Right To An Attorney "I don't want to play games with you, Erving." "Was never good at 'em anyway." It wasn't the response Detective Joseph Byrns was looking for. He hated dealing with idiot bad-boy wanna-be's. That was the first description he gave himself when he had the displeasure of meeting Flynn Erving: a bad boy wanna-be drowning in Old Spice aftershave. If he had to give his description to a sketch artist, Byrns would have had him down pat. A lot of people would have. Flynn wasn't the most 'average' of all the Joes. He had has his hair cut in styled like some man off of a bad Grease filming. Filling in his skin with tattoos over every variety, shape, and size, one could easily see why he only wore tight Abercrombie shirts, polos, or tank tops. To show off the bod or ink? They didn't know and would never find out. As bad ass he looked at first glance, the personality didn't cut it. That was the bullshit Byrns was trying to get past, and boy, was he going to have to do a lot of shoveling. "I'm not your enemy here, Erving,"he said, figuring using his name again would help the suspect who was leaning back in a chair in front of him, chewing away at a straw. He was being interrogated for the murder of a 38, successful woman. And he was chewing on a straw. Byrns fumbled in his pants for his bottle of Tums, popping two in his mouth before grabbing a cup of water beside him, pushing the straw away with his two fingers. He noticed how Erving didn't manage to watch any of his movements at all. He kept his eyes to the desk, pushing his feet against it o push himself in the chair like a 8 year old boy. He wouldn't have made a good detective. His eye had to be out for any and everything. The smallest of smirks, a look in the wrong direction, an inhale too many. Those were the things Byrn was looking for in Flynn: the hints of a murderer. It was his job, duty, and pay check. It sucked that he couldn't see a thing with Flynn. "Trying to avoid the bowl?" Flynn suddenly asked, nearly startling Byrns right out of his toupee. He looked the suspect over, Tums washing through his throat and painting a gassy look under his nose. "What bowl?" "The bowl, man. The golden retriever." Byrns tried to keep the agitation out of his voice, and he did, but he didn't do much to his actions. He swung his big body forward, his muscled chest grazing the desk and scooting it back while his mess of blonde hair fell on one side of his eyes, hitting Flynn with his 'cob business' glare. "Don't play word games with me, buster. What the hell is the bowl?" Flynn was too amused to answer right away, smirking in his own silent victory while he munched away on his straw. The older cops were so easy to get. Where there was once confidence, there was now paranoia. Annoyance. Lack of patience. Jospeh Byrns was practically vomiting the shit everywhere and Flynn was amusing himself at the sound of his retching. Stupid cops. "What other bowl would someone associate Tums with, TwiddleDee? The Golden Retriever, man. The pot of all pots." Flynn leaned back and kicked the desk lightly with his chest, surprisingly pushing it back to it's original position while applying pressure to Byrn's muscled gut. Byrns's face was colored a beautiful, gloriously satisfying red. Flynn took a mental snapshot and flicked the straw with his tongue; his own game he made up for the Interrogation Room only. Quite the distraction. "Wheres TwiddleDum? She's late,"he said, twisting the straw between his straw and forefinger at the mental image of his second Attorney: Jada Becken. It was quite the image. Too bad that body didn't come with a muzzle.