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Charlie and James By Ken Anderson

Chapter 4: A Tale of Two Junkies / Charlie's Ultimatum

The scars on my chest are throbbing.

My heart is pounding.

There's a layer of thick sweat around my muzzle, along with the sensation of cold, impending death as I throw myself around my room. I can hardly breathe... Where are my fucking pills?! I know I have a stash hidden around here, somewhere! There's gotta be some left! I can't be out! I'm never out!

I tear through all of the clothes in my closet, flinging them to the floor after searching every part of them for that solid, comforting feeling of a single pill hidden in their linings. This can't be happening! Once I've gone over every inch of my closet, every shirt, every pair of pants, I realize, with a sort of sick desperation, that I have nothing to show for it all. I can't help crying out in despair as I sink onto the soft carpet of my bedroom floor and curl up into the fetal position. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Then, bursting through the fog of painful withdrawal, it hits me. I have a solution. It may not be the best way to go, but I'm running dangerously low on options right now. I jump to my feet, wipe away my tears, and reach between the mattresses on my bed, feeling around for the cold steel of the gun that I know is concealed there. My paw grips the pistol tightly and I pull it free, studying its curves and deadly shape under the light as I eject the magazine and check the rounds. Eight shots. That's all the clip will hold. Hopefully, if everything goes right, I won't have to use any of them... Of course, if something goes wrong... I shake my head to clear away the thought as I tuck the gun snugly into my jeans, near the small of my back.

I can't let anything go wrong... Not now.

I make my way over to the chest of drawers near the door to my bathroom, and pull open the drawer in the center. My eyes scan its contents until they find what I'm searching for. The thick black ski mask, with holes cut out for my eyes, is sitting lodged between a few pairs of boxers and a rusty old metal weed pipe, which I haven't touched in months. I snatch it up and hold it in front of me, my mind churning with panicked thoughts as I try to come to terms with what I'm about to do.

Have I started to become my dad? Have I really stooped that low again? Why the hell am I doing this?

I shrug it all off as I stuff the mask into one of my pockets, making it bulge outward noticeably as the fabric stretches to its breaking point.

'No...' I decide, 'I'm nothing like my dad. He would do this just for the chance to clean out the fucking cash register. No... I'm doing this so I won't collapse into seizures on my bedroom floor.'

With that thought, I snatch up a long-sleeved black shirt from the pile on the floor, and pull it on over my head. I've steeled myself for this moment. It has to be done. I take one last fleeting look at the guitar sitting by my bed; my one true love for the past few years. If this is gonna be the last time I get to see it, I want a fresh image of it imprinted upon my mind... Shit. I just know that someday I'll go to hell for all this...

I slam the door to my bedroom shut as I walk into the living room of my townhouse.

I get confused looks from Jason and Henry as I march directly to the front door without saying a word. "Charlie, dude, where are you going?" Henry calls after me, taking his eyes off the first-person shooter that he and Jase are busy playing on our large HDTV. "I gotta refill my prescription!" I yell back, as my paw wraps around the doorknob and begins to twist. "But you don't see your doctor til' next week!" Henry argues, a hint of worry in his voice as he screams the words. "I'm filling it early!" I tell him, walking out of the apartment and slamming the door closed behind me.

I don't have time for their distractions right now. I need to focus. I need confidence. I need silence. God, I need my fucking drugs...

The pain in my chest only gets worse as I approach the entrance to the small neighborhood pharmacy, taking the mask out of my pocket and slipping it over my face. I've got no choice. I have to do this. I sigh heavily as I feel my mind go blank, and I retrieve the pistol from behind me as I step purposefully through the door. The three pharmacists behind the shabby, waist-high counter, a white female fox with red eyes, a mule with a look of exhaustion across his face, and a male rabbit, who's busy handing a package of pills to the only customer, turn to face me as I bring the gun up and point it towards them. They freeze in place as I raise my voice to bellow out my demands:

"EVERYBODY ON THE FUCKING FLOOR! PAWS ON THE COUNTER!"

They obey immediately, dropping to their knees and pressing their shaking hands up against the cold surface of the plywood. Just like I thought they would. When you've got a gun pointed in someone's face, there's very little chance that they won't do anything you want them to; most people value their lives too much to try and be heroes. I order everybody to face the floor as I vault over the counter, patting down the fox for a ring of keys before threading my way through the shelves of giant pill bottles, heading straight for a locked cabinet near the back of the room. I've been here plenty of times. I know where they keep the stuff I'm looking for.

There's a bunch of plastic bags hanging on a ring near a small refrigerator, where they probably store the IV drugs. I snatch one up and go to work. The keys fumble in my paws as I try them all, one after the other, until I come across the one that slides in perfectly and gives a satisfying 'click' as I turn it in the lock. The cabinet goes flying open, and I immediately start grabbing the bottles of pills. Percocet. Oxycodone. Xanax. Valium. Lortab.

'Why the hell am I doing this?' I ask myself once again. 'I couldn't even go a week without this shit?' I try to picture what it would be like, me puking blood and convulsing on the floor of my spacious apartment, my bandmates standing around me shaking their heads as they stare down at the disgusting spectacle that lies before them. The thought makes my stomach churn... Demerol, Morhpine, Norco, Adderall, Ritalin...

I finish taking everything that I want. I'm about to close the cabinet door and get out of there, when another pill bottle catches my eye. Suboxone. I'd heard about it. It's some sort of new drug that people have been using to kick their opiate habits. Apparently, it's painless. It even gets you high for the first few days. I grab it and throw it in on top of the rest. Who knows? Maybe once all this is gone, I can finally try to kick my habit. Well... One of them at least.

I can hear the pharmacists whimpering as I walk towards them. They must really think they're about to die. I notice that the customer is nowhere to be found; he probably bolted out the door and called the cops as soon as he reached his car. It doesn't matter. It'll take two or three minutes for them to get here; I've only been here for a minute and a half. The "two-minute rule" that my father had once taught me for robbing banks actually applies to any place that you happen to knock over. It doesn't matter if someone dials 911. It doesn't matter if someone screams. It doesn't matter if someone hits the silent alarm. You always have two minutes to haul ass out of there, before the boys in blue arrive with their flashy cars and the loud, annoying music of their sirens. I leap back over the counter, and take off running through the door. I have no idea where I'm going, but my only concern is getting as far away from the scene of the crime as my feet can carry me...

When I stop running, the sun has begun to set. I've ended up in front of a small dive bar in a neighborhood that I rarely, if ever, frequent. After stashing most of the pills under a cardbard box in a nearby alleyway, I stuff a few painkillers into my pocket. The ski mask and gun are long gone, along with the black shirt that I threw on specifically for this little excursion. I'd dumped the mask a couple of blocks away from the pharmacy and tossed the shirt into a dumpster behind some shitty convenience store. I'd broken the gun down into its component parts while on the run, dropping every piece at a different location as I got farther and farther away. The gun had no serial numbers; it wasn't registered in my name. I'd bought it off some guy I'd met on the streets, a few months after leaving the hospital where I'd been recovering from my gunshot wounds. At the time, I didn't really care about the fact that owning such a weapon constituted a felony. All I wanted was that feeling of protection...

As I consider opening the door and stepping in to the dimly-lit, cigarette-tainted atmosphere of the bar, I catch sight of a nice black Chevrolet Chevelle with white racing stripes parked in front of it. Definitely NOT the kind of car you'd expect to find in this neighborhood. I shrug it off. It must belong to the owner or something... I grip the handle of the door firmly in a paw, and pull it open. A burst of thick, smoky air blasts my muzzle as I step inside.

I make my way over to the bar, empty, save for a few patrons who look like they've just stopped in for a beer after a hard day's work. Nobody seems to notice that I'm bare-chested and panting heavily. I take a look around. The walls are yellowed with age and cigarette smoke, and look as if they could be sticky to the touch. There is soft rock music blaring from the jukebox in one corner, and an unoccupied pool table in another. There are a few tall, round tables scattered about the room, with those big, small-backed bar stools serving as chairs. Typical dive-bar style. I've seen enough. I take a seat at the bar and bury my head in my hands.

"How's it going, rock star?" A soft voice greets me, "You look a little down."

I turn my head up to see that the bartender has made his way over to me. He's a skinny human with long black hair and piercing green eyes. He's busy cleaning out the inside of a pint glass with a rag. I think he sees the look of panic on my face; he's peering down at me.

"You know me?" I ask him, feeling a little exposed. "Am I really that obvious?"

He points a thin finger towards the wall behind me, and I turn around. Heh... It figures... There's a L0$T SH3PHERD poster near the door, the one that came as a promo item with our band's newest album. Someone must've decided it would look good in this place. I see my own muzzle staring back at me with a cocky grin, and note the figures of Henry and Jase in the background. I shake my head as I turn back to face him. He's still got that shit-eating grin on his face.

"I guess I really am that obvious, aren't I?" I say.

He nods, before asking me what I'd like to drink. I order up a shot of bourbon with a beer back; my typical after-show dinner. He stores the glass he was cleaning, grabs a couple of fresh ones, and pours the drinks with shaking hands. I can tell that he probably doesn't do this very often.

"Have you been working here long?" I ask him, sipping on the beer after he sets my drinks in front of me.

"Just a couple weeks," He replies, "A friend of mine made a few calls and got me a job bartending here. It gets boring as shit sometimes, but it sure beats the hell out of what I was doing before..."

"And what was that?" I inquire, my curiosity piqued.

He smirks and pours himself a shot, slugging it back with ease before replying, "Turning tricks on the street and stealing anything that wasn't bolted down."

I laugh at his honesty. This guy seems all right. If anything, he could make for some pretty interesting conversation while I get myself slowly plastered. "What's your name?" I ask.

"James." he replies, extending his hand. "Charlie," I introduce myself with a smile, clasping my paw firmly around it and giving it a single, hard shake. As he retracts his arm towards his side, I take note of what appear to be numerous puncture marks running up and down his wrists. Some of them even look fresh. I can't help but say something about them.

"You shooting up?"

He sighs, rolling down the sleeves of his plaid shirt to cover them up. I can see the look of shame in his eyes as he does so. "Been going on a few years now, actually," he informs me. "It's not something I'm particularly proud of."

I slowly nod my head in understanding. Something about him actually seems kind of familiar... I can't quite place it, but I could swear that I've seen him before. I decide to ask him a basic question:

"Hey, did you go to Harbor Hills High? I think I might have seen you somewhere."

James gives a slight chuckle and takes a pack of cigarettes out from his breast pocket. He lights one up and offers another to me, which I take, and allow him to light for me. "Yeah, man." He says, "Those were some of the best years of my life. Although, I'll admit, they weren't always so good... I fell in love with my first boyfriend there, and broke up with him too... A guy named Tommy Carson. I really thought we were gonna go all the way together."

My ears perk up as he says the name. "Tommy Carson?" I echo, "White wolf, blue eyes?"

He nods, and stares me down. "Yeah, that's the one. You know him?"

I laugh, and take a deep pull on my cigarette before responding, "He came to one of my shows a few weeks back. Told me he'd just broken up with his girlfriend. He called me sexy, so I signed a Lost Shepherd T-shirt for him."

I watch as James chuckles again, a thin smile forming across his pale face. "Yeah, that's Tommy for ya... Stubborn bastard." he says.

I finish my beer and follow it up with the shot of bourbon. He takes the glasses to get me a refill, and I take a few bills out of my pocket and set them down on the bar. He sees the money when he returns, and lifts it up. "That's way too much for a few drinks, rock star..." he tells me. "Can I ask what you're trying to do?"

"I'm trying to give you a big tip," I reply, smiling as he considers this. "I'm also trying to thank you for the great conversation."

Just then it hits me. I know where I've seen James before. "Dude, I remember now..." I start, "It was a few years ago, back at Harbor Hills. Me and the guys were throwing this huge house party at one of these deserted houses a few blocks away from the campus. You came stumbling down the stairs in the middle of it all, grabbed a beer, and went out on the patio. You didn't say a word to anyone; you just sat there and started crying. You even smoked the last cigarette I had when I left it burning on the table!"

James looks at me incredulously. "You actually REMEMBER all that?" he asks. I nod my head in confirmation. "I was leaning against the back door. I saw the whole thing. I just didn't think it would be a good idea to say anything; you looked like you were going through a pretty rough time."

He chuckles again, and stomps his cigarette butt out on the floor. "I was. That wasn't too long after me and Tommy broke up... It was also the first night I ever shot heroin."

My eyes go wide as he tells me this. People had been shooting heroin at my parties? I'd never noticed. I guess I was lucky not to get involved in it, myself. Not that my current pill habit is any better in the long run. I take a few pills out of my pocket and toss them back, chasing them down with a swig of beer. He watches this, before leaning onto the bar so he can whisper, "Can I have a couple of those, man? It's been ten hours since I had my wake-up shot."

I smile and hand him the two pills, which he swallows dry. They're morphine, so, if anything, they can at least take the edge off for him. We're about to continue the conversation about our pasts, when we both hear a loud slam as the door to the bar gets thrown open. Three males enter, and I can smell the odor of whiskey and sweat coming from their bodies as they near the bar. They're all bikers, wearing the black vests and patches of one of Harbor city's local gangs.

The leader of the pack is a buck with a large pair of antlers and a tan and white-spotted hide. His companions are a lion with scars all over his muzzle and a sad-looking black labrador. I can see them grin slightly as they approach James. Looking back towards the human, I watch him begin to slowly back away. There's this look of panic in his eyes, almost fear. I want to ask him what's going on.

"Well hey there, pretty," The buck says, seating himself next to me at the bar. His companions take the seats to his right, and continue to stare up at James.

"Why do I get the feeling that I've seen you guys before?" James asks him, "And why is that feeling not good?"

The three bikers burst out in laughter, before the lion replies, "Gee, I don't know, kid... Does your ass still hurt when you get up in the morning?"

The bikers are howling with laughter again, and I see James step backwards even further, almost knocking over some of the liquor bottles on the shelf behind the bar. He's trembling. The look of panic in his eyes has become totally surpassed by a look of pure, primal fear. His lips are quivering as he speaks.

"It was you... It was fucking YOU!"

"Yeah, it was all me, sweet cheeks," The lion replies. "Me and my buddies here. I never got the chance to thank you for helping me take that one last step before I got officially patched in to the club. But then, I guess you were too fucked up to notice."

James is shaking so hard that he's making the bottles rattle behind him. I can hear his breathing speed up to hard, desperate pants as he continues. "You fucking raped me!" he screams. "You took me to my parents' house, of all fucking places, and raped me!" This turns some heads at the bar, but nobody bothers to say anything. I guess the other patrons are too scared of the bikers to even try.

The three thugs laugh some more, before the buck speaks up, "That was your folks' place? Well, I had no idea. Did any of you guys know that?"

His companions shake their heads, and he looks back towards James. "I was hoping your pop would get the message and fork over a cut of that nice insurance scam he's got going on downtown..." The buck continues, "But seeing as I never heard anything about it after it happened, I guess you were never around to give him that message, now, weren't ya? Maybe we should try it again!"

I've got this feeling of rage building up in my chest. My paw is squeezing the pint glass so tightly that I'm sure it's gonna break under the pressure. I don't take kindly to rapists, and I despise these bikers. Having been through that disgusting ordeal myself, with my own father, of all people, every time I hear someone joke about rape, I want nothing more than to just go over there and beat the ever-loving shit out of them. These guys are definitely pushing the envelope by saying all this shit in front of me... I can't take it anymore. The drugs have kicked in and wiped away all traces of nervousness and fear. All that's left is anger and rage. I get to my feet and stare down the buck.

"Why don't you shut the fuck up and quit talking to my man like that?" I ask him, getting right up in his muzzle as I growl out the words. He smirks, and turns in his stool to face me.

"You layin' claim to this human, puppy dog? He sure don't look like your type."

I grip the pint glass firmly in my hand, and spit back, "So what if I am?! What if I were to tell you that he belongs to me; that he's mine, and I should kick your ass right fucking now?!"

I can hear the other two cracking their knuckles loudly as they rise slowly to stand behind their fearless leader. It doesn't matter to me. This'll all be over soon.

"I'd say I'd like to see you try, you fucking mutt." The buck calmly replies.

That's it.

I let out a loud roar of anger as I swing the pint glass towards his face. It shatters on contact with his head, sending shards of glass flying into his eyes as he gets knocked onto the floor in a daze. He doesn't move. The other patrons in the bar drop their drinks, and begin to beat a trail for the door. Nobody wants to get involved with this.

The lion steps forward first. He throws a couple of jabs towards my muzzle, but he's so drunk that I duck them both easily, and counter by driving my fist deep into his gut. I hear him wheeze loudly as he gets the wind knocked from his body. I don't give him time to react; I grab his vest with one paw, take a fistful of his mane with the other, and throw him behind the bar, sending him to the floor amidst the loud clatter of broken glass and empty bottles. He tries to pull himself to his feet, but James, having been jarred out of his panic by my actions, is all over him. He delivers a swift knee to the lion's muzzle, before bringing down an empty beer bottle on the back of his neck. The bottle shatters and the lion's body goes slack on the dirty floor. I search for my next victim.

The labrador, having watched his friend go down, is more cautious. He pulls out a fancy butterfly knife, flipping it open casually as he slowly approaches me. I hear a shout, and turn to James in time to see him toss an empty beer bottle my way. I catch it by the neck and heft it in my paw. Perfect. This'll do quite nicely.

The lab gives a growl as he lunges forward, swinging his knife in a wide arc towards my arm. I try to dodge it, but the blade connects. I grit my teeth in pain as it slices across my shoulder, leaving a deep wound which immediately begins to bleed. That'll leave a scar. He lunges forward once more, attempting to stab me as I'm forced to take a step back. I parry his knife with the beer bottle, before bringing it it crashing across the side of his face. It makes a loud smacking sound as it connects, but it doesn't shatter. The blow is enough to stun him, and as his knees buckle slightly, I grab his knife arm firmly in my paw and bring the bottle down on his wrist. The lab gives a loud yelp of pain as the bones crack, and drops his knife onto the floor in front of the bar. I toss the bottle back over the counter, and give him a hard punch to his snout. He falls to the floor, and I retrieve his knife. Snatching up his broken wrist from the ground, I drag him to the bar and slam his paw onto the table, before driving the knife clean through it into the soft wood. He screams loudly, an anguished howl of pain, and I silence him with another swift punch to the jaw.

The buck is just getting to his feet, clutching his head as he stares at me. "Oh, I'm just getting started with you...." I growl through clenched teeth, as I begin to stomp my way towards him with my fists tightly balled. As I expected, he tries to run, not getting anywhere close to the door as I lift up a barstool and throw it into his back, knocking him to the ground once again. As he groans with the pain, I stand above him, and grip one of his huge, bony arrays of antlers in my paw. I force him to turn around and face me.

"If I EVER see you, or any of your little biker pricks anywhere NEAR James again, I'm gonna slit your fucking throat and live off your meat!"

With that last yell, I throw his head onto the floor, and bring my foot crashing down at the base of one of his antlers. There is a sickening 'CRACK!' as the appendage snaps free from his head and falls helplessly to the ground. I can hear him whimpering softly as he reaches a hand up to feel the stump where his antler had once been, and I swear I can see tears beginning to well up in his eyes. I pick the thing up and wave it in front of his muzzle menacingly. "If you want to keep your other one," I growl, "You'll pick up your two ugly fuck-buddies and get the hell out of my sight!"

The buck is sobbing wildly as he does what he's told, removing the knife from the labrador's paw before heading around the bar to help the lion to his feet. The three of them stumble their way out through the front door, and I can hear the sound of motorcycle engines revving to life before they speed away. I listen as the sound grows more and more faint, until it ceases altogether. I turn back to face James, the buck's antler still dangling from my paw as I approach the bar. I toss it on the counter, and ask him for another beer.

"You can keep that as a souvenir," I say. "He won't be needing it anymore."

He chuckles lightly as he pours my drink. As he sets it on the bar before me, I can see him crack a genuinely warm smile. I return it, and raise the glass to him before drinking.

"You dogs and your bones..." he remarks, picking up the antler and looking it over. I almost choke on my beer as I laugh, nodding my head. "Yeah, we do have a thing for em'."

Just then, the door to the bar's back room opens, and an aging weasel with gray fur steps out. "A-a-are they gone?" he asks, his paws shaking as he tries desperately to keep his hold on the burning cigarette between the claws on his right hand. James gives a short laugh, and nods his head. "Yeah, they're gone, Mr. Fender. If it wasn't for this guy right here, " he points to me, "They probably would've seriously messed me up."

The weasel nods his head quickly, before inspecting the damage to the bar. I guess this guy's the owner. He doesn't look too happy.

"Don't worry about it, Mr. Fender," I tell him. "I made the mess, so I'll clean it up myself and pay for any damages. There's no need to take it out on James."

The weasel once again nods his head feverishly, before turning to see me. I can see him pause as his breath catches in his throat. "Wait..." he begins, "You're Charlie, right? The lead singer from Lost Shepherd?"

I laugh and nod my head, raising my beer towards him as I take another sip. "Ten points for you, man, that's me."

I never expected him to go into full fanboy mode.

"Holy shit! That's amazing! I fucking love your music! This is so great, I'm shaking! Now I get to tell everybody that you had a fight in my bar! This is gonna bring in people by the busload!"

He bursts out laughing, totally ignoring the piles of glass and small puddles of blood on the floor. I shrug my shoulders and tell him, "Sounds good to me, Mr. Fender. You can tell anyone you like; I'm always glad to help out. Just don't tell those fucks from FMTV, they'll be all over this shit."

James grabs the buck's antler off the counter and tosses it to his boss. "Nail it up on the wall," he says, "That way everybody will believe you when you tell them about it."

Holding the object in his hands, the weasel's fur appears to be standing on end. He looks star-struck, grasping at the remnants of my latest outburst of drunken, pilled-up violent rage. His eyes finally go back to me, and he notices the deep cut on my shoulder. "You should get that patched up," he tells me.

I turn my head to inspect the damage, having completely forgotten about it for a moment. The cut is leaking blood down to my elbow, which is steadily dripping it onto the floor next to my seat. I can't feel it; the morphine is doing its job. James leans over to see the cut, and offers to help me out.

"I can stitch that up for you, if you want."

I look back at him, smiling brightly. "Tell you what..." I say, "You fix this up and give me a place to crash tonight, and I'll give you a little something that's gonna help you out with your 'needle' problem." I motion to his now-covered arms.

He gives a slow nod, and says that it's a deal. Grabbing a broom, he leaps over the bar, and starts to sweep up the glass. The weasel, Mr. Fender, stops him, and offers his paw to take the broom away. "I'll handle this, kid..." he tells him, "You go take Charlie back to your place and get him fixed up. Don't even worry about the damage; I'll take care of it. You just make sure that dog can still hold a guitar after all this is over. I'd shoot myself in the foot if I never get to hear him play again..."

James asks his boss if he's sure, to which the weasel nods affirmatively. He hands over the broom, and motions to me. "Let's go, then."

I chug down my beer and get up from the bar stool, following at James' heels towards the door. When we get outside, he takes a silver car key from his pocket, and uses it to open the driver's side door of the Chevelle I'd been admiring earlier. My jaw drops. "This is YOUR car?!" I ask him, amazed.

"Nah, it belongs to a friend," he replies, "I'm just watching it for him for a little while..."

He opens the passenger door from the inside, and calls for me to hop in. I tell him to give me a second, as I run around the side of the bar to the alleyway where I've hidden my pills. Grasping the plastic bag full of noisily-rattling drugs, I jog back to the car and get in, shutting the door behind me as he starts the engine and puts it in gear. The Chevelle rockets forward with a jolt, and I roll the window down to feel the wind on my face as we drive through the city towards an even worse part of town.

When we arrive at a dilapidated apartment complex, James takes the Chevelle around the block and backs it into a small alley between two buildings. As I exit the car and check and make sure that none of my blood has stained the leather interior, I see him reaching for a plain-white canvas tarp on the ground. "Why do you park it back here?" I ask him. "What's wrong with parking at the front entrance?"

"This is the absolute WORST neighborhood to park a car in," he tells me. "Plus, I promised my friend that I'd take care of his ride. I'm pretty sure that means not letting it get broken into."

With that, he locks the doors and pulls the tarp over the top of the car. I help him stretch it over the front bumper, and the two of us walk down the street, towards his apartment.

When we enter the lobby, he leads me to the elevator and pushes the button for the tenth floor. The damn thing looks like it could collapse at any moment, I notice, but James seems to feel right at home. I read some of the fucked-up graffiti on the walls and laugh as my eyes brush across a few lines of poetry about elevator sex. God, it's just so 'punk rock.' I smile. Maybe tonight won't be so bad, after all...

When the elevator stops, I follow James as he leads me to a small door at the end of a dark hallway. Apartment 1020, I think... From the outside it doesn't look like much; the red paint on the door is chipped and cracked, starting to peel as it reaches the floor. I begin to wonder what the rest of the place looks like, when James unlocks the door and pushes it open. We step inside, and he flips a switch on the wall, turning on the lights. Hmmmm... Now this isn't bad. There's a small table in the center of the room, across from a pretty big couch. An averaged-sized flat-screen TV is propped up on a crate past the table, and I can spy a very nice stereo system on a shelf in the corner of the living room. I notice with a smile that there's another Lost Shepherd poster on the wall behind the TV. There's snuffed-out candles placed all around the room, and with my sensitive nose, I can detect faint hints of vanilla and jasmine. It's all kinda romantic, if you ask me. And for a junkie's place, it's actually surprisingly clean.

I walk over to the couch and sit down,placing the bag of pills at my feet as James heads to the bathroom. I find myself checking out the stuff on the table, hoping to learn more about him. There's a copy of 'The Naked Lunch' sitting near a small candle, with what appears to be the cap from a syringe sticking out of it. It looks like it hasn't been touched in a while; there's a layer of dust on top. I see a newer, more recent book, 'Tweak,' sitting across from it. This appears to be what he's reading now. As I pick up the book and begin to flip through the pages, I notice a small photograph being used as a bookmark. Folding over the page, I set the book back on the table to have a look at the smiling figure in the picture. He's a skunk, and in this photo, he's wearing nothing but a white button-down shirt and a pair of shorts. He's got a bottle of beer in his hand, his muzzle twisted into an infinite grin as he mugs for the camera. I wonder who it is...

"That's CJ," James' voice calls out. I turn around to see him staring down at me with a small first-aid box in his hands. "He's my drug dealer."

"Your drug dealer?" I repeat. "You mean, this is his place?"

"Yup," James nods, settling himself next to me on the sofa. "He got locked up a few weeks ago for selling heroin to undercover narcs. He called me yesterday; they're gonna give him five years. He's also the guy who told me to look after the Chevelle for him. After the cops finished going over the place and got rid of all the 'crime scene' tape, I managed to convince the landlord to let me hold on to it for a while. It's way fucking better than my studio downstairs, that's for sure."

"It's definitely not bad," I remark, nodding my head as I check the place out, "How'd you manage to swing that?"

"A little something called three grand," James replies. I turn my head to face him. He's taken out a bottle of rubbing alcohol, some gauze, and a suture kit from the first-aid box. Seeing the materials, I begin to wonder exactly how painful this is going to be. "You're gonna have to hold still," he tells me, as he pours a small amount of alcohol onto a piece of gauze. "I can't do this if you keep shaking like that."

Looking down at my bleeding arm, I can see that he's right. I am shaking. I do my best to make it stop as he wraps a warm hand around my forearm and pulls it close. Giving me a look of comforting reassurance, he then proceeds to clean the wound with the alcohol. I have to put my free paw into my mouth and bite down to get through the pain. It really fucking hurts. When he's done cleaning me off, he sets the gauze, now stained through with the deep red of my blood, on the table. I watch as he picks out a spool of medical thread and a small, curved needle from the suture kit. "Congratulations," he says, "You just got through the hard part."

"THAT WAS THE FUCKING HARD PART?!" I almost scream. "Dear god, man!"

He laughs heartily, and pats me on the chest. "No worries, man, no worries... I'm gonna fix you up."

I grit my teeth as I feel the needle pierce my skin, dragging the thread through the edges of the wound as he stitches it shut. I watch him intently as he closes the cut, centimeter by centimeter. About halfway through it, I'm actually beginning to ignore the pain. "You know..." James begins, as he continues to sew me up, "I've never had anybody stick up for me like that. You're a crazy bastard, for a rock star."

I laugh slightly, and grimace as it pulls my stitches. "Call me Charlie." I tell him.

He smiles, and keeps working. "Alright, then, Charlie... I'm sorry about your last cigarette."

"What?" I ask him, confused.

"The cigarette I smoked while crying on the porch at your party," he responds, "I'm sorry for taking your last one."

I can't help but smile. He cracks a joke at a time like this? I shake my head, and turn back to watch him work. "Give me another one and we'll call it even...." I say.

I watch as he finishes the last stitch, bringing his mouth down to bite off the remaining thread, before admiring his handiwork. I check it out for myself, and nod my head approvingly.

"You're pretty good at that."

He retrieves his cigarette pack from his pocket, and hands me one with a smile. "I AM a heroin addict, remember?" he replies. "And besides... I'm good at a lot of things." With that, he leans over, and plants a soft kiss squarely on the side of my muzzle. I can't stop myself from blushing as the feeling of warm blood rushes to my face. "Speaking of heroin addiction..." he continues.

I snap out of my daze, and nod my head. Grabbing the bag of pills at my feet, I remove the bottle of suboxone, and hand it over to him. He looks so relieved when he sees what it is. "Subs... Aww, Charlie, you shouldn't have." He smiles as he retrieves a lighter for my cigarette. I stick it in my muzzle and allow him to light it for me. "I guess I'm finally getting off this nasty shit." he says. "Somehow, I can't wait for the morning."

I smile as he kisses me once again, this time closer to my lips.

But I CAN wait for the morning. I honestly wish that this night would never end. I know that Henry and Jase are going to be extremely pissed at me for what I've done. There must have been security cameras in that pharmacy; I can already see my masked face all over the news. I can see them freezing my photo as the reporter tells whoever is watching that the police are looking for more information concerning the robbery. I can see that this isn't going to end well...

"Can I crash on the couch?" I ask James, ignoring the questions and fears nagging at me in the back of my mind. We'll burn that bridge when we come to it. We'll burn that bridge, and we'll never look back.....

"The bed's big enough for both of us." he replies.

A few minutes later, we've stripped down to our boxers, and the two of us are nestled comfortably under a thick blanket on the soft bed. I lay on my back, staring into the ceiling, wondering what tomorrow is going to bring. As if sensing my discontent, James moves closer to me, snuggling up to my chest and burying his head in my fur. "Don't worry about it..." he tells me, "Whatever you're thinking about, we can handle it together."

And with that, I smile. I smile as I close my eyes, and it never leaves my face until I fall asleep. I smile at the fact that I've made a new friend, and I smile because I know that no matter how things turn out, it can only get better afterwards. Yeah, I smile...

And I wonder what this strange feeling I'm getting is, as James falls asleep nestled so securely against me...

When I wake up, James is no longer next to me. I sit up in the bed, and wince as the stitches in my right shoulder throb with pain. Sliding my feet over the side of the bed, I stand up and stretch, pausing to look at myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror attached to the back of the bedroom door. I look like hell. Oh well, at least I'm still breathing. I find my bag of pills on the bedside table, and remove a couple of uppers, swallowing them before I head out into the living room. I can smell something cooking. As I near the kitchen, I see James, in his boxers and a white tank-top, frying up some omelettes on the electric stove. "Morning, rock star," he greets me with a smile. "You too..." I reply, stepping up behind him to wrap my arms around his waist before sniffing gingerly at the food. "I didn't know you could cook." I tell him.

"I told you," he says, "I'm good at a lot of things."

With that, he leans backwards and kisses me on my chin, before returning to his cooking. I find myself wondering how I'd made the decision to get so close to him at that moment. We've only known each other for a single night. Then, as I consider all of the one-night stands, cheap fucks, and groupies I've had over the years, I get the feeling that somehow, this is gonna be different. There's a slight warming feeling in my chest as I think about it. Is this what love feels like?

Just then, I check the clock on the microwave next to the stove, and something hits me. Henry and Jase. We're supposed to have practice today.

"SHIT!"

I dash back into the bedroom, and grab my pants from the night before. I need a shirt, but where am I supposed to find one? I see James stepping calmly into the room behind me, and he points to the closet. "Take one of CJ's shirts, if you want," he tells me, "He won't miss it."

With his permission, I choose a black System of a Hound t-shirt, and pull it on. I look back to him, and see him holding a plate with food on it. I feel shitty about having to skip out on breakfast, and I tell him so.

"I was supposed to be at band practice, like, an hour ago," I say, a hint of sadness in my voice. "I'm sorry about having to miss out on the food, but if you'll be here later, I'd like to come back over..."

I stand still as James walks up to me and draws a finger slowly up the length of my chin, before kissing me deeply on lips. "I'll be here," he replies with a smile. "Mr. Fender called me earlier; he said I could take a couple days off. Go do your thing, Charlie."

I feel the cold sensation of metal being pressed firmly into my paw as he backs away. Looking down, I see that I am holding the key to the Chevelle.

I can't help but smile as he exits the room with the food, leaving me to collect my thoughts. I decide to leave my drugs here for now and make my way out the door, towards the elevator in the center of the hall. As I take it down, I find myself thinking about James. How can he be so trusting? What made him decide to kiss me? Why do I feel so shitty now that I'm leaving him, even if it's only for a few hours? What's going on here? What IS this that I'm feeling? I try to contain these thoughts and emotions as best as I can as I leave the lobby of the apartment complex and make my way over to the alley where James has parked the Chevelle.

Twenty minutes later, I find myself back uptown. I park the Chevelle in the empty space reserved for my townhouse; none of the members of my band actually owns a vehicle. Now that I think about it; I'm not really sure my license is still valid. Oh well, at least I didn't mess up the car.

As I run to my door and insert my key into the lock, I can already heard the band playing. Something seems a little off. There's somebody singing my songs, and playing what I hope to fucking god is NOT my guitar. I never let anybody touch that instrument; it's so precious to me.

I push open the door and am greeted with the loud, heavy sounds of a song that was released on our newest album. I head to the living room, and what I see paralyzes me. Henry is on the bass, Jase is banging away at the drums, but who's that in my place? As I take in the thick white fur, and stare at his blue eyes, I realize, with a feeling of dread, who it is. It can only be James' ex.

What was his name? Tommy. Tommy Carson. That's his name.

Everybody stops playing as they notice me. I'm still standing there, with my mouth open, when Henry speaks.

"Charlie, where the hell were you, man?!" he yells. "You disappeared all night again, and you never came back. Then you show up late to practice, for like the thousandth time?!"

"I was with a friend!" I shout back in reply, as I feel the rage beginning to build up inside of me.

"Well, that's too bad..." Henry tells me. "While you were gone, Jase and I took a vote. We decided to try and find a new lead singer. This guy comes highly recommended from a pretty badass european band. His name is--"

"I KNOW WHAT HIS FUCKING NAME IS!" I scream, unable to contain myself.

Tommy gives a slight chuckle as he lowers my guitar and crosses his arms over his chest. "Hey..." he begins, "No offense, but according to your friends, you REALLY need to get your shit together. We've been practicing for a little over an hour, and I think it's fair to say that I'm basically already part of the band...."

I can feel the growl escape my lips as he says this. Who the FUCK does this guy think he is?!

"Charlie...." Jase calls over to me from his seat at the drums. "We think it's time to just move on, man. You're too far gone, with all the pills and booze you've been doing. Honestly, I personally don't think you're cut out for the life anymore."

My hands are shaking. My ears are twitching. The edges of my muzzle are curling up, bearing my teeth. I am pissed. VERY pissed.

"Dude, just grab your stuff and go, man..." Henry tells me, pointing towards my room. Looking through my open doorway, I can see that they've taken the liberty of cleaning it all out for me. Everything I own is piled into stacks upon stacks of cardboard boxes, already sealed shut with packing tape and ready to be moved. My rage becomes sorrow. My head drops. My ears fold down. A soft whimper escapes my muzzle. I go over to the boxes, and run my paw over the smooth, even cardboard.

All my clothes... All my stuff... All my memories... I even notice four guitar cases leaning against the pile, along with an unplugged guitar amp. They really mean it.

"You know what?" I say, as I stomp over to Tommy, and snatch my guitar from around his chest. "I don't fucking need you guys!"

With that, I throw the guitar onto the floor as hard as I can. The ceramic body shatters into a million pieces, blanketing the floor with sharp spikes of black and white; the colors of my favorite instrument. I growl at my former bandmates, and start grabbing boxes, carrying them to the trunk of the Chevelle before returning for more. When I've got everything loaded up and waiting for me, I take one last look at the townhouse that I'd purchased with the money I'd stolen from my father, and let my eyes fall to rest on the members of my band. They're still standing in place, frozen. Even Tommy, with this smirk on his face like he doesn't care at all about me. I now know how James must've felt when Tommy broke it off with him. I make a point of staring into his face as I step out of the door.

"Hey, wolf-boy?" I call over to him.

"What's up?" he asks me.

"I'm fucking your boyfriend."

With that, I leave for good, calling James to let him know what has happened. He flips his shit when I tell him that I've been replaced by his ex. "Don't worry..." he reassures me, "He'll get what he's got coming to him. We'll find you a few gigs, and see what we can make of it."

As I hang up the phone, steering the Chevelle through the rush-hour traffic of inner Harbor City, I feel the tears beginning to build up in my eyes. I don't care. I cry. I turn on the radio, and hear this old song by the Pixies. It eases my pain, just a little...

_ With your feet on the air and your head on the ground_ _ try this trick, and spin it, yeah...._ _ your head'll collapse, 'cause there's nothing in it,_ _ and you'll ask yourself,_

_ Where is my mind?_ _ Where is my mind?_ _ Where is my mind?_

_ Way out in the water, see it swimmin'......_

---

Lyrics to "Where is My Mind" Are copyright 1988, The Pixies.

Well, that was chapter 4! I hope you guys aren't disappointed; it's a little different than my other chapters. I just wanted to get in the part where Charlie and James meet for the first time, before getting on to the more romantic and dramatic stuff. I would've finished this chapter sooner, but I had an unexpected encounter with an old friend of mine last night......He'd been on a two-month meth binge...... Just the sight of his frail form completely obliterated any form of inspiration I'd had that night. I just collapsed onto my bed and cried for him. It was so depressing........ anyway, I'll start working on chapter five soon.

--Ken