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Making a Difference copyright 2019 comidacomida

There was a time in Roman's life when he and his friends laughed about how fake some Hollywood fight scenes looked, especially when the victim of group violence curled into a little ball while people around him were kicking him senseless. That was a long time ago for the young greyhound-- back when he had friends, and before he was the victim of such a beating. It was, in fact, more than just painful... it was exhausting.

Although he hadn't realized it years ago when he was an observer rather than a target, the act of being kicked repeatedly while tucked into a ball was much more active than he'd first assumed. A blow to his stomach meant he had to curl tighter in the hopes that his knees or elbows would take the worst of the impact; a strike to his back meant he'd have to relax his abdomen so he could do a better job of clenching his obliques-- he knew the name of the muscle group because he was a college student and, as his father had always said "College graduates are expected to know things."

It was sad, in that moment, that Roman would be able to add knowing what it felt like being beaten to death to his laundry list of information gained by being a second year college student without a declared major. It wasn't being a college student that led to the beating however; everything his father had planned for him didn't include any element of danger. No, the activity he had undertaken on his own volition is what he was sure would lead to his demise. Roman had selected social work volunteerism for work study.

The entire thing had begun on an impulse for something different: helping out at a homeless shelter. Two weeks in and Roman had signed up full time to help with the outreach program, heading into the park and walking along the streets to meet the city's down-and-out. It had been an eye opening experience for the well-to-do Greyhound; never in all his life had he been so close to suffering and it had sparked something within him. He felt compelled to help, and, over the course of the next few months it had become something of an impulse... a compulsion... an addiction.

The other Dogs in his social group had looked at his inclination to help others like it was some kind of ironic joke. They humored him for the first few weeks but after a month or so they began to look at him differently. Roman didn't mind that they started calling him a 'guilty rich boy'; he wasn't entirely sure they were wrong. They accused him of feeling bad that he was well off and, despite their initial attempts to remind him that he owed the world nothing, eventually they stopped trying and so he found himself alone.

The steel toed boots continued to do their damage as he lay crumpled on the ground and he was almost sorry that his 'friends' weren't around to do something but half of him expected that they probably wouldn't. Several times he thought he was about to lose consciousness, which would have been a blessed relief, but he never did. No, his friends would have been more likely to pull out their expensive cell phones and take selfies to post on their so-very-important social media pages. Roman could practically read the captions: 'Rich Boy Gets Paid Back for Activism', or maybe something even more creative, and probably disgustingly tactless: 'He died for their sins'

A stomping boot at the base of his tail caused him to bark out in pain, pulling him out of his half-daze with a fresh stab of pain. Why were the men beating him up? He didn't know-- there could have been any of a number of reasons. Plenty of people in town didn't care for the homeless and he'd been visible enough that maybe the worst of the nay-sayers decided to target him. Perhaps they wanted to mug him and figured he'd be loaded based on his clothes. Only once there was a break in the beating and one of his attackers, a thick-jawed Bulldog leaned down to address him with words coated in cheap beer did he understand. "So... how's that for a good 'fucking', faggot? Gonna beg us for more?"

Activism had been Roman's obsession since he'd joined college and, even though his parents had never had a problem with him being homosexual, he'd learned that a lot of other young Dogs had to deal with disapproving parents and worse, so he'd become an advocate. The sound of his triangle pin being torn off of the shoulder of his jacket was only the newest of insults and, despite how much it pained him, his physical wounds hurt more. Another one of his attackers, slim, lanky Doberman spat on him. "I'm thinkin we strip him down to his tighty-whities... see if he likes parading around like a little queer on the street all the way home."

The Bulldog, Doberman, and three other aggressors all started laughing, and he felt wicked paws grab him from all angles, pulling, tearing, and ripping at his clothes... until they all stopped. It wasn't a gradual lack of interest, rather, they left him alone all at once, and the heralding sound was a sound of the loud impact of paw-on-face. Gasping air, still trying to overcome the pain he felt all over, Roland rolled over onto his back, groaning as he saw the largest of his attackers, a smudge-furred Great Pyrenees take flight, soaring over him and into a metal lamp post.

A second later and the Doberman landed on the ground next to Roland with a thud, thoroughly unconscious with blood pouring from his nose and split lip. The Greyhound groaned, trying to pull himself away from the unmoving Dog, but he felt dizzy the moment he attempted to move. A broad paw clamped down on his shoulder and, just as he was about to scream, he heard a familiar voice. "Relax, kid... you're almost outta this Charlie Foxtrot."

Roland didn't know Tony well, but he knew the Malinois because he'd met him often enough at the soup kitchen, at the park, and once or twice on the street. Tony was an old soldier who'd spent some ten-or-more years on the street. "T-Tony?"

"Relax, kid... we got'cha."

The Greyhound still didn't completely understand what was going on, but he heard another voice he recognized as belonging to Miguel Garcia, a Coyote who often hung out with Tony. He was shouting at full volume. "You like beatin' up helpless kids, pendejo?" The question was accentuated by a loud thud. "Get yer kicks fuckin' with good people?" another impact. "I heard ya sayin' ya like workin' over queers... well now you know what it's like gettin' taught respect by one? ¡Pinche culero!"

A third spoke up quickly and it sounded like there was a brief scuffle or physical exchange; while the Greyhound never had a chance to learn the Beauceron's name, he still recognized the speaker. "Woah-woah-woah, Garcia... relax... relax... he's done!"

Roman lost track of what happened after that. At some point the Malinois, Coyote, and Beauceron managed to help him up. Tony led the away from what looked like a bar-brawl-gone-wrong with the Greyhound's many attackers laying splayed out in the street and the other two helped steady Roman between them. The Malinois made a left turn after the park. "Three blocks to the hospital... they should be able to take him in."

It was all Roman could do to object, his voice hammering in his head. "No... not the hospital..."

Tony stopped in his tracks and turned around to face him. The Malinois gave him a quick glance from top to bottom, his older face doing the 'disapproving dad' expression justice. "You need some care, kid... nothing seems broken but you might have some pretty bad bruises... best to let the medics look you over."

The Beauceron holding Roman up on the right snorted. "Relax, Sarge... kid said he didn't want the hospital. We can sit him down here and he'll be fine."

Romah felt the Coyote to his left reach out and smack the Beauceron lightly. "Vete a la chingada, Drew! He might have a concussion."

Tony leveled his critical gaze at Roman. "Listen... Roman, right?" The Greyhound nodded in acknowledgement. "If you don't wanna go to the hospital that's your business, but--"

Roman managed to get one foot under himself so he could at least stand somewhat on his own as he made himself clear. "If... if I end up in the hospital... my dad won't let me do outreach anymore..."

The Malinois' ears raised and an expression of abject disbelief washed over his face. "What the--?" He paused, closing his eyes and letting out a deep breath as he murmured "Fucking snowflakes and their-- FINE... well we can't just leave you here, kid..."

The Greyhouse motioned with his head. "I live, like... six blocks that way."

The Coyote shifted his weight slightly, moving to support Roman better. "Six blocks is nothing... we can make that."

The Beauceron snorted. "We ain't got better things to do?"

Garcia snorted right back. "Damn right... only that ain't a question, Private. We DON'T got anything better to do... now suck it up, soldier."

Roman wasn't sure what he got himself into, but at least to him it sounded like their bickering wasn't spiteful. He didn't want to go to the hospital, but the prospect of being dropped off on a bench didn't appeal to him either. "I-- I can pay?"

Tony let out a derisive snort. "Keep your money, kid. Six blocks it is."