Boston's bad day
The monochrome-furred border collie let out a sigh as the hot shower water seep into his fur, reaching his skin and soothing the sore muscles underneath. Creaking pipes in the old shower were such a normal occurance that the black and white dog didn't perk one of his floppy, semi-rigid ears when the a sickening groan came from behind the wall. He simply leaned against to tile with his forehead on one arm, staring down at the water as it swirled its way towards the drain carrying with it bits of dirt, loose fur, and blood.
With a sudden snarl of rage, the 22 year old dog began to punch the hard, white tile with one balled up black fist. He let out a yell with each strike, and only after he say the red flowing down with the water, diluting as it traveled, did he stop and held his paw under his muzzle. The canine licked over the open knuckles a few times, not even thinking and wrapped it up unceremoniously in a wash cloth. Grabbing a towel off the rack sitting over his toilet, he began to pat down his fur, just sopping up as much of the water as he could before patting it down with his paws. The dog did not care much for the full grooming ritual that most went through.
Down the hall he walked, naked to his room, past the old portraits and framed photographs of the border collie family. A older male had his paws on his small son's shoulders as the mother eyed the two oddly, even in the still photo. The collie's black tail swished behind his taut rump in an unintentionally effeminate way. His slender form was well muscled, but hid it well. The collie was on the short side as well, also aiding in his ability to conceal how much he worked out. The fluffy fur that was now still damp would do a good job if he showed it much. Blue jeans, black motorcycle boots, a black v-neck t-shirt and an armored leather biker jacket lay on his bed, the sheets and pillow cases mismatched.
Daniel "Boston" Travis shimmied into his jeans, pulled on his shirt and tucked in before buckling his belt. He slipped his footpaws into his boots, tucking the jeans into them carefully as well before zipping them up. Tossing the jacket over his shoulder, he looked at himself in the mirror and tried on a grin. Boston couldn't see how it fooled anyone, but it so often did.
The dog was not a good person. Even his namesake, the small border collie plushie on his dresser, had stopped talking to him once he had began his little hobby. His addiction. The dog was sick, and he knew it, but he felt justified.
He didn't give a shit.
Shuffling his boots occasionally in his still drowsy trek down the old wooden floors, he creaked down the steps and down that hall to the kitchen. The house was huge, but it was dilapidated and in a long neglected stretch of old highway seldom used these days. The collie poured a bowl of cereal, sat at the old wooden table and read the back of the box for the hundredth time, and ate. He was not looking forward to today.
He had cleaning to do. His 'hobby', his dark little secret under the floor had him cleaning more and more often.
Boston stood up, stretching his arms out, cracking his back, and curling his toes tightly in his boots. Picking up his bowl and tossing it in the sink, he stared at the several dirty pots and pans. He was slacking big time. The border collie shook his head as if he had only just woke up and growled quietly before padding casually into the living room adjoining the kitchen. It was the only room in the house with new things. He plucked a joint from the ashtray and sparked it up, holding in his first hit before clicking the television on.
News. His favorite show. Many times he say familiar faces on this show, familiar young faces. A pity they never smiled with him like they did in the pictures.
"Boston, Boston, Boston. You are such a bad dog." The collie didn't grin at his little joke, he only puffed on his spliff, enjoying the lightheadedness. Coughing once, the dog stared wide eyed at the screen before him.
The joint burned in his paw, smoke wasted to the air. Boston did not care one bit. After the young puppy's face had faded from the screen, an FBI podium stood with a old, grizzled dalmation in a pressed and starched suit. The dog was announcing the FBI's involvement in the increasing disappearances of young pups and cubs in the west Texas area. A number came across the screen for calling in tips.
The dog stared, as still as a statue he stared. His paw was trembling, the ash at the end of his spliff fallen in a clump between his furry digits.
"Boston, you're a bad dog." He repeated in a softer voice.
With a grinding, metal whine the garage door slid upwards on it's rails. The collie wearing his jacket and a pair of shades as well, he got on his motorcycle and sighed. Firing up the old Harley sportster he savored the smooth start up the warm day allowed, but only for a moment.
The dalmation on the news report, that agent was coming to Texas. No, he was defiantly here already. Thoughts, second guessings, what-ifs ran through the border collie's head as he waited for his valve covers to heat up, signaling the bike would not stall, often. Boston wondered if he had missed anything, left clues or even more than that. Every pup had been incinerated, no dna should be able to be gathered, there were no bone fragments. The pups had literally blown away in the wind sometimes.
But what if something led that dog to his doorstep? He shook his head. It was impossible.
*sniff* burning oil... fuck! Boston slapped his choke off, he had been overheating his motor, thinking of the damn spotted dog. Knowing better than to shut it off and let it boil, the dog ripped out of the drive way on the air cooled bike and roared down the road, not even bothering to close his garage.
Surely no one would drop by here, and his bike needed a quick cool down. He sped off towards the store with the sound of machine guns firing off the pavement behind him.
Milk, eggs, cheese, bread, duct tape, meat shears, pack of socks, gardening gloves, high tensile off-shore fishing line, lettuce, salad dressing, 3 gallons of bleach and a sewing kit. Some would call that an innocent shopping list. The clerk didn't seem to think so. A greasy furred bunny with pink highlights in his headfur tossed his bangs off of his eyes, the piercings on his ears jingling and glinting. He looked from the line of merchandise to the dog purchasing it. The lapine smacked his gum loudly.
"What kind of bike you got?" The rabbit asked as he began scanning items. Boston eyed him for a moment. "Harley. Why?" he replied.
"Ahh, ok that explains the duct tape. You gonna fix the seat with that fishing line?"
Boston cocked his head to the side. "Uh, yeah. What makes you say that, though?"
The rabbit smiled as he typed on the register. "My whole family is into bikes. I saw your jacket, so I figured you were doing red neck repairs like my pop and my brothers and I. Thirty seven dollars and twenty cents, dude."
Boston pulled his wallet out by its chain and got a few bills out, getting his change. "Take care, then man. Nice talking to you."
The dog walked away with a wave from the teenage cashier. Small talk was a good thing to know how to do. It made you fit in, even if you are a bit off. The collie headed out the fancy sliding doors and eyed the free news papers and local flyers. On the front page of the local public press, stared the accusing eyes of the dalmation.
On the long barren stretch of road where they highway would have been, 20 feet farther to one side if not for his parents stubbornness, the black and white canine spotted a lone electric company vehicle stopped by a pole about a mile from his house. The dog slowed down, his paws stretched out and his arms stretched up. Indeed he was a sight, the ape hangers were actually taller than he was when he stood aside the modestly sized bike.
Boston stared along the side of the road, looking for a worker. He spotted none. With a stab of paranoia, he gunned the engine and blasted the last mile away.
Pulling into the garage he cursed himself for not closing the door. He slammed it shut promptly upon ungracefully dismounting his bike from the 'wrong' side. Boston ran up stairs, and careful not to shift the blinds, peeked through the crack he always left in them, rigged with tape. He extracted the pair of binoculars from under the dresser, and dusting the lenses with ash from the nearby ashtray he watched the van for a few moments in the distance. Its stillness sending shivers through boston.
After what seemed like an hour, but was around ten minutes, the van shuddered off onto the pavement, turning off and driving back to civilization. While creepy, the young killer was relieved. Maybe the guy fixed something quickly and was pawing off, who knows. He was gone.
Boston shuffled into the living room, feeling exhausted and collapsed on the couch. He packed the morning's roach into his bong and took a large rip. Boston let out a hacking cough as he had apparently smoked a bit of himself, some fur falling into the bowl as he loaded it. The dog wheezed from the burning before becoming silenced.
*Ding Dong* followed by a firm knocking.
Boston froze, his tail stiffening, his ears perking high, his eyes locked down the hallway at the front door and the shape standing behind the frosted glass panels.
The collie, the killer stood up and approached the door cautiously, quietly. He knew it was the police and he knew they would have him in cuffs the second he opened that door. He may as well sit in the chair for his lethal injections.
The boards creaked under his boots, his hindpaws felt hot and heavy inside them. Boston approached the silhouette outside. His father glared at him from photos along the walls. His mother looking more broken and distant in each passing photo.
*KNOCK KNOCK* a cop knock. Boston peered through the privacy glass, and the form behind it leaned forward and knocked right where his face was. Boston stood back, and shivering, opened the door.
The dalmation outside was in a very nice, pressed suit. It looked as if it could stand by itself if he were to step out of it. The spotted dog sniffed the air and made a face. "Don't you kids pick your fur out of you shit after you break it up? I could hear you coughing out here!"
Boston stared, dumbfounded. What to say?
"Am i.. under arrest?"
"Son, I'm not the police and im not drug enforcement, I'm an agent of the FBI." The spotted dog waited, still and smiling confidently. After a painful pause he continued. "You left you garage door open, you know. Not smart."
Boston felt a shiver run through him and he eyed the dog as casually as he casually as he could "I know, my bike overheated I had to run it down the road quickly, you see. I'ts air cool-"
"Are you cold?"
Boston blinked at the taller, older dalmation. He always felt short around other adults. He hated it especially when people actually had an edge on him. "Excuse me?"
The similarly colored dog in the suit motioned towards his throat. "Well you were coughing, and I saw you shiver. Thought you may be sick as well. Are you sick?"
Daniel Travis cursed in his head. The asshole could see him shiver? What the hell was this guy?
"No, sir. I'm honestly probably just too high." The dog gulped, and he knew the dalmation saw it.
"You should cut down a bit. It's not that harmful, but its still not health food." He stood for a moment in his suit, and smiled his perfectly trained smile. A smile that probably cost hundreds of thousands of dollars in tax money to learn. Suddenly he turned to walk away before about facing back to face the young herding dog.
"Oh, you are Daniel Travis Junior, aren't you?" I read your father's case file. I'm very sorry what you had to go through." After a pause he said calmly, "Daniel, do you have anything you'd like to tell me?"
With a snarl he couldn't suppress even with all his father's careful conditioning, the mottled dog stared into the spotted one's eyes. "Because my dad raped me, you think I'm a killer?"
The dalmation tilted his head to the side a bit. "The reports never mentioned you were raped, Daniel. I truly am sorry. That is interesting though."
"What is?" Boston snapped, sick of the name daniel, sick of this fed on his lawn, waiting to take him to his death. He was still snarling.
"That you still live in this house."
"That's none of your business, sir. Now if you please, can I be alone. You've brought about some painful memories."
The dalmation nodded, and with less of a pause than normal, he turned and shuffled down the drive way, nonchalantly looking up a tree as he passed it.
Boston's fur was bristling. He was shaking now, out of sight. He slammed the door and balled his fists. "Asshole!" The dog ran to the living room and sparked one of his fresh joints up, inhaling a much larger hit than usual. He held it this time as long as he could and let his fur at least settle into place.
Boston decided quickly that if he was going to go down, he needed to do one thing first. Not panic. If there was lost evidence it was being dug up by now. If he left a trail they were on it. Why else would he be here? So to calm his nerves, Boston decided to call up his weed dealer and sometimes friend.
"Joey. You want to chill? Like a bar, man. Yeah, I really need to relax. I'll tell ya all about it. Cool, pick me up. I'm driving that mustang of yours though, you can't drive for shit!"
Blasting down the freeway in Joey's mustang was always fun. Despite enjoying his privacy, he didn't mind highway-social-interactions. Truckers and bikers trusted him, and he could spot bad drivers and cops a million miles away. His buddy, despite being a genuine part-time friend, let him drive, as he knew it relaxed the collie. The two passed a joint back and forth as Boston drove, boot pressing down on the accelerator as he let off the clutch with his other, downshifting to quickly pass a slow car.
"Whoa there, little doggie. Do you know what they do to guys like us in jail!" The kangaroo asked, grinning stupidly.
"Yeah. Lethal injection."
The marsupial stared at the intensely focused dog. "Yeah.. well I was thinking rape, but the point is I got weed, don't get pulled over. The remainder of the trip to the diner was uneventful.
The two guys walked in, reeking of weed yet unnoticed. A common thing at dinners, even the larger ones. This one actually had an arcade.
Boston and Joey sat at a booth and flipped through the colorful menus full of American comfort food. Boston got the pot roast, and Joey got a hamburger. The slightly older canine looked down at his hands on the table, fiddling with and ripping up a napkin without thinking. Joey flicked a straw at his friend. "Yo! B-dog. What's up, homeslice. Give me the digs. Whats itchin' your back? Who's steppin' on your tail? Peein' on yo' trees? Eatin' yo'-"
"Joey! Shut the hell up!" the black and white dog laughed. "Seriously man, im going to punch you!" The roo slapped the table, amused with having pissed the dog off before continuing to press the matter.
"But seriously. What's going on?"
Boston lit up a ciggerette and held it idly over the ash tray after taking a drag, staring at the smoke slowly swirling upwards.
"Just feeling shitty alone in that house, man. I think I may sell it to the guy who wanted it. He'll still pay half of what he offered he said."
Joey nodded and sipped his soda as the food arrived. "Well yeah, you would lose some green kind of. Not really, though it's not like you can sell that place to anyone else. Value is whatever he offers."
The collie shrugged and looked around the restaurant. He could see everything but the non smoking section around the other side of the kitchen. Boston was about to speak when he saw a small pup, a small dalmation pup looking confused. A familiar look. No doubt because he was being led off by a very gruff looking larger dog that did not resemble him in looks or actions. The collie locked eyes with his friend.
"Joey, please trust me. We need to go. Let me drive."
The roo stared back, nodding. "Yeah, sure man. Whatever. I'll leave a twenty it's on me"
Boston hurried into the car, pulling out a bit quickly behind the large pickup truck rumbling off with its two occupants. The truck sped off as it saw the mustang's headlights chasing him. Always a good driver, the collie wasted no time and proceeded after the large dog's truck. Riding feet from his bumper, Boston flashed his hi-beams, and beeped his horn.
The true owner of the car was yelling at his friend, but the words were unheard and answered with a calm "Trust me." As the focused collie stayed locked on the road.
He watched only the tail lights of the truck as the redneck, out of speed, decided to start hitting the breaks at random moments. The sports car's superior discs slowed the car much more efficiently than the pickup. After a few miles, the truck locked his tires, smoke billowing from them as they shuddered against the road. The mustang as well slid to a stop. The dog jumped out of his truck wielding a tire iron, approaching the car and pointing at the two younger guys in it.
Boston slammed on the gas and let off the clutch.
The dog's eyes widened, his dirty brown fur seemed to droop as his jaw did.
He was sent into the side of his own truck.
"WHAT THE FUCK, MAN? WHAT THE FUCK? DUDE YOU KILLED HIM!" The kangaroo began freaking out.
Boston turned on the roo's hazard lights and leapt out of the car. He ran to the door, stepping over the twisted body of the dog. Inside, knocked out with a rancid chemical smell in the air, was the dalmation pup.
Only half an hour later the scene was a buzz. Three ambulances and four cop cars arrived and began to tend to the puppy. The cops cordoned off the body and the vehicles, and had cuffed the two adults and put them in separate cars.
Outside, the officers were talking with the E.M.Ts about the drugged puppy in the truck. According to one of the officers, if things were the way that looked than the driver of the mustang, the collie was a hero.
His statement was that after he saw the man striking the pup, he chased the guy trying to get his license plate number. After a while the drive tried to wreck the mustang and attacked them with a tire iron. In a panic, the dog had floored the car into the attacker, claiming he thought if he fled the kid would be hurt.
With a screech of tires, two blacked out sedans pulled up in unison, doors opening and federal agents rushing out. The dalmation from earlier stood there, looking nervous. "My son, is he alright?"
An E.M.T. ran over and told the agent his son would be fine, at worst a headache. He was awake from simple smelling salts and wanting his dad.
The dalmation looked in the cars "Are those the boys who hit the suspect?" A fox wearing his police uniform nodded "Feel free to talk to them, sir."
The spotted dog looked at the two forms. "Which one was driving?"
The fox pointed. "Car twelve, Canine, border collie, twenty two years old. Doesn't appear to be drunk-"
"Border collie?" The dalmation was already walking to the car.
The door to Boston's tiny back seat opened up. The cramped area didn't even allow him with his small stature to peer out the door on the far side. He was surprised none the less when the older dalmation sat down next to him.
"Daniel Travis."
The collie eyed the agent. "Well, I'm a killer now."
"Yes, Daniel you are. But you may have just stopped a very sick dog. This was going to be a long, hard case, and I had to bring my son here to move temporarily. You just saved him, I think from the killer I'm trying to catch."
The mottled dog nodded solemnly. "I can't afford a lawyer for this."
"Daniel, you just saved a federal agent's son. You're not even going to see a courtroom. You're going to sleep in your own bed tonight."
Boston grinned upwards a bit at the older dog. "Does this mean I'm not under investigation anymore?"
The agent shook his head. "You're a weird kid, don't get me wrong. You've been through some bad shit when you were young, and" the dog hesitated. "Your eyes are, well, lets just say in my field I deal with a lot of killers. You happen to have a similar gaze to some of the more, unique ones. I'm sorry for intruding on you Daniel, and I thank you. And my wife would have thanked you."
Daniel "Boston" Travis lowered his ears a bit as he nodded.
"Are you going to be ok with what you did tonight?"
"Sure, I'll be fine. I'll smoke it off."
The dalmation chuckled. "One of the benefits of my position. No drug tests." He pulled out a joint and light it up right infront of Boston's wide eyes, in the back seat of a cop car, handcuffed. After a few puffs the dalmation stuck it to the border collie's muzzle and allowed him to toke on it. "Smile to the camera, Daniel. " he motioned to the camera mounted facing them from the front of the car, to gather evidence. "It's not every day you're going to have footage of you burned by federal agents."
The two enjoyed a somewhat strange chuckle.
The roo and Boston had been dropped off at their respective homes by the officers, sitting in the front seats this time. Boston was subjected to a near rookie's endless talk of how he should join the force, and how people need to be proactive like he is, not just rely on the cops to wipe their asses and keep their kids safe like guardian angels.
Once inside, he collapsed on the couch. Sitting on the table in front of him, was a bouquet of flowers with an envelope taped to the front. He blinked a few times before pulling the envelope to him and tearing it open. Inside was a thank you card from the agent, who couldn't possibly have left this himself as he would have had to pass Boston on the way back or go insanely fast on dark deer filled roads.
The envelope had a hefty bag of weed in the bottom. About an eighth of an ounce of extremely nice looking chronic, or very, very good weed. The dog shook his head as he loaded the bong, using the card to break up the sticky, expensive pot. On the bottom of the message was written-
P.S. Don't get any fur in this stuff, kid! Would be a pity to cough it all away.
-end