Next time Orcot got drunk, D would NOT be letting him into his shop.
The man was drunk, that was clear. He'd arrived in the middle of the night, lurching down the steps, reeking of alcohol. If he hadn't had the forethought to bring a large box of chocolates with him, D would have left him on the doorstep to sober up.
"I mean it, Detective. Let me go or you will rue the day you stepped into this place."
He was starting to wish he had.
"Get your hands off me!"
If he had, he would not be in this situation; the detective would not be pinning him to the sofa, wearing a grin that could only be described as "demonic." D thrashed around, trying to wrench his arms free, but the detective was looming over him, holding his wrists with one hand and in the other -
D whimpered helplessly and started struggling in earnest. Orcot was sporting a rather long set of scratches on his cheek, which was probably how this whole mess got started.
"Relax D. It won't hurt at all."
No, that smile was far beyond demonic.
"Come on, they're just nail clippers..."