Bring Me The Head Of Gwyneth Paltrow

It's been kind of a crummy week for Detectives Somerset and Mills.

There was this creep out there, been picking people off. Deadly sin style. Already he's killed five people, with only wrath and envy still at large.

Plus, he took pot shots at the detectives in the hallway of his building. When Mills gave chase, this mook got the drop on him and swatted him upside his head. Real classy.

To top it all off, it's been raining cats and fuckin' dogs all week.

Anyhow, the weekend rolls around, and back at the station house the dicks are flummoxed. They can't figure it out. Who is this John Doe? Where does this all end? Did someone remember to get a cake for Somerset? Fuckin' never hear the end of it if not.

Out of the blue, this John Doe fuckin' guy comes waltzing right into the precinct. Sliced up hands all in the air. Mills sorted that punk out but quick, and took him into custody. Fine and dandy, right?

Wrong.

Now John Doe thinks he's gonna be a funny wiseass, playing his cute little shit. He says he's got two more corpses hidden away upstate. Says he'll make a full confession of the crimes, but only if the detectives agree to cart his fuckin' ass out there to pick them up. Will somebody tell me where does this prick get his fuckin' balls? Let me tell you, he's lucky that Mills isn't back there working him over and thumping his fuckin' head for him.

You know what? Fuck it. C'mon hot shot, you think you're runnin' shit? Ok. Get the fuck in the backseat, and you can go run shit.

I'll tell you what, watching Mills and fuckin' Somerset suit up, man that was a lesson in fuckin' juxtaposition. These two dicks are the very picture of contrast.

Alright, obvious shit first. Mills is young and white, Somerset is old and black. Any dope can see that much. But if you would have seen these guys taping microphones to their chests and strapping their shit up, you'd know exactly what I'm talking about.

I see Somerset fucking around, doing up his tie by hand. What is that? Windsors they call that? He's over there working on his Windsors, when I notice that Mills is just like "Fuck it," and has his already pre-tied. Just pull that shit down over your head, and we're golden.

Mills is putting on his battery pack for his mic while Somerset is snapping his suspenders on. Who even wears that shit anymore? Apparently Somerset is set up pretty good suspenderwise, because I see him wearing 'em almost every day.

Now that the finery is out of the fuckin' way, they start in on the hardware. Vests and guns. But even in that department these guys are nothing alike.

Mills with his semi-automatic, slaps in a clip, chambers a round. Somerset packing that six gun of his. He even spins the cylinder, and snaps it home with a flick of his wrist. Makes me think of Russian roulette.

Let me tell you something else. To look at the faces, right into the eyes of these guys, you can tell that something is going on. Something just ain't right. I saw another creepy thing, too, right when they were all done suiting-up. Somerset was looking up and into the light. Mills had his head down and it's dark. Fuckin' Heaven and Hell, man. Heaven and Hell.

So now we're finally ready. Off on a shit journey into the countryside so John Doe the bastard can jerk our chain. Knowing this fuckin' psycho it'll just be a wild goose chase. Lucky me, I'm riding in the helicopter.

Hell, the sun has even come out a little.