This is co-authored with a friend of mine that I was playing L.A. Noire with. And so, please don't take this too seriously. This is a crack!fic and that means it's only meant for laughs. I really shouldn't be posting it at the moment though since I'm at work (but my friend decided to come skipping in and somehow talked me into it [which isn't all bad since it's being a really slow, and I mean slow, day]). At first it was planned of only having me upload the first chapter but instead she wants me to post the prologue so I guess I'll try to post the real first chapter up later tonight when I get home.

Disclaimer: L.A. Noire and its characters belong to their respective creators; we only own any OCs that appear.

Warning: This does involving quite a bit of swearing and for that we (mainly I) apologize.

Full Summary:
Roy Earle receives quite the surprise when it's announced that he has a new partner. But it doesn't take him long to brush it off. After all, new partner means he doesn't have to do most (if at all) of the driving. He can sit back, relax, and enjoy the cruise towards their next destinations...

"What are you doing!"

Oh. Right. Earle, did we mention that your partner is a reckless driver? We didn't? Shame.

Put the Psych in Psycho
Prologue

"What are you doing!"

Something jumped into his throat and he, for a second, wondered if it was his black heart that was the culprit. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, to conjure a more common sight he was used to, but couldn't. The same man broke into a cold sweat, stomach churning, and now he wondered if he had caught the flu that was going around. That would explain the loudness of the engine, the blur of colors, that stupid (no, crazed; he thought) smile on his new partner's face.

Tires screeched as the brakes slammed on and he barely heard his own scream ("Fuck, what are you doing, you lunatic!") rip past his lips. Earle, without looking in a mirror, knew the color had all but drained from his face. His chest hurt from the constant hammering of his heart and, soon, he realized that he was hyperventilating. Beside him, in the driver's seat, the person was unnaturally calm for what had just occurred.

Finally, once composure regained, the crooked Vice turned and fixed the driver with a hard, menacing glare. "What the hell were you thinking! No, are you thinking! No wait. How the hell are you still on the force? No, better: how did you even get into the field? You should be in the loony bin! Or jail, with the way you drive! I mean what the fuck! There should be millions of complaints against you for the way you drive!"

"Didn't they tell you?" Calm, relaxed; it was as if he hadn't heard anything that Roy Earle had screamed in his ear.

"Are you saying Captain Cafarelli knows about this?" He seethed for if Cafarelli had known about this… oh, there would be hell to pay.

"Not him; them."

"Who's 'them'? You mean the board or—"

He was cut off by the shake of his head, "No, the writers."

Roy blinked.

"What the hell are you talking about, writers? What's that supposed to mean?"

The second sighed and reached into the inside of his jacket's pocket before pulling his hand out. With it, a plain white envelope emerged and Roy was able to make out in neat, legible penmanship: Roy Earle. He stared and took it on command, "Here."

His detective instincts, no matter how much of a corrupt one he was, told him that whatever lay inside this simple envelope wasn't going to be good. But, no matter how bad it was, he had to know. He needed to know why this maniac was here, partnered up with him, and what he was going on about 'writers telling him crap'.

He had to know.

Hesitantly, and carefully, he opened it and pulled out the folded parchment that was nestled within. With narrowed eyes, he slowly pulled it out and began to unfold it. As soon as the words revealed themselves it took his brain a moment to register what it said.

Oh right.
Earle, did we mention your new partner is a reckless driver?
We didn't?
... Shame.

Somehow he knew that whoever wrote this note didn't feel the least bit sorry or shameful.

This had to be some kind of sick and twisted joke. Maybe this was Phelps doing. He had tarnished the man's name and reputation, why wouldn't it make sense if he decided for a bit of payback? But the real question was how? How could Phelps have pulled this off when he was suspended from duty until otherwise noted? He was no longer the favorite among the departments, no longer wanted in any of the divisions. And if it wasn't Phelps that was behind this than why were people turning a blind eye to this pyscho's driving ability? Or, lack thereof to be precise. It just didn't make any fucking sense to him. And, to be honest, it probably never would.

"C'mon, buddy, let's go investigate that crime scene now!"

The glare Earle sent him was lost to him as he already bounded out of the car and started across the street. With a heavy sigh, Roy retreated from the car and began to follow, reluctantly, after.

But not before he spotted, from the corner of his eye, something that didn't look quite right...

"Son of a bitch, my car!"