No Strings Attached | ?

        After I arrive back home from the pub and take a five hour long nap, I open up my laptop and search up 'Jonah Clayton.' I know that doesn't work because Jonah Clayton isn't exactly a celeb, but whatever. I have deep sea searching skills, alright?

        Now, I gotta tell you, being hungover while trying to find dirt on your hook-up officer has the same sickness equivalent of trying to read something while in a moving vehicle. I want to puke, like it's in the back of my throat, but mama didn't raise no bitch so I don't let myself rid of the waste like a normal human being would and instead continue digging.

        After, like, two hours of mindless searching and maybe pauses here and there to watch YouTube, I get a hold of Jonah's résumé from when he signed up for the police gig, reading the small, grainy text to the best of my ability.

        Honestly, I'm surprised by what I find. Mr. Clayton doesn't have any ex-wives, a current wife, kids, a past drug addiction, or even an alcohol addiction. And that kind of pisses me off. Like, how can a thirty-five-year-old man be so . . . good to himself?? He's a millenial, looking snazzy and young! I'm surprised he hasn't been corrupted by Gen-Z yet.

        But . . . With him being this good to himself . . . And me now entering his life . . . I'm probably the first one who's going to destroy him.

        . . .

        A hundred points to my ego. Hell yeah.