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1.

Five ounces of pure festered in Maxwell's jacket pocket while his patience wore thin.

The stupid prick Max sat in waiting for was already two hours late. Strobe lights flashed with epileptic persistence and glow-sticks twirled with blinding speed on the stark luminescent dance floor. The rave carried on from within Harper's lumber mill warehouse, long-since abandoned and restricted to public access. The site itself, given a self-proclaimed moniker "The Woodpit" by locals, once slated for demolition, was left intact instead, based on numerous developmental complaints from local logging denizens over the lack of sufficient storage for the wood they collected. Inside, a multitude of creeps from all odds and ends were in attendance; major pushers making huge strides of illegal drug-dealing business to a wide majority of Portland's broken souls willing to seek out their own paltry wares. This rave helped feed their vices and their pushers rolling in profit. Not that it mattered worth a damn to the shep-coon.

Right in the thick of it all sat Maxwell Blackburnadeaux. The rave hosted enough potential to last far beyond even the most scurviest dog's lifetime; littered to the brim with junkies, dope pushers, pimps, hookers, closet pederasts, raving psychotics, disabled veterans ranging from tours served in Vietnam to Iraq, serial arsonists and dub-manics and fine-suited pushers and barons aplenty. in other words, the typical average rave-attendee. The freaks always came out at night. Everyone danced while celebrating the lavishing aspects of love, life, death, rebirth, the beyond, the thereafter and then some. A perfect rave to commit heinous adultery, only to get away with it while laughing one's ass off hysterically. This was a hot-zone apt to make Jesus Christ Himself weep discouragingly for pity's sake.

"Can ya dig?!" A young raver cried aloud, outfitted in a neon-glowing transparent jumpsuit and fish-net stockings teeming across her limbs. She swung her head in circular motions, swaying her dread-locked hair. Everyone around her was either stone-drunk or wrecked on the purest of pure. The world was beyond their limit and anything went, just as long as one didn't reek with a foul, putrid stench of sweat or rain sprinkles of feathery snowflake dandruff in rivulets upon one's bare shoulders. The dancers, anthro and human alike, adored their fashions as much as they adored the heart-pumping techno-house music blaring all around them. Hips jerked, heads swayed frantically and these tweekers all sought out their inner spirit-animals, their most remarkable desires and sweetest succulent fantasies. The world was their oyster and they could care less about a dress code, even if they were to be threatened by gunpoint or perhaps an explosion. Fat chance of that ever happening though!

No viable threats to their livelihoods could even hope to tamper with their driven urges to dance and dance and dance the night away. Maxwell hoped for as much.

Max saw one blue-jay avian donning a tank-top with Tripp jean-shorts. Nearby him, an iguana with a fishnet long-sleeve shirt, leather slacks, and some of the craziest-ass glowing beads Max had ever seen. As the shep-coon surveyed the group as a whole, he saw a mad-house myriad variety of rings, bracelets, piercings, lollipops, pacifiers and hair-ties all around; even adult novelty products of an exquisitely lavish nature could be seen: dildo neck-ties, penile-shaped rubber nunchucks, vagina-shaped mouth-guards. A most indubitable crowd. They were rowdy and unscrupulous... but Max still loved the pleasure of their company. Relished in it, even.

Yeah, sure. Like I really had a choice in the matter, anyways.

With tails swishing, fur shedding, whiskers tickling and plenty of feral howling and cajoling, the anthros fed their dance-fueled inhibitions. They swung and be-bopped, all while coinciding with the overall intake of heavy drugs and hard liquor to spruce the night up. Determined night-owls originated from all viable corners of the social spectrum and flooded into the corroded, stuffy, erotic dance party extravaganza, imitating a massive Hollywood engagement fueled by gratuitous sex and the ever-impending use of any narcotic substance known to science. Drugs aplenty. This was the party of the damn decade and the poor, unfortunate, unaware fools hadn't the slightest clue how much more impressive the night was about to become. As long as Max could be through with his presence, hopefully they wouldn't have to face any nasty onslaughts.

Maxwell, replete with a shoelace-bound bundle of dreadlocks piled messily upon the back of his slender canine shepherd's head and a stylish bright orange handkerchief wrapped around his hollow left eye socket doubling as an temporary patch, arrived well over an hour ago hoping to meet

(then quietly kill and dispose of)

an illegal refugee informant and numbers-runner who worked for his old pal Sciorrenzo, a scurvy old punk-ass pusher bastard with no morals. A deceitful little goblin who needed to be taught a lesson in both manners and business proceedings. Max was very good at accepting orders from bounty collectors. He excelled at concocting homicidal pilfering, utilizing his killing expertise for grand profitable gain. This, however, was personal. The situation had been promised as a very win-win benefit for both parties guaranteed, yet there was still that budding knack of uncertainty that hankered upon the surface of the shep-coon's thoughts. Max's darkest intuitions kept a steady rhythmic pulse, refusing to quit or loosen even slightly. It felt as if he had so much to say, yet so very little time to express himself in a desirable manner, well enough to ascertain courage and will to say it.

One way or another, Maxwell would be heard.

First things first, though. Where was that goddam stupid-ass informant?