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Epilogue

Friday, April 9, 2021

11:24pm

Antonio Harding—his gal always called him “Nio"—should have been in bed. He should have been in bed an hour ago. He shouldn't have gone to the gym when he had work in the morning and when he and his gal had been doing so well since getting back together, again.

He sighed tiredly and stroked his gal's ear.

The late-night news was on in the background, informing the Hollins metro of some real awful shit, something about some innocent little girls getting killed. He would have killed the damn TV if he knew where the remote had gone, but he didn't, so he tried to block the reporter's voice out. The world was a fucked up place. He didn't need the reminder right then.

His gal purred and slathered her tongue all up and down his cock, working her keratin spines and the smooth steel of twin tongue piercings against him. It was a pretty damn intense feeling. He gazed from the couch down at her—tan fur, dark hair, glassy yellow eyes, thick feline tail swaying out full jeans, cream-furred tits fit to explode from the red bra she'd dressed down to.

He must have been crazy to feel unsatisfied.

But he had been at the gym that night and the previous Friday as well.

He hadn't seen the Malinois on either occasion—still didn't even know her name. All he had was the bitch's number, but she hadn't messaged back or answered any of his calls.

He had to reach awkwardly, but he managed to pull his phone from the pocket of his fallen shorts.

His gal smirked up at the lens.

“For when ya miss me?"

Antonio grunted, got a quick shot of his gal putting him inside her round muzzle, then pulled up a picture of his nuts sitting on a big, sexy canine tongue.

“You're too damn hot, babe," he muttered, leaning back on the couch, staring into the devilishly glowing eyes.

The news on the TV jumped from one depressing story to the next. Neither the German shepherd nor his gal were listening when the anchor announced how details continued to emerge regarding a murder at some healthcare facility.

Antonio thought back to that one-hour stand in the dark, back lot of the dollar store. He did that whenever he was with his gal now, whether he tried to or not. He would think how the Malinois, all lithe and potent, had worshiped his balls and his musky scent and had done all she could to choke herself on his cock. He would think how admirably she had guzzled down his cum. And he would remember how once he'd started fucking the bitch, she'd had her eyes and paws and tongue all over her own self, how it had been like he wasn't even there, like she had been making love with herself. He would remember how the only times she had turned up to him had been to moan and squeal and beg, “Tyson! Tyson!—"

“—Tyson Spriggs was strangled to death in his room at the East View Behavioral Healthcare center in Hollins. East View psychiatrist Jocelyn York was apprehended by Hollins police and is currently being held in county jail without bail," said a reporter.

Two faces appeared on the TV screen. On the right was a German shepherd, a tired-looking guy with fucked eyes, and on the left was a Belgian Malinois, a goddamn breathtaking bitch with short, wavy blonde hair and devilishly glowing orange eyes.

Antonio glanced up, and his mouth fell open.

His gal's ears twitched, and she uncorked her muzzle.

They uttered, in simultaneous shock, “Holy shit," and looked from the TV to each other and back again.

The reporter continued—

“Spriggs had been receiving treatment at the Hollins center for mental health. He was arrested in 2014 for the intimidation and sexual battery of an unnamed relative, but while in police custody, the German shepherd admitted there was more, telling interrogators he had killed his own mother back in 2009—after engaging in a year-long sexual relationship with her. Police discovered the remains of Patricia Wagner exactly where Spriggs had described.

“Charged with murder in the first degree, sexual battery and intimidation, Spriggs pleaded guilty but mentally ill and was taken to East View under custody of the Indiana Department of Mental Health. According to Indiana state code, individuals found guilty but mentally ill must receive treatment for their conditions but are to be transferred back to custody of the state's correction department to serve the remainder of their term, if deemed fit. Tyson should have been in state custody until 2077.

“Today, East View released another press statement, with Chief Legal and Compliance Officer Daniel Stone acknowledging York's arrest and stating East View was continuing to work with police. The statement said that York had been with East View for seven years with an exemplary performance record."

* * *

Saturday, July 3, 2021

1:04pm

A steady wind hustled little white clouds across an endless blue. The sun dispensed a heat which was underwhelming given the time of year, but the greenery thickly tumbling over itself towards an unshouldered, unstriped, easy-rolling stretch of county highway about a dozen miles southwest of Sandy, Indiana, seemed content—as did the dutifully grumbling V6 of the southbound Silverado as its odometer ticked over 201,000 miles.

“This spot okay?"

Anessa May Spriggs-Day picked her eyes from the brushes and evergreens which busied the roadside and nodded. The spot was okay as any other. From the floor, she grabbed and quickly passed her father a small, black box which weighed a few, heavy pounds. She dusted her paws on the shotgun seat of her father's pickup and watched as her father rolled down his window and fussed with the container in his lap. They drifted slightly over the center of the unmarked pavement, and Anessa leaned over to grab the steering wheel and smiled when her father grunted a thanks.

Once he had the box open, Roger took back the steering wheel in one paw and with the other held the box towards the open window. He checked his mirrors, squinted ahead. The road was empty.

“Might want to hold on here," he said.

Anessa secured the grab handle as her father pounded the pickup's accelerator, bringing a determined growl from the six-cylinder engine as it slowly gathered speed.

Anessa's heart pounded as she noticed the speedometer passing 75, 80, 85—

“Dad?" she said.

She looked to her father's muzzle which was graying, quivering, and the pickup strained for further acceleration.

“Dad."

With a graceless gesture, her father flung the contents of the box out his window.

The engine sighed as the Silverado began a long, coasting deceleration and eventual halt. The pickup leaned two tires into the tall grass as Roger leaned his forehead on his steering wheel.

He attempted to bite back a sob, but it came out weak, angry and sad.

“Dad," whispered Anessa, reaching to her father's shaking back.

He needed a minute to lose the tears and pull his head up again.

“Sorry," he said.

“You don't have to apologize."

“I do—I was thinking a part of me is relieved he's dead and how much a failure of a father I've been for you all."

Anessa glared at her father, hurt, and sternly refuted, “That's not true! You know it's not. We tried to help him—more than we needed to."

More than a part of her was relieved her brother was gone, and she could say it without guilt, but she held the thought and leaned over to hug her father.

“We promised we wouldn't blame ourselves for all this anymore, Dad."

“You're right," Roger said, sniffling and sighing into her ear. “I'm sorry."

His tone solidified with a few long breaths, after which he added, “I'll try not to beat myself up over this, and you know how much I love you. I'll—I'll be okay."

Anessa nuzzled her father's cheek and put her back to her own seat.

“You talk to Mom about things when you need to, right?"

Her father wiped his face to a still-teary smile.

“I do, and you talk to me or your hubby when you need to, right?"

“Yep," Anessa nodded.

Her father got the pickup pointed back towards town and stuck the needle of the speedometer to 55. He didn't say anything. Anessa didn't say anything. The two shepherds listened to the engine's grumble. As they went, the tragedy of it all weighed on Anessa's thoughts. She wondered, as she often did, what she and Vincent would ever tell their children. Isabelle was already three. Lillian was pushing two. November would be there before they knew it, and while they slightly hoped for a son, they both agreed three was a nice number, and thinking so, Anessa looked down, rubbed her rounded abdomen and smiled distractedly.