God, what was wrong with him? He couldn’t…God he was drunk, why was he drunk? He’d been about to bust those drug dealers the force had been hunting down for weeks, and then…

Carl took a drag off his cigarette and stroked his cock through his jock. What had he been thinking about? Fuck, he was horny, he needed a good fuck…didn’t he? No, he needed…he needed to do something, go back to base, or home…or something.

“Hey man, what are you doing down there?” a voice said, and looking up the stairs, Carl saw some Latin thug looking down at him, smoking like him, tattooed all over, leering at him in a way that only made Carl’s dick harder.

A few minutes later, he was up against the wall in the stairwell, taking Angelo’s hard cock in his ass, yeah, Angelo was right, he was his bitch, and Angelo was his pimp…right? Well, it didn’t make much sense, but nothing made much sense right now. When Angelo came hard up his hole, and dragged him back upstairs, Carl vaguely remembered bursting into the apartment with the other whores, and then smoke—it had burned, and he’d run to the stairs…

Inside the apartment, all his fellow whores were serving the gang—like they should. They were all just stupid whores—they only dressed up like cops for fun after all, yeah—that made sense. Angelo pulled him over and shoved his dick into Carl’s mouth, and he started sucking as best he could, happy to serve his pimp.