Establishing shots of shiny downtown skyscrapers ease us into the Narcotics Division. Kima is awkwardly hunting and pecking and cursing on a manual typewriter. Seriously, it looks like a toy. She actually leans forward to correct a typo with LIQUID PAPER. Oh my God, I thought they only made that shit for huffing! As she works, she throws instructions to Herc and Carver, who are fucking around with a tennis ball nearby, asking if they submitted their paperwork. "Why me?" whines Herc. "You want the collar, do your submissions," Kima replies. "You're giving me the stats?" says Herc, delighted, as Carver flips him off; Herc busily gets down to work. Into their cube strides Lt. Cedric Daniels (Lance Reddick) and...okay, if you haven't been watching the show, you're going to have to take my word for it that under that suit of his is a body that...I mean, he's like an anatomical diagram of the human muscle groups. Very handsome man. Great voice, too. Daniels (good) and Stringer (evil) are like the yin and yang of sex on this show. Anyway, Daniels enters with a file to ask, in his typically laconic way, whether they brought in the Mercedes; Kima says she promised Tiff she wouldn't, since the car is in her name. Carver picks up the ringing phone and calls to Daniels to pick up Line 2. Kima curses that she can't type, and goes for the Liquid Paper again: "The millennium's been and gone, and we're still fucking around with Smith-Coronas." Damn, I hope that's not actually still true. Herc exposits that they were supposed to have been trained on computers a year ago. Carver: "What would an ass-ignorant motherfucker like you do on a computer?" Kima chuckles, and Herc laughs, "I don't know -- trade stocks and shit?" That is so 2000. "Jerk off, you mean," corrects Kima. That is so...nah, porn never goes out of style.
Daniels comes back to say he has to go upstairs: "Deputy's throwing some kind of piss fit." Kima asks if "the Major" knows, and Daniels -- looking pre-annoyed -- says that the Major's already up there. "With a mouth full of piss, probably," Carver adds once Daniels has gone. "Like our major don't know what that tastes like?" says Herc. "It's the chain of command, baby. The shit always rolls downhill." "Motherfucker, we're talking about piss," squints Carver. "Piss does too!" insists Herc. "Think about it!" Carver: "Shit rolls. Piss trickles." "Downhill, though," Herc protests. "You don't know that for sure," says Carver. Kima turns around, presumably to take a mental picture of Roland Barthes and Michel Foucault, come back to life and debating linguistics right there in her cube. And also to ask them a procedural question about some paperwork they didn't complete. Herc whines, "You want a job done right, you gotta do it your own self." I bet Herc also did a purposely crappy job the one time his mom ever made him do the dishes so that she wouldn't ask him again. Kima chucks the tennis ball at him. Carver and Herc go into a routine about how they're effective on the street, splitting heads, and fuck the paperwork. "The Western District way," Herc concludes. "A-ight," Carver agrees. "You heroic motherfuckers kill me," Kima snorts. "Fighting the war on drugs, one brutality case at a time." "Girl, you can't even call this shit a war," argues Carver. "Why not?" asks Herc. Carver: "Wars end." Herc nods, like, "Heavy," and turns around. "You're gonna write that down?" Carver goads. Hee. I'm just glad to know Herc can write, though he might be holding an unsharpened pencil.