FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter 1: Sales Pitch

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Charles gazed distantly out the dark, tinted window. He stretched his legs out on the spacious interior of Pops' Jeep Wagoneer. The gorgeous vanilla sky outside would have made a perfect backdrop for any aspiring photographer.

If it weren't for the throngs of shirtless men and naked children walking about the streets, the grotesque, ramshackled shanties they all lurked in, and the heaps of garbage strewn across a street that could barely fit their station wagon.

The Wagoneer lurched to a halt when Pops suddenly slammed the brakes. His actions saved a ten-year old child from certain death. Seatbelts prevented Charles and his father from planting their faces on the windshield, but they couldn't stop the curses flying out of the latter's mouth. "These dumbasses!"

He rolled the window down as far as the Wagoneer's bulletproof modifications allowed, just in time to see the mother rushing in to pick up her child. "You bitch! Can't you see we're in a convoy? Teach your fucking kid to watch the streets!"

Rage was forming on the mother's face, but it vanished the second she heard the rumble of two bulky Kawasaki motorcycles coming her way. Police officers rode them both. Fear replaced her expression when she realized one had his eyes on her, hand ready on a gun.

"Out of the way, ma'am."

"VIP coming through."

Pops sneered, "You should be thanking me. Normally I'd run over the little rugrat, but I didn't want to have all that blood staining my Jeep."

The mother clutched her child and held them tight. "Thank you, sir." She bowed her head multiple times in what looked like reverence; Charles believed it was fear and nothing else. "Thank you! You are kind and generous and merciful and just. God bless you and—

Pops shooed her away. "Good. Now get outta here before I change my mind!"

After she left, one of the policemen slid to a stop beside the driver's window. "My apologies, Mr. Graham. We didn't see her coming. The streets are narrow, the crowds are very thick, and the other drivers are stubborn. Are you sure you want to go this way?"

"Yes. I'm paying your captain a good amount for this, so start doing your jobs right!"

The officer saluted him. "Yes, sir! It won't happen again."

Pops grunted the second the window was shut. “See that, Charles?" he lectured. “People in this country have no discipline. They're headstrong and they respect only one thing. Power." There was a glint in his eye. “Do you remember what that is, son?"

“ Aurum potestas est," Charles recited from memory.

“Correct. Gold is power."

That phrase was practically Pops' motto in life. It had been drilled into Charles' head since he was five, and for sure all his younger siblings were undergoing the very same indoctrination. There was a time when he wanted to believe otherwise, when he could trust the good in people, but…

“I know that look in your eye." Pops snorted. “You disagree with me, don't you? You think I shouldn't have shouted at her?"

“I didn't say anything! That's—

“Tch! Kids these days, getting more American every year. Those values don't apply in this country. Live here like a bolillo, and people will just devour you. You know what would've happened if we actually hit that kid? If we lived in America we would've gotten due process"—Pops tapped a rectangular device affixed to the dashboard—“especially with the dashboard camera here. GEICO would've taken care of everything and when the dust settled, the mother would only have herself to blame for neglecting her brat.

“But in Henrico? God have mercy on you! It wouldn't matter if you had evidence! The context doesn't matter! The bastards at the courts would slap you with unreasonable fines, and they'd make you pay for the brat's hospital bills even if it wasn't your fault to begin with. You hit anyone, it's automatically your fault. End of discussion! Why do you think bus drivers kill anyone they hit here? Burying a person costs only $1000. It's cheap compared to medical care and all the legal damages—

“I know, I know, okay?" Charles exclaimed. “I get it! Jesus, I've seen it happen too many times myself."

There was no use arguing with Pops on this. He had a terrible habit of wanting to get the last word in. Plus, the man had a point. There was no such thing as justice here. In fact, the court stenographer would be the first to approach you for one hefty bribe that would be shared between all government workers in the courtroom, the judge included. “I've been in this hole with my ex-girlfriend before," he added. "So I'm not clueless here."

“Correct."

Charles sighed. “Anyway, where are we going? It's four in the afternoon and we're stuck in the middle of this crap!" He pointed to the chaos unfolding in front of the Wagoneer. They were trailing behind a Jeep Laredo, one of two sandwiching their SUV. Progression was at a snail's pace thanks to the scores of people skirting between their vehicles without a care whether it was on foot or on wheels.

Motorcycles and auto rickshaws moved about the narrow street, counterflowing at the earliest opportunity. These errant motorists adamantly squeezed through whatever space they could find without regard for road courtesy or right-of-way. Charles watched an auto rickshaw rev its weak engine, rush in front of the Laredo, and inserted itself as far as it could into the space between that and a small truck. Its operator didn't care if it blocked a cloud of motorcycles coming in from the opposite direction and caused a gridlock.

The policemen escorting them weren't all that effective, either. They waved and shouted at the unruly pedestrians. Their horns disturbed ears everywhere with their loud screeches. Despite their imposing presence, many found their way around them, circling their blind spots.

Several times in the last minute or two, Pops had to sound off the horn and aggressively push the Wagoneer forward every time an empty space appeared, often split-seconds before someone else cut in front of him. Charles studied his face. It was as expressionless, as jaded, as any other driver in this maddening situation, for this was simply a common, everyday occurrence.

Here, in the city of Metro Magallanes.

Charles pulled at his Oxford shirt. The collar was stifling. “Ugh, it's a Saturday. I'm not supposed to be wearing something like this today." He complained, “The boys are watching Return of the Jedi tonight! Shit, at this rate I'm not gonna make it to the theater…"

“Let it go, Charles," Pops advised. “If you want to succeed in life, you need to be ready for anything. Business can come at a moment's notice and you have to look the part."

“But, Pops, we're in the slums! It's either tank tops or nothing around here. You think we'll find any business in this dump?"

“Like I said, business can come anywhere, anytime." Pops smirked. “Even in the cinema."

Charles gasped. “You've seen Star Wars already?"

“Last night. I took your younger brother out."

He fumed and crossed his arms. That was not fair.

“And to prove my point," Pops said with a chuckle, “by sheer coincidence, we sat right beside Rio Grande Farms' sales manager. We had a good talk about business while the trailers were showing and it might just lead to a long-term contract. So heed my advice. Throw out all the trashy casuals in your closet and start dressing smarter. Believe me, son, you will thank me for that someday."

Charles pouted. “I still can't believe you've seen Return of the Jedi before me." Jesus Christ, what would the boys say about that?

“Finally," muttered Pops. He maneuvered past an illegally parked car and caught up to the Laredo. The police officers they hired had been significant help at stopping the traffic for him. “Now, to answer your question, we're visiting one of my frat brothers. He's gotten wind of the next biggest thing in business right now and I'm interested in seeing what he wants to show me."

Knowing Pops and his frat boys, this was definitely another illegal hustle. It would explain why they were in Metro Magallanes' biggest shantytown of all places. “And you're bringing me with you because?"

“You turned twenty last month, didn't you?"

“Yeah."

“So it's time you learn the ropes. Learn my network. Learn how I see things. Of course I want to see how you think, too."

Charles sighed. Such was the curse of being the eldest. He was responsible for his siblings. That meant caring for the family business in their father's place was something that would eventually fall on him.

“I understand." He nodded at him. “How much longer? Are we close?"

“We're here, actually."

“Wha?" Charles had only just processed what he said when Pops smoothly brought the Wagoneer halfway up the sidewalk and parked it in front of a paper-thin steel gate. The Laredo ahead rolled to a stop, hazard lights turning on. Its doors opened.

Several men got off, each sporting bandanas and sunglasses. Other than the driver, they casually walked over to the Wagoneer with AK-47 rifles in their hands. The second Laredo pulled over behind them, and the same occurred. The two officers escorting them parked their motorcycles by the Wagoneer and got off to stand in the middle of the busy street and get the traffic moving.

Charles snorted at the sight. As if eight guys with AK-47s weren't intimidating enough. No sane person would dare come close.

“Charles," Pops called his attention. “Gear check."

“Do I have to?" he asked. “I really doubt someone can get through all our guards."

“Remember where we are. People like us need to play it safe."

Charles scowled. How could he forget? Everyone in his family was on a kidnap list. If people found out they were here in the slums, for sure they would've been stolen away as soon as they were vulnerable.

“I know we live in a shithole country, Pops. No need to remind me."

Pops ignored the comment. “Gear check, Charles. The sooner we do this, the sooner we finish our business here."

“All right, all right." He unbuttoned his Oxford shirt, revealing a half-inch-thick vest designed for stabbing and low-caliber bullets. “Body armor, check."

“Same here. Pistol?"

An M1911 loaded with 10mm bullets was inside the glove compartment, safety engaged. Charles stowed the gun in his waistband. He grabbed two spare magazines. One went inside the waistband too. The other, his left pocket. “Check. You?"

“Check. Knife?"

Charles' hand dropped to his right pocket, brushing against the familiar coarseness of G10 fiberglass. Coldsteel folding knife, secured. “Check."

“Same." Pops reached for an open can of Coca-Cola sitting in the cup holder and took a few gulps. “Ahhh… Alright! Let's go."

Charles groaned the second he left the Wagoneer. It was a balmy 25° Celsius in Metro Magallanes, with clear skies. Not a cloud in sight. One of the guards held the door open for him as he fixed his shirt, chinos, and leather shoes. “Hey Bert," Charles greeted him. Albert was a good man. A good, loyal man. He'd been in his family for years. “Doing okay?"

“I'm good, boss," replied the bodyguard. Charles looked at the man. His face was hidden beneath a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a bandana wrapped around his mouth. Safe from the heat.

While Albert shut the door behind him, Charles called out to his father. “Hey Pops! How many are coming with us?"

“Just Bert and Gerry," Pops replied, tilting his head to another guard beside him who sported the same outfit Albert did. “Everyone else, on standby."

Pops took a couple seconds to straighten up his own Oxford button-down in front of the gate. It was cleaner than Charles' and on par with his outfit. When finished, he raised a fist and rapped several times, the frail steel spawning echoes in his wake. “Anybody home?“

He knocked again. “Anybody home?"

Pops frowned when nobody came to answer. He motioned for one of the other guards to come over. “Hey, get someone to honk the horn so"—they heard the shuffling of feet.—“Ah, never mind."

The gate opened partly to reveal the deadly end of an AK-47 and the dark visage of an irritated security guard. “Sir, state your purpose."

Pops snickered. “You must be new. Tell Paul it's Stephen Graham."

The other man shut the gate and retreated inside the house. Charles raised his gaze. He wasn't very impressed. It was nothing more than a shack, haphazardly constructed with cheap, surplus lumber, gypsum drywalls, and corrugated iron sheets weighed down with worn tires. Clothes hung down from the second floor. He raised an eyebrow when he saw a pair of briefs with the face of Batman on the crotch.

The security guard returned and fully opened the gate. “Alright, sir. Come in. Boss Paul's expecting you." If he was shocked to see their security detail, it did not show on his face.

Pops strolled in without giving him a second glance. Charles followed, then Gerry, then Albert. The front door was simply a bath curtain, clearly built to accommodate people up to five feet tall. All four men were forced to bend a little as they stepped over the divider.

Once inside, the musty smell of dust, vinegar, and blue cheese assaulted Charles' nose. He scowled, the hot, humid air causing his forehead to sweat. The oscillating pedestal fan inside was useless notwithstanding the fact it'd been set to maximum power. It rattled constantly, to his annoyance.

Other than a dangerously narrow flight of stairs covered in termite tubes to the left, the shanty home consisted of two rooms. The first was an unholy combination of a living room and a kitchen. Next to the wall on the right, an ancient Sony CRT TV was perched atop a monobloc chair.

“Coming up tonight," a commercial blared on the TV. “An interview with Secret Service agent Robert DeProspero on the attempted assassination of US President Ronald Reagan. Exclusively on HNN. Stay tuned after..."

Charles tuned out the television and resumed inspecting the house with judging eyes. Whoever lived here possessed no sofa, no table, no way to entertain guests. The “kitchen", a desultory arrangement of a homemade propane stove and an old cast iron wok, was a fire hazard waiting to blow. It certainly didn't help that dirty clothes and trash by the heaps were strewn everywhere.

“How the hell are we getting any business done here?" Charles thought to himself. Calling this noxious shithole a pigsty was an insult to pigs everywhere. The “living room" couldn't even fit all four of them properly.

He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped off his sweat. “Pops," Charles said, “Where's—

“STEPHEN!"

A corpulent man in a white tank top appeared at the doorway at the end of the second room. Charles recognized his chubby face, his brown mop of hair, and the saggy left eye. “Stephen Graham!" he cheered. “Good to see you, brother."

“Same to you, Paul." Pops smiled and reached out to him. Charles quietly observed the way his fingers split into three: the thumb, the pinky, and the rest in-between. Uncle Paul's and Pops' hands met in the air and shook once before making three more handshakes at a speed too fast for his eyes to follow. “It's been way too long."

“It has, it has," Uncle Paul nodded in agreement. “Been busy keeping up with the latest trade after all." His brown eyes swiveled over to Charles. “Well! Isn't this a surprise? Hello there, Charles."

“Hello, Uncle Paul."

Uncle Paul sidestepped past Pops and made to shake his hand. He was just about to give him the fraternity's secret handshake only to shift to a standard one at the last second. “Oh, right. You're not a frat brother."

“That's fine," Charles replied as they shook hands.

“You sure you don't want to join? You're getting your Bachelor's this school year so it's your last chance to become one of us."

And then what? Lose a few brain cells getting whacked in the head? Joining the frat in violent rumbles out in public? Seniors living the Greek life were especially brutal to each other in the months leading up to graduation. Charles didn't want any part of that. No way.

“It's okay, Uncle Paul. I'll manage."

“If you say so," the man said, his voice tinged with... sadness? Disappointment? Whatever it was, it was overshadowed by the twinkle that began glittering in his eyes when he faced Pops once more.

“I see you brought your son with you, Stephen. Hauling in the next generation, huh?"

“You know I can't run Graham Logistics forever," Pops said. “It'll take years to grasp the nuances of my business. It's best to start as soon as possible."

“Can't see anything wrong with that logic! Charles might be your son, but GLC's the largest logistics firm in Henrico. I won't be surprised if it takes him at least ten years to get it."

“I'll be with him every step of the way," Pops asserted.

Charles Graham rolled his eyes. “Can we please get to business now?" he asked.

“Oh, c'mon, kid!" Uncle Paul whined. “Don't be that way. We haven't gotten the chance to drink yet."

Pops waved at him. “He's mad that he'll miss Return of the Jedi today."

“Ooooh, Stephen, that was a terrific movie! Something like that's bound to win an Oscar for sure."

The comment had him seething. What was it with EVERYBODY having seen the movie before him? “Please don't spoil it for me!" he pleaded. “Let's just get this over with so Pops can drop me off at Supermall later."

Uncle Paul smirked—leered at him. The wide, shit-eating grin on his face held portent. “You're better off postponing your trip to the cinema to tomorrow."

“Why's that?"

“Because you and your dad are really gonna love what I got in the back." He beckoned at them. “Come! Follow me."

Uncle Paul stepped carefully over the mess as he walked out the other exit. A nonchalant Pops followed him first. If he was as bothered with this shithole as Charles was, it did not show on his face.

Charles avoided a stale, half-eaten sandwich on the plastic-lined floor. Disgust struck him when he peeked around the second room and saw an unkempt bed littered with crumpled-up tissues, old magazines, unwashed clothes, and—

A shudder ran through Charles' spine. He just saw a dead cockroach. He plowed through the room in haste and accidentally kicked over a glass of water on the way out. “Ahh, shit."

He heard Uncle Paul's guard come in the front door, take over the TV, and change the channel.

"'Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down. Never gonna turn around, and, desert you!' Aaaand that was Rick Astley's Never Gonna Give You Up! Still rocking at number 1 on the HMTV Top 100…"

Charles swung the door open with a little too much enthusiasm. Finally out of that place! "—being smuggled all over the world these days," Uncle Paul was explaining something to Pops. "Ever since the first sighting a year ago, they've been finding whole groups of them hidden deep in Africa, South America, China, Russia… hell, even in Australia!"

"Are there really that many? I thought they're supposed to be extremely rare."

"That's what everybody thought! Turns out the little shits are just exceptionally good at hiding."

What were they even talking about? Charles filtered out their conversation while he took stock of the backyard.

It was surprisingly spacious. A hundred square meter lot, ensconced by 30-foot walls made by concrete hollow blocks and the neighboring shanties. The odor of nail polish wafted into Charles' nose. It came from a tiny workshop to the left, where a couple people worked on some chemistry equipment atop a shabby table.

On the other side rested cages stacked with exotic animals. His eyes roamed from cage to cage. A siberian tiger slumbering at the bottom of the stack. An American bald eagle, perched on the topmost enclosure. There was also a Philippine pangolin clinging to the bars, the cage situated above another that contained at least twenty parrots stuffed inside it like a can of sardines.

Charles' eyes apathetically passed over the spectacle, numb at the sight.

It was only when he came across cages containing malnourished children did he pause. Many had their heads down. All sported bruises, even wounds that looked like it came from a whip. Their skin colors varied, indicating they've been sourced from North America or Latin America. Many were girls younger than thirteen.

"—nomadic tendencies," Uncle Paul continued to speak in his trademark Spanglish. Neither Uncle Paul nor Pops gave a damn about the children. Albert and Gerry did not flinch at the sight either, their hardened expressions unchanged the entire time they've been here. "They'd send out scouts first. Slowly sweep across the savanna, jungle, desert, wherever they're hiding. It's a long process. Not always successful. Usually takes months. Once they hit jackpot though, SOP is to send out a wave of humvees and a couple 'copters and blitz the shit out of—

"Hey Uncle Paul!" Charles interrupted him.

"What is it?"

He jerked his thumb at the children languishing in their own filth. "Are you sure you wanna stick to that business? Isn't that a bit more, ehrm, risky than drugs?"

Uncle Paul had a knack for laughing like a jolly old fool without a care in the world. "Ahaha! Charles my boy, I know you're worried about me but it's okay. I'll be fine."

"This is human trafficking! It's different! If you're caught—

Pops snorted in mild amusement when he heard what Charles just blurted.

“Oh, c'mon, Pops!"

Uncle Paul scoffed with a shake of the hand. “Eh, don't mind all that Interpol shit! This is Henrico. I've got the mayors and the local police on my payroll." He chuckled. “They're getting a heavy cut from this deal after all."

“Who's the customer?" asked Pops.

“The Church of Christ itself, if you can believe it."

Pops' eyes widened like Charles had never seen before. His jaw dropped. “Goddamn! You managed to strike a deal with COC?" He laughed nervously. “You've got balls, brother."

They performed the secret handshake again. “Bigger than yours," Uncle Paul teased. Charles' heart leaped when he suggested, “You should go into this business. Your company's in an excellent position for it."

For a second, Charles held his breath. He hoped Pops wouldn't—

“No," his father said, emphatically waving his hands. “No. Too risky for me. The political ties are too tight. This isn't something I can easily drop after jumping in it."

“So what? It's a lot of money."

“America's exporting its culture too fast." He glanced at a sighing Charles. “They're poisoning young Henricans with values that don't belong here. I have a feeling something like this might ruin my family later."

Uncle Paul scratched his balls and shrugged. “Suit yourself, Stephen. More money for me."

Charles stared at the fat man. “I hope the new product you're showing us is something we can actually use, Uncle Paul." Because if it wasn't, this would've been a huge waste of time and that was the one thing Pops detested the most.

Uncle Paul smirked at him. “Why don't you check it out yourself?" Charles realized they now stood in front of the storage shed at the very back of the lot. Its door was closed, with six locks keeping it shut. The quality of the materials left him with the impression some money was put into the building. At least twenty times whatever went into the shanty and the makeshift meth lab.

It stoked Charles' curiosity. What was in here?

Uncle Paul began the long process of unlocking the door. “I'm not gonna keep you two in suspense any longer," he said, his grunts and the sounds of his work acting like a sort of drum roll. “So without further adieu, I present to you, Stephen Graham and son, a catch hauled in from the depths of the Amazon rainforest…"

The final lock slid off. “A living..."

He slid the door open with dramatic flair. It slammed loudly on its hinges. “...breathing…"

Uncle Paul stretched out his hand as though presenting his life's work.

“Dragon!"

.

.

.

.

.

.

The smell completely blindsided the group. It came to them like a sucker punch and sent Pops reeling. Even Uncle Paul, who'd been expecting it, gagged a bit. Both took at least three steps back, while the bodyguards wisely kept their distance, grimacing.

“Son of a bitch!" Pops cursed. “It's like a swamp in there!" He retched. “Ugghhh! It's putrid!"

Uncle Paul scrunched his face. “Yiiiiii! Sorry, Stephen. I forgot about this part." He rummaged in his pockets. “The first in the day always gets you…"

Pops cupped his face with his shirt. “'First in the day'? You're the one who owns it!"

“I'm not the one feeding it," Uncle Paul sheepishly replied and pulled out a pocket pack of Vicks VapoRub. He popped it open and rubbed a dollop on both his nostrils. He offered the ointment to them. “Here. Take some."

“Gladly," grumbled Pops, gratuitously taking three dollops.

“Charles, how about you?" Uncle Paul swiveled towards Charles. “A boy like you might—huh. Look at that."

Charles Graham remained at the door. He did not retreat like the others and was peering inside trying to make out the animal from the darkness within. He had just figured out it was kind of red when Uncle Paul called, “Hey Charles!"

“What is it?" He rounded on the man and blinked when he realized everybody had pulled back. Everybody but him. “Whoa! Why're you guys back there?"

“You aren't bothered by the smell?"

“Not really," Charles said. He gave the air a few sniffs. “It's strong and earthy. Like… the smell of rain, just more potent. Intense." One last. “Hmmmm… musky, too."

“You don't need the Vicks?"

Charles eyed Pops, who had fished out a handkerchief and covered his nose with it. It amused him. “Not at all."

“You're a weird one," Uncle Paul muttered, walking past Charles into the dark interior. “Anyway let me turn the light on so you two can have a better look.."

Pops fell into step beside him. “I don't know how you can take this, son. It's bad. Really bad."

Charles kept quiet. He'd be much better off if he didn't let it slip that the air in the storage shed had a sweet tone hanging around in it. It was a subtle presence, detectable only if one deliberately sought it out.

The lights went on. Charles could finally get his first look at the dragon, now that he could see inside.

There was a single cage in the middle of the storage shed. A cubic enclosure about two meters on all sides. The dimensions of the shed looked like it could fit around seven or eight cages at most without compromising on workspace. Inside was a lump of scale, flesh, and ropes.

Charles examined the beast. Its hue was a dark red, like bodied red wine. Light flickered on its reflective scales. Orange dorsal fins ran across its spine. The more he studied it, the more he realized it somewhat resembled the Western dragons prominent in fairy tales and medieval legends.

“So this is a dragon," Charles said, awestruck. “That's radical! I didn't know they existed."

Pops chastised him, “Don't you pay attention to the news? They were discovered last year. They were featured on HBN, CNN, and National Geographic for a few days. The Henrican Star even ran an article on it."

Charles shrugged. “I don't watch TV, Pops. And I only pay attention to business news."

“Tsk. We're in logistics. You've got to read everything if you want to stay on top, son."

Charles didn't hear him while he went around the cage. His eyes were drawn to the beast—the… reptile, for lack of a better term. His gaze lingered on the base of its tail. “This is female, isn't it?" he asked Uncle Paul. “It's got a slit."

“Actually both males and females have slits," the smuggler explained. “You need to examine it more closely to sex it properly." He wiped his sweat off with a towel he got from somewhere. “Lucky guess, though! It IS female."

Charles strolled up to the cage where he could study the features of the wild beast up close. A quick glance outside told him Albert and Gerry were still outside, keeping their distance and clearly repulsed by the smell of dragon. The fact this creature looked nothing like the fearsome, destructive, man-eating monsters from the storybooks amazed him.

“I'm not very impressed," Charles heard his father speak. “After all the buildup, you only have one dragon in stock?"

“Unfortunately. Truth is, these lizards are in high demand worldwide."

“Are you serious?"

“Totally! There's a massive shortage in supply right now. Adults get chopped up into parts for the Chinese. The whelps, for whatever else people can think of as long as they can pay for them. The money, connections, firepower, and time needed to finance the entire operation is absolutely unimaginable, not to mention the balls to smuggle these guys past the ports."

“Paul, do you mind naming the major supplier?"

“Only for you, Stephen." Charles groaned. He could imagine them doing the secret handshake again like a couple immature college kids. He examined the reptile's snout. It was mesocephalic: medium in proportion to the rest of the body and not as elongated or narrow as he expected.

“I wonder what happened there?" Charles whispered to himself, ogling a spot on its forehead. The scales were damaged. Cracked, like someone had struck it with a hammer.

As he sank into his thoughts, Uncle Paul kept talking. “—only one supplier. Arbat International."

Pops breathed sharply. “Arbat? That's Don Semyon's! That's a big name in the bratva. You sure it's him?"

“The very same."

“You said they gave you four dragons. Who bought the other three?"

“University of Henrico got the first one. Scientific dissection. The second, some guy from the UK. Desmond Broyal, I think. Guy wanted an exotic pet for his son… uhhh, Jacob, if I remember correctly."

The dragon finally stirred, waking to the noise outside its cage. It slowly opened its eyes. Thin, slitted pupils adjusted to the light and enlarged into a wide almond shape. “It's like a cat," Charles said, absentmindedly. He recoiled when the words accentuated his presence and it locked eyes with him. He froze, staring into lime green.

The dragon's gaze unnerved Charles. He couldn't explain why he felt so weird. Something about it bothered him. It felt like it was studying him too. He decided to move away from its direct line of sight and move over to the other side.

“And the last two? Oh, they were special: a sibling pair! Male and female, from Ecuador. Male was a big one, too. It barely fit in the cage! Some rich bastard bought it just last month."

Pops asked, eager to make more business. “Was it a local?"

“Yes." Uncle Paul sniffled. “But don't bother looking for him. He gave me a fake name. The bloke even dressed up like a slumdog. I can't explain how I knew it, but I felt he was trying too hard to look poor."

“So only the female's left."

“That's right. There are other people checking this dragon out, Stephen. You better act fast if you're going to"—he turned.—“Hey, Charles! Charles! HEY!"

Uncle Paul yelled at Charles right as he was inserting both arms past the bars, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the angle of his approach well away from the dragon's head. Closer to the tail. He looked at the chubby smuggler. "What? I know what I'm doing, Uncle Paul. It's all tied up."

"Doesn't matter. Don't get too close to it anyway. Sure, the dragon's hogtied and muzzled, but don't let that fool you. It's a feisty one."

"Let my son be, Paul," Pops said. "He'll learn things the hard way. He always does."

Pops' statement annoyed Charles. He wasn't stupid. He'd done the due diligence first. Both wings were bound in rope. Tight knots secured all four limbs AND the tail together. There was absolutely no way for the dragon to hurt him.

It's not like it could snap at him either. The animal's snout was muzzled shut by a steel clamp. A stainless steel clamp, by the looks of it. The small locks on it clearly indicated the reptile's digitigrade paws were prehensile, and possibly dextrous.

Charles shook his head in disbelief. "Whatever," he muttered, and went forward with his plan. He hoped to touch the dragon. As gaunt and underfed as it appeared, its burgundy scales called to him. The way they overlapped together resembled a snake's; they reminded Charles of the underbelly of a crocodile. Were they as smooth as they looked? He had to find out. "This thing can't hurt me anyway."

He felt a rumble when his fingers made skin contact. The dragon growled. Charles frowned. "Ehhh, shut up. There's nothing you can do anyway!" He grabbed its sides with the intent of pulling it closer. "Stupid, overgrown lizard. In the end, it's just a dumb—

Wham!

In what seemed like utter defiance the dragon did the only thing it could do and jerked its body in the direction of the interloper. Charles Graham got his face full of scales. It smashed into the bridge of his nose; the young man fell on his butt. “Owww…."

Uncle Paul laughed his ass off. “Told you not to get too close!"

Charles glared at him. “Very funny. You could've been more specific with your warning, Uncle Paul."

“Heh, well, you aren't the first person to try touching these things. People tend to get a false sense of security after seeing all the restraints."

“I DID get to touch it though." He looked at his hands, then to the dragon. “It's… it's cold. Are all dragons like that?"

“Guess I should tell you more about them." Uncle Paul walked around to help Charles up. He led him and his father to a small desk in the corner, where paperwork was stacked. “The scientific community calls them Draco legerensis. Dragons of myths and legends. They're cold-blooded, like you just learned. And true to their name, they can do more than just fly."

Pops nodded at the explanation. “So they can breathe fire?" He tugged at the goatee on his chin.

“More than that. Arbat gave me copies of unpublished studies in UC Davis that're still undergoing peer review." Uncle Paul took a slip of paper out and placed it in the middle for their review. “Basically, they have different 'elements', so to speak. Some can breathe fire. Others can spit out freezing liquid, generate their own electricity, or are venomous like salamanders. There are also some that can't do any of that but are just like crocodiles, except they're larger, faster, stronger, and most certainly meaner."

“So, fire, ice, electricity, poison, and earth?" Charles asked, checking its contents. “Sounds like Dungeons and Dragons crap."

“The peer reviews will probably focus on technical matters since, apparently, the lizards can breed with each other despite their differences." Uncle Paul shrugged, unconcerned. "Honestly I don't care what the nerds in California have to say about them. In Henrico, we only have five labels: Vatran for the fire breathers, Glass for the ice spitters, Molnya for the electric lizards, Caudate for those with venomous bites, and Techerta for the ones that are most like crocodiles."

Charles recognized several European languages in the names. Typical Henrican nomenclature. Not a single one took inspiration from Spanish or English. He tossed the paper back onto the table when it began discussing how physical attributes and coloration varied across "elements" in favor of looking back at the cage. "So what's this one, then?"

"It's a Vatran," said Uncle Paul. "Never seen it breathe fire myself and I'll never give it that chance." He fished out another paper from the stack. "Arbat gave me a copy of the poachers' report for that dragon. Here, read this."

Charles took it and skimmed through it. Uncle Paul continued, "As you can see, it blew out a two-meter flame while it was being secured."

His eyes dilated. Charles just read a passage that said an adult's fire breath had a range of at least nine meters. That's the length of two cars! "Uncle Paul, is this real? An adult's range is nine meters long?" The M2 Flamethrower deployed in World War II was the closest thing humanity had for that.

"It is," came the reply. "Had a hard time believing it myself until I got one of the poachers on the phone. The information came from its mother. But here's the scary part.

"The mother used its own flames as a form of cover and suppression to get close and kill someone." Uncle Paul pointed at the whelp lying motionlessly in the cage. "The little one over there also learned how a gun works. Neither of those were in the reports."

Pops interjected, "Makes sense. People might not have bought them if that data was on paper."

Uncle Paul clapped Charles on the shoulder. "The whelp may be as big as a German Shepherd, but don't you dare underestimate it. These are wild animals that can and will kill you at the slightest chance."

Charles Graham hummed. He set the poachers' report down and ambled back to the cage. Pops took the paper and began studying it himself while his son crouched in front of the reptile and gawked at it again. "Hard to believe this thing is that deadly," he murmured.

The dragon was fully awake, its chartreuse eyes wide open. It looked at him. It gave off a strange feeling, akin to a stranger with uncertain intentions gazing in his direction. Charles felt the familiar fight-or-flight sensation rising in him, his heart racing. He took several deep breaths to calm himself down and gape at the reptile.

Something about its eyes allured him. He couldn't stop staring. “How much is it?" Charles finally asked.

Pops, still at the table, coughed. “I was about to ask the same thing."

Uncle Paul didn't mince his words when it came to money. “One hundred thousand, USD."

Both Charles and Pops balked at the price tag. “$100,000!" Pops incredulously repeated. “That's over triple the price of Anson Wong's Madagascar tortoises!"

Uncle Paul wrung his hands anxiously. “Dragons are significantly more dangerous than the typical reptile, and I did say the capital needed to catch a meager few is extremely prohibitive."

Scowling, Pops crossed his arms. He was not impressed. “I ought to hit you with chanclazo. What use is a dragon aside from being an exotic pet? Once the breeders have had their way with the animals, we can buy them for less than one-third of your price! Paul, tell me why I should invest in this flying gecko now."

His frat brother snatched up a calculator and a yellow pad from a drawer nearby. Charles lost interest in the caged dragon and ambulated to the two. He was interested to hear how Uncle Paul planned to woo his father.

“I'll start with the fact they're intelligent. Very intelligent. Much smarter than dogs, cats, even dolphins." Uncle Paul wrote the word 'smart' on the paper and circled it multiple times. “The client who bought this dragon's brother? Yesterday he phoned me and said it was starting to understand simple commands in Spanish and English."

He drew an arrow next to “smart" and wrote the phrase “can comprehend human language". Uncle Paul kept talking. “Now, you've got a one-time payment of a hundred grand, U.S. It's mainly carnivorous, so raw meat is fine." He continued to write. “Feed it with butcher's scraps or meat slurry. Those are cheap.

“You have another option if you don't want to spend any money. You can get unwanted infants from the slums for almost nothing. Squatters multiply like rabbits and you know some parents start seeing babies as burdens once they're past their tenth kid or so."

The two shared a knowing chuckle. Charles shook his head disapprovingly. He didn't say anything, having long been desensitized to the lack of value placed on human life in developing countries like theirs.

“Okay, what else?" Pops questioned. “I haven't heard a single compelling argument from you yet."

Uncle Paul retorted, “That's because I'm not yet done. Tell me, Stephen, what is the most expensive thing every business has?"

“Labor."

“Exactly." Charles watched the corpulent frat man write the word “labor" in all capital letters, then highlight how everything about dragons affected it. He drew multiple lines leading to the single word. “Do you see where I'm getting at here?"

Pops nodded in understanding several times. “I can." He glimpsed the puzzled expression on Charles' face. “Paul, keep going so my son understands."

“Sure will," he said. “Last I checked, Graham Logistics has at least two hundred laborers in its plantilla."

“That's right."

He began adding bullet points under the word labor. “The minimum wage in Henrico amounts to $100 a month. Once you factor in the thirteenth salary, future severance pay, contributions to the government's healthcare and housing programs, accident insurance the labor unions are forcing on you, and an assumed overtime of, say, one-third your total work-hours per month…"

Charles barely kept up with Uncle Paul as his fingers mashed the calculator in deliberate strokes. Everything he said was logical. Sensible. Charles felt certain he could replicate the same computations in private on his personal IBM XT.

“You'll get a total monthly cost of roughly $185." Times twelve. “About twenty-two hundred per year. I estimate your salaries, wages, and everything else all comes up to a sum of $440,000, more or less." Uncle Paul rounded on Charles and took him by surprise. “Charles! Did I get that right?"

Damn it. He was hoping Uncle Paul spoke to Pops instead. Judging by the way Pops looked, it seemed he was being tested here. Charles shut his eyes and recalled the days he reviewed GLC's monthly financial statements, trying to figure out the average…

It took a minute before Charles replied, “Yes. It's actually closer to four hundred and fifty, but you're on the right track."

“Good. Now, a dragon can do the work of five, maybe ten men. After some training, you can direct it to pull heavy pallets this way and that. A little adjustment to your loading facilities, and you can have it load and unload items directly from the container.

“One hundred thousand U.S. dollars for a laborer that"—Uncle Paul flipped a page and summarized the good points.—“is smart enough to follow directions, won't become part of a labor union, won't need insurance, you pay with food, can deter thieves, won't need oil or maintenance like a forklift, AND will reduce your laborer count by five to ten per dragon."

He wrote the number $11,000 on the paper. “That's the annual cost of five men. Double that for ten. Basically, the beast will pay for itself in five to ten years." Uncle Paul beamed. “The cost of replacement will get cheaper over time once breeders address the scarcity of supply. Shit, you can even diversify into that business later if you want to.

“Speaking of which, I'm meeting a breeder tomorrow. He's looking to buy Red here." The smuggler threw the pen down and eyed Charles Graham. “Anyway, there you go. That's it. That's my entire sales pitch."

Charles turned to Pops for guidance. His face remained aloof, stolid. As though he didn't hear a single word. “Pops—

“Well?" Pops threw the ball back at him. “What do YOU think? Do you want to buy this stinky dragon and put it to work? We have the money, but is it worth it?"

Charles helplessly ogled his father. “But, Pops, I, I don't—

“You make this decision, son," he said. The words carried no warmth. They were cold. Callous. He was speaking to Stephen Graham now. The businessman. The entrepreneur. Not the father he'd known all his life. “Consider it your first taste of decision-making under uncertainty."

He hissed. He didn't know what to say.

Charles unconsciously bit his fingernails while the gears in his mind turned. Everything Uncle Paul made sense, but the price made him hesitate. He despised how the man introduced the elements of scarcity and urgency. The benefits were spelled out, but what about the costs? They'd have to put up a pen, a stable to store these reptiles. They'd have to play around with its body structure, figure out how to completely maximize their apparent strength, dexterity, and their intelligence.

Coming up with several operating protocols might take months of trial and error, and there was only one dragon available...

“When will you get another shipment?" Charles asked.

“Not sure, for the reasons I mentioned before," Uncle Paul said. “Peg it at once a year and in limited quantities if you must factor that in."

Certainly they weren't the only ones who knew about these animals. Uncle Paul couldn't be the only buyer. Arbat International surely had other clients elsewhere around the world. That meant…

That meant their rivals and foreign counterparts had the same opportunity.

That meant they had to gamble.

Charles inhaled. He hoped he was making a good decision here. “Yes, we'll buy it."

The inevitable came right after. “Why?" Pops challenged.

“I will defer mostly to the points Uncle Paul brought up earlier," he justified. “It's a chance to lessen our largest cost driver by a large degree if we ever decide to get more dragons in the future, and the only way we can find out if it works is to buy this one and go through trial and error.

“I anticipate some cash will flow out as part of the 'tuition fee' in figuring out best practices for managing this 'living asset', but if we don't do this, the multinationals will. I doubt Uncle Paul's the only one selling dragons and the last thing we want is FedEx or DHL getting the upper hand over us in our market."

Pops took a few moments to reflect over Charles' answer. The wait was deplorable.

Finally, the veteran capitalist gave his feedback. “Correct," he said, to his son's relief. He turned to Uncle Paul. “You heard the boy. We're buying it."

They did the secret handshake. “Consider it sold!"

Uncle Paul spun around and gave Charles the widest smile he'd ever seen today. “You just made a wonderful choice, Charles!" he prattled as he shook hands with him. “I promise, you're not gonna regret this. For all I know, this dragon might even change your life someday."