Lt. Kennivan set his Caramelbomb Megalatte on his desk next to Chuck’s fishing charter brochure and picked up the file on The Funhouse of Freedomesque Frolic.
He walked over to the chief’s desk, surgically repaired Achilles tendon bickering at his foot.
“This warrant is…what’s the word I’m looking for Bradley?”
Kennivan never called the Chief Chief unless reporters were around.
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