A/N: Hey all! I am so happy to begin my second stand alone story for the Bullock series! I really hope you all enjoy it, as this will be a nice, involved chapter story!
- 10/1- I am going back on these three chapters and editing them slightly and here is the final product for chapter one! Tomorrow I will do the same for the following chapters then I will finally continue the story! Enjoy!

My father was a cop.

My father was an alcoholic.

My father was NOT a role model.

My father was a man of many talents and had many faces; but the one thing he surely wasn't, was a father. He wasn't cut out for it, you know; he was just an off duty cop, who by the way was intoxicated as the sky is blue, at a sleazy brothel lookin' to get lucky, and lucky he was. That's where he met my stripping, dare I say, whore of a mother, another individual not cut out to be a mom. So, I can imagine you knows what goes on next. What ya can't guess (or maybe you did, who knows) is my mother left my dad as soon as I was born.

I guess you can say I was unlucky, but I would be feeling bad for myself if I said that. However, my father did try to at least be a normal dad, and he brought me up, taught me about the streets, put me in little league football; I'll give him that. But those were sadly only the good days, which by the way, we had very little of...most of the days it was him coming home after the witching hour, drunk off his ass. I would be awake when he made his arrival, especially as I got older, because we all know what people try to do in high school. They skip it. And I did that most of the time, and I guess it was because of this that I also became a cop. I had nothing else to give to the city besides brute force...

But I digress, so in the end; my father was a drunk, narcissistic man, who was not cut out for parenthood. He would bring prostitutes home, which I also use this term lightly; we lived in a one-room apartment for Christ's sake! When my dad and the hookers would get their freak on, it would keep me up all night. As you would expect, him and I never had the closest relationship. We never had any of that "father-sons bonding" things goin' on. When I turned 17, I told my already smashed father to get a life, I told him I was movin' out, I told him he was a terrible father, and blah blah blah.

I never spoke to him since. And you bet I rue the day that I do meet up with my good for nothin' father once again. However, on my 18th birthday, I knew I wanted to be a cop. Well, I guess you could say I didn't have a choice; but the ability to save lives and make Gotham a better place made me want to become a detective so badly. I mean, now I am a detective, but back then I didn't have the chops to become a straightforward detective. I walked the streets, been around the block once or twice and I earned my way to becoming a detective...a lazy one at that.

I didn't realize how corrupted and filthy the GCPD was until I actually joined the force. My partner was Fernandez Malone, God rest his soul. He showed me Gotham like I never seen it before. He took me under his wing! I guess you can say he was more of a father to me than my actual dad. He was the only honest cop during my time on the force. But all good things must come to an end as a street gang of punks gunned him down while he was in a grocery store. He was 54.

It wasn't until the good ol' commissioner (well then he wasn't) transferred to the department. He sure set things straight. He brought down the corruption of the force and the city! He brought down corrupt cops such as Arnold Flass; no one misses that scumbag, and corrupt officials such as Commissioner Gillian Loeb! Man that guy was a handful...

So, there was this sting operation and they needed a couple of "worthy" cops to help the detectives, so Gordon, who was then a Lieutenant, chose me. This was the beginning of a long and prosperous relationship that goes on 'til this day. It was also all thanks to him that I was turned into a full-fledged detective, which I owe everything to him for that.

Wait a second...

I snap back into consciousness and turn my overweight, disgustingly sore body to its side to examine my alarm clock.

"It's nine o' clock?" I fiercely shout to the top of my lungs, which no doubt my fellow neighbors of this apartment complex heard.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

I do this literally every other day; I am surprised Commish puts up with me. Well at least I have an explanation for this time! ...Well, there is one genuine explanation for every time I wake up so late...I stay out drinkin' 'til the crack of dawn. I still haven't fully addressed my drinking problem, as it surely has gotten worse with time. It began when I was thanked by literally every public official of Gotham, even the corrupt ones; for me taking down Thorne for those murders and what not. That's when I began drinking more and more. It's as if I feel I should celebrate every night at 'O Hara's with about four bottles of brew and a handful of shots.

I think both Montoya and Commish (Hell the whole department!) could smell the booze under my breath, mixed perfectly with the scent of tobacco. Montoya pretends to not notice, as if she would hurt herself to confront it too. Commish never speaks of it as well. It's like they pretend to not notice to keep my sorry ass around. I really need to clean myself up, both mentally and physically.

I look up at my stained, broken, and torn up roof from my bed. I feel for this roof, as we both have visible scars from things brought upon us ourselves. Look at me, getting phsycophilisophical on ya or whatever. Or I could just be over thinking this...

As I try to pry myself out of my tattered bed, this is when the hangover comes shooting into my head like a bullet. I try to maneuver myself through my sleazy apartment, which is indeed falling apart around me. I look at my desk for a cigar, cigarillo, cigarette, anything; yet I cannot seem to find any of this; great way to start my day.

I throw on my shirt and tie, grab a stale piece of pizza from my fridge, and throw on my coat as I walk out the door. The only thing I can think of is picking up a pack of cigars, I need a fix of my filthy habit.

I walk out my apartment, and I proceed through the long hallway that is full of my fellow neighbors living in their own gloomy apartment. Some of them leave their doors wide open and some leave their blinds up, leaving their proceedings fully visible to all that pass by. I will never forget the one time the room across from me left their blinds up; I saw the couple that resides there having sex...well, that's a story for another day...

I rush to the parking garage that is set-aside for those who abode in this sleazy apartment complex, where I would normally find my car waiting for me, but apparently not today. Today I find my car, which has been my only prized possession, as it was a 1967 Dodge Coronet, all nicely painted in black: damaged and broken. Someone popped the tires, shattered the glass, busted the hood and body up with what looks to be a bat, and they apparently urinated on the poor thing as the horrid smell pierces my nostrils.

The interior of the car is also destroyed, with the seats ripped up and the steering wheel pulled out. In my heat of anger, I pick up what appears to be a note left on the driver's seat.

Dear Mr. Bullock,

This has been our 2nd warning. Next time it aint gonna be so pretty. We aint lookin for ransom, we just lookin for a little fun, watch yourself

-The Mercs

"SON OF A BITCH! You punks out there?" I scream in the vacant parking garage, as if I expected someone to answer. "You all think this is a game, huh? Y-You freaks looking to get your adrenaline up? Well god damn you came to the right fucking place!"

All right, calm down you hung-over drunk...

The spelling on the sheet proved that it has to be a group of uneducated, small time punks lookin' for some thrills and they decided to choose me. They also fancy themselves "the Mercs", so there is a possibility they were hired... there has to be more to it.

Now look, I don't spell the best either, I honestly have the worst, illegible handwriting on the force (thanks dad...) but I am indeed used to gettin' death threats. It's me we're talking about! Once I had gotten so many death threats they could've had their own address! And when that happened to me, I was almost snuffed a few times. I even had to call in the help of Bats to find out whodunit. We both thought it was this drug peddler Vinnie the Shark but it was the last person I expected, my short-tempered landlord Nivens! I mean, I always knew people hated me, I always had a reputation, and I knew he hated me too, but never did I expect this from him. Hell, even the Shark had a major reason to put me down; I put his ass in Black Gate! The man probably had a vendetta! I should look into him again, shouldn't I?

I should also mention, I've already gotten a "warning" from these worthless punks. It was a friggin' skinned cat, which by the way made my stomach churn, hanging from a noose on my door with a note similar to this one. This just proves these punks are out to get me...

Point is: I have experience with this type of behavior, especially since I am a cop. Honestly; this is the least of all my worry right now. I HAVE to get to the department as soon as possible. As I've said, I need to clean myself up, make a better impression with my fellow detectives and if my own morals have been making Gotham a better and cleaner place, I should really use my power to relate that to myself too. But you know, do as I say not as I do.

Since I live too far away to walk to the department to get there soon, I had to do the one thing I do too often: I have to call up Montoya to pick my pathetic self up.

I immediately whip out my cellular from my coat pocket. You know those old, ancient flip phones? I have that; it suits me. I never got why people need those smart phone Apple Fruit things. It's overpriced, for twenty bucks you can get the same thing just without the Internet. Yeah, yeah, I get it has a better camera and apps and such, but it's not what I need. I actually laugh as I see people going up and down the streets jaywalking with their eyes glued on the screen. Pathetic.

I proceed to reluctantly dial up Montoya; oh this is going to be good.

After just a couple of rings, the familiar voice shouts into my ear.

"Bullock, where have you been? Do you realize it's almost ten o' clock? You can't keep going on like this!"

Oh Montoya, always looking out for me. Love it!

"N-No, Montoya! I actually have a legitimate reason for this time! Scout's Honor!" I argue.

"Go on..." says a reluctant, unenthusiastic Renee.

"Well, remember those punks that left the skinned feline on my doorstep? Those bastards screwed me over again! They trashed my beautiful car, MY CAR Montoya! I have no way of getting there now!"

After a brief moment of silence, Montoya responds, "Why don't you just call a cab?"

I sit there in silence, contemplating on how to answer.

"Forget I asked," Montoya answered, "I'll come get you. You're at your travesty of an apartment, right?"

"Yeah..." I began, "look, thanks for saving my skin, Montoya, really..."

Montoya barely mutters out, "Don't mention it."