Had the Chevy Tahoe been designed with amateur torture in mind, the good folks at GM might have installed a quick release on the battery compartment, rather than shrouding every engine component in an impenetrable plastic cover with ridiculous tiny plastic nipple clips. O'Connor wasn't much of an executive assistant and he was less of a mechanic. While he had once learned to change a flat tire, years ago, he had never had the opportunity to attempt it on his vehicle for any reason. His practical experience under the hood of a car was generally limited to watching a mechanic point at a thing and tell him what was wrong with that thing. O'Connor had never missed Ben Levy so much, and while he knew that there was a special tool for this sort of thing, he couldn't help but be reminded of trying to unclip a bra with a raging hardon.
The guy calling himself Paulson looked like an auditor. He looked like the sort of pencil-necked cubicle dweller that could make a cop's life hell with paperwork. And here was the sergeant, trying to remove a 12 Volt deep cell from their only remaining ride because this guy turned out to be exactly the kind of guy that the sergeant knew he would be, namely exactly the sort of pencil-necked cubicle dweller that could make a cop’s life hell with paperwork.
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Having never attached jumper cables to a man's testicles before, O'Connor cringed involuntarily at the thought. Point in fact, he had never actually had reason to grab another man's balls before. He quietly hoped that the sight of the battery and cables in the bathroom might be enough to convince the rat bastard to talk, without even touching his junk.
Martinez came barreling down the stairs looking more panicked than he would like, his thinning hair catching the breeze wrong. “Tell me that you have been checking the general inbox.”
As the chief opened the back door and rifled through the luggage O'Connor stopped prying at the bolts. He glanced down at the engine. “Which one is the general inbox?”
“Dammit,” the chief muttered.