Crayvin
Today has been anything but slow. We're barely about to reach the six-hour mark into our twelve-hour shift and we've already had thirteen calls. Granted, they've just been minor things, but still. Watching Cassandra walk out of Keva Juice with her weird-ass, green smoothie, I groan as the signal over the police scanner becomes audible once again with the dispatcher's voice.
Dispatch: "Units available for possible four-five-nine, respond."
Cassandra gets into the vehicle and buckles up, looking over at me and quirking her eyebrow in amusement. "Another one?" She asks.
Argh.
"Sounds like it. Hope it's not another drunk walking around."
All these damn public intoxicated calls are driving me mad. Damn Spring breakers. It's the same thing every year during this time. College kids
