Lennie slammed the door of his apartment so hard it didn't shut, but rebounded open. He didn't care. He took off his gun, slamming it into his lock box. His suit coat he tossed angrily towards the arm of the couch, not caring that it missed. His tie he practically ripped off. He felt like hitting something, but was, he thought too old for busting his hand against the drywall.
God, he wanted a drink.
He was so fucking tired of cops he'd once called friends turning out not to be what he thought they were, or what he thought they should be. Cops were supposed to be heroes. They weren't supposed to be human; they weren't supposed to make mistakes. Most of all, they weren't supposed to be so much like him.