer lights up a cigarette, smirking as he does so, "What'she don'know, doesn't hurt her," The other officer, same age laughs with him as a nurse comes by and glares at the smoking officer,

"This is a, no smoking ward, you better put that out or the chief nurse will take your gun and use it on you," 

"She can try and grab it from my waist if she wants," The smoking officer does small hip thrusts as the two younger officers begin to laugh.

Just down the hall, near the reception, Scratchy with bruises on his left side of his face, tattered clothes covered in blood and cocaine, staining his pristine teal coloured suit - his hair over-grown and frantically moving as he speaks incoherantly towards the kind receptionist for information abouit his son. 

The receptionist points down the hall, it seems to wind through corridors as she talks him through the flourescent walkway. Racing through scratchy's mind flips from paranioa to depression - half-way breaking down as he watches to a room on his left with people putting a white sheet over a body, before annoucing the time of death - Scratchy resumes, wiping his nose and dusting off his soiled suit. Taking the last few steps towards where his son is critical, he approches the three officers blocking the door, "My son is in there!" Barging through, attempting to force himself into the room - Scratchy extends his arm towards the handle as another hand forms on his wrist - stanpping him back, being only 5'6, these police officers aquire him easily, gathered around they take him to the floor, with the young officer putting his bodyweight on his neck. 

Scratchy's face could taste the dirt from the wheels that porters would use to cart patients around, he flet his right side of his face being sqished and his throat collapsing in on himself, after Scratchy goes limp, the officer drags him from the floor - reaching for his hand-cuffs before looking at the tearful dead-beat dad infront of him,

"Are you outta'your mind?" Placing the handcuffs hesitantly onto Scratches hands as he man-handles him, "Your son is in critical condition, and needs to be questioned in an on-going investigation - if you so ever move erratically like that again, i will read you your fucking rights, you got that pal?" As the officer takes a deep breath, the adrenaline wears off, as he starts to smell chmical residue from his suit, and begins to see white powder staining his suit - mmixed with blood. Looking up to his face he see's two profound lumps that reach from his jaw to his left eye, he couldn't of been from that interaction - these looks more aged.

*PFFFFFFFFFFFF* 

In the toilet of a speak-easy, Scratchy takes himself back up from snorting two lines of coke, looking up from the yellow and black stained curvature of the sink towards the mirror, he see's himself blurred through the cracks displacing his face. His eyes pulsating, he edges his hands towards his face - battered, ripped and bruised, his hands topple infront of his view zooming in and out as the blood of someone or his own pan into view as he loses focus. 

Stumbling out of the bathroom *PHWAP* a large figure makes contact to his already heavily purplish face, the strike causes powder to disperse into the air as the cocaine flutters to the right of him - blood flies to the right wall behind him as his small stacture tumbles to the floor, "Get him in the van," A muffled voice makes his way to his dazed ears as he feels his body being man-handled by three large figures. 

The wispy air of the cool desert causes chills down his withdrawn body - the shakes start to kick in and the mild sweats coating his pale face welcome the night sky, 'How long have i been out?' is the first question that comes to mind, but the blinding light of two cars pointing their beams infront of Scratchy disorientate his thoughts and senses. The reverberating shudder that eclipses his vision lessens as a figure stands infront, screening the shafts of light, "You owe us big time," as Scratchy smells the odor of a cigar, "I accepted you, and this is how you repay me? With half of my product up your nose?" The sentance ends with two men holding Scratchy up into a sitting position with his arms up, as the speaking figure throws his weight with a right hook into the right ribcage, "Tonight your gunna dig your own grave," The figure throws a shovel infront of Scratchy - the sand kicking up from the weight of the impact, it slides across the sand as the two figures holding him, release him. Dropping, beaten and withdrawn - he can barely move a muscle, "Unless.." The figure speaks again, "You're willing to trade one your son..."