I plop the paperwork on his desk. It's a mess, but not with autopsy and ballistic reports and scientific data. No, it's covered with fucking guitars. Damn glimmerous fop. He smirks at my irritation. The fucking prick. He thinks I like him. I hate him. I do all the work and he gets all the credit. As I munch, I ponder my hatred of him. Is it his foppish style of dress or his mischievous smile? He's undressing me with his eyes, again. I thrill just a little. He better not think he's getting any from me. I'm not one of your fan girls, you fop!