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Author's note: THIS TOOK ME FOREVER! (By my standards...) I'm usually able to crank out a chapter or so a day; something to do with my endless torrents of inspiration and my super-fast typing, hahaha. Anyway, after my fourth-of-July debacle, I've kinda been recovering from the massive amounts of booze and the fact that I lost all my money and a couple of Zippo lighters. Oh, well. Here's the next installment of the story. Special thanks to Panders20, who helped me out by proofreading this chapter!

--Ken.

Charlie and James By Ken Anderson

Chapter 10: More Than Time, Part 2 of 4

I snap the cell phone shut in my paw as the call disconnects. It's that time of the year again...

...Our anniversary...

The hallmark of another year that I've spent all alone... It's been so long since I've heard my mate's comforting voice; since I've felt his body pressed firmly against my own... It's been so long since we were together, wrapped up in the warming embrace of each others' arms... I can feel the tears rolling down my cheeks as I lower my head and begin to cry.

My James...

What I would give just to see him standing in front of me again... I toss the phone onto the bed, and reach for the bottle of bourbon that's sitting on the nightstand. After unscrewing the cap, I tip it over my muzzle. I try to ignore the burn as I pour an ungodly amount of the warm liquor down my throat. The tickling sensation makes me cough, however, and I end up spewing whiskey all over the floor as I try to regain my composure.

What the hell happened to us? How'd it end up this way? For the longest time, we didn't have any contact with one another. When he'd finally called and told me that he'd landed a job as a drug counselor, I'd been overjoyed. I'd also felt a stabbing pain in my heart... I knew that it meant he wouldn't be coming home soon; he wouldn't be coming back to me. I can feel more tears forming as I think back to the aftermath of our separation; the pain of the heartbreak that followed... Sliding open the drawer on the nightstand, I remove a bottle of ambien. I swallow two of the tiny, white tablets, and wash them down with another shot from the bottle of bourbon. I need something to help me keep it all together...

I need to sleep.

My emotions are boiling up inside of me like a geyser, just waiting to erupt... Resting my head against the soft pillows of the bed we once shared together, I stare into the ceiling as I think back to those dark and painful days... I close my eyes as the images and words start to form in my mind, and begin to play on a reel like a depressing B-movie... My tale of desperation and mourning; my story of rage and senseless violence... I heave a ragged sigh, and let it happen; it's better to experience it all over again than it is to lock it all away.

...It's better to re-live my sorrow...

Every year, on the day of our anniversary, this is the lie that I tell myself.

---

"CHARLIE! CHARLIE?! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, MAN?!"

That's Oz's voice. He must be the guy who's been calling my phone every five minutes for the past six hours... That's funny... I don't remember ever picking up.

I groan painfully as I turn myself over in the bed. I find myself flinching involuntarily as my paws come into contact with something wet and sticky. Rubbing away the blurriness in my vision, I see that it's a puddle of vomit. That's not good... I don't want to go out like that; I'm not Hendrix... At least, I'm not that famous yet... I guess I'm lucky to still be alive.

"GIVE ME A MINUTE!" I yell towards the living room. The pounding on the apartment door ceases, and I hear the voices of my bandmates chattering silently on the other side as I pull myself to my feet. My arms feel impossibly heavy. My legs feel as if someone has crushed their bones in a vise, and injected a liquified replacement under the muscles... There's a haze clouding my thoughts and vision; a groggy reminder of what I'd almost done the night before...

Looking down at my body, I see that I'm wearing nothing but my boxers, and that the fur on my chest is streaked with traces of the vile stomach fluids that I must've chucked up during my sleep. I wrinkle my nose at the smell, and head over to the closet to grab some fresh clothes. I don't feel like picking out a specific outfit; in fact, I don't feel much of anything at the moment. I snatch up a random T-shirt and a pair of pants.

Clutching the clothes firmly in a paw, I manage to trudge my way out of the bedroom, and somehow, I make it to the front door without falling. I turn the locks and twist the knob, before pulling it open. Oz, Cory, and Zack are standing on the other side. They stare at me with expressions of shock and disgust when they see the haggard remnants of what used to be a dog that stands in front of them.

"Jesus, dude..." Oz remarks, "You look like hell."

"I'd rather be in hell than feel the way I do right now," I tell him, "I don't think I'll ever fully recover from what happened last night..."

"Just take it easy," Cory suggests, "James will come back, man. You just gotta give it time. Don't beat yourself up about it."

I chuckle dryly as I step aside and allow them to enter. The three of them flop onto on the torn-up couch, taking care not to say anything about my recent "remodelling" of the living room last night. Zack stands up the small coffee table that's lying in a heap on the floor, and takes out a bag of pot. I watch as he spreads some of it out on the table, before Cory hands him a pair of large cigars. They're those cheap ones that you can get at any gas station. I can't remember the brand name right now.

"I know just how to cheer you up," Zack informs me, as he uses one of his sharp claws to slice open the cigar from end to end.

"Going after James?"

My bandmates hang their heads, and I know that I've depressed them. I take the time to apologize.

"I'm sorry guys, I just can't think of anything else right now..."

Oz shakes his head and waves off my apology with a swift flick of his wrist. "Don't even worry about it, Charlie. Go take a shower, and get yourself cleaned up. We're gonna roll a couple of fat ones. We'll wait to smoke em' until you're done."

I nod my head and head for the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind me as I stumble over to the shower and twist the knob for cold water to maximum flow.

I toss the clothes onto the tiled floor, and step under the icy spray. My body shivers at the abrupt change in temperature, but I don't really care... I stand in the tub with my paws pressed flatly against the smooth, white tile of the wall in front of me, and groan as the cold water flows over my head and drips down my muzzle. My fur grows heavy as it soaks up the liquid. I can feel the tears coming. A whine escapes my body as I heave a sob. I try my best to muffle the sound, but it comes out again, louder this time. I give in and allow myself to submit to my emotions. My ears droop and hot tears roll down my cheeks as I whimper and scrub my fur with the sweet-smelling soaps.

I'm such a wreck... I feel so dead.

It feels like someone has torn out my heart and left behind nothing but a depressing feeling of emptiness. Part of me wishes that I hadn't puked up the cornucopia of pills that I'd managed to swallow last night. Even death has to feel better than this...

Anything has to be better than this feeling of pure, overwhelming sadness...

When I'm finally done with my shower, I don't bother to dry off. I just throw on the clean clothes, and try not to notice as they immediately get soaked through with the cold moisture that's clinging to my fur. I guess I want to get sick. The bathroom door creaks open as I step out into the living room. Everyone is watching me as I approach the sofa. Oz notices my bloodshot eyes and pained expression, and he slowly rises from the couch. He says nothing as he wraps his arms around me in a tight hug, and tells me that everything is going to be all right. I end up resting my dripping chin on the otter's shoulder as I start to cry again. He ignores the feeling of my tears staining the sleeve of his shirt and hugs me tighter, telling me not to worry; that everybody is here to support me.

"Let it all out, man," he whispers, "We're here for ya... It's all right to cry; you know you need to. Just let it all go..."

So I do. I let it all go. I let myself break down as he squeezes me. Oz doesn't say anything; he only nods, and rubs my back. Out of the corner of my vision, I think I can see tears forming in his eyes as well... He's sharing my pain...

Several minutes later, the four of us are passing around the second blunt as we sit quietly on the couch. My eyes have dried, the shaking has stopped, and I'm starting to feel a little better... The pain is still there, but it's been dulled to the point where I can safely set it aside to be dealt with at another time. I ponder over whether this is a good or a bad thing. I realize that I've been holding onto the blunt for a few minutes; There's a long cone of ash jutting from the roach held between my first two claws. Oz reaches over to take the blunt from me, and has a couple of hits before breaking the awkward silence and informing me of the band's agenda for the day.

"Are you cool to record?" he asks me, "We were thinking of going back to the studio and finishing up that album. I booked our time a couple of days ago, but if you're not feeling too good, we won't force you to do it..."

I nod my head, and exhale the smoke I'd been holding in. "I'll manage... We have to finish it sometime..."

Cory and Zack voice their agreements as I rise from my position on the couch. "I'll be right back. I gotta take care of something before we head out."

I make my way back to the bedroom, and head straight for the nightstand. Sliding open the small drawer, I remove a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of pills. Oxycontin... Yeah, that'll do. Painkillers to numb the throbbing ache of my broken heart. I place the items inside the pockets of the faded jeans I've got on. I rummage through my closet for my guitar case, digging around in piles of discarded clothes and odd relics from our past few shows... Everything smells like James... I stop searching when I remember that the guitar is sitting in the back seat of the Chevelle, where I'd tossed it after retrieving it from the stage at Fender's pub last night... It takes a moment for me to figure this out. I silently curse under my breath, and wonder why I'd suddenly decided to raid the closet. I can't seem to find an answer, no matter how hard I try...

Maybe I'm losing it; I don't know.

I'm about to walk back out, when I notice the vomit-covered sheets on the bed. I shake my head at my own stupidity. God, if James were here to see this... Gripping a corner of the bed sheets in my paw, I carefully lift them up, and fold them all over the puddle of puke. Once this task is done, I remove the covers and set them in a heap on the floor by the bedroom door. I'll have to wash them later. I check the mattress, and breathe a sigh of relief when I notice that none of the fluids have leaked through the sheets. At the very least, I won't have a problem there...

My bandmates are waiting for me as I enter the living room. Oz nods towards the noticeable bulge in my left pocket.

"What'd you get?" he asks. I remove the bottle of oxy, and toss it over to him. He checks the label, before shrugging his shoulders and twisting off the cap. "I'm not much of a downer guy, but why not?"

I watch as he swallows one of the large green tablets, before passing the bottle on to his mate. The cheetah takes one as well, and Zack ends up taking three. I guess the big cat must have a tolerance... He hands the bottle over to me, and I swallow a couple before closing it and shoving the thing back into my pocket. I jerk my thumb towards the front door.

"You guys ready to head out?"

They all nod their heads as they stand up from the couch. I let them exit the apartment first, before closing and locking the door behind me. I can't say I'm looking forward to our upcoming studio time, but now seems like as good a time as ever. I can already hear the lyrics to a few new songs swimming through my head as I make my way over to the dirty, dimly lit elevator. They all sound so sad, and so full of longing... 'That's the sound of heartbreak,' I hear myself thinking, 'That's the sound of pain.' It's the sound of my depression, and the sound of my sorrow... But it's not just MY sound; it's OUR sound. It's the feelings that my mate and I share...

I press the button for the lobby, and the rusted steel doors creak loudly as they slide closed. Oz lights a cigarette as we descend, in clear defiance of the 'No Smoking' sign that's been recently plastered over the faux-wood paneling. My eyes sweep over all of the elevator graffiti drawn and carved on the walls, and I suddenly find myself facing one of the ink-stained panels with a claw extended. The band looks on as I carve a large heart broken in two into the fake wood, and finish it with mine and James' initials in each half. Underneath the heart, I write:

"Your loss has filled my heart and mind, with pain I thought I'd never find. --CHARLIE"

Oz gives a short chuckle as I back away from my completed drawing. "You must really miss him, huh?" he remarks. I just nod my head.

"You have no idea..."

After only one night apart from my mate, I already feel as if a part of me has died. I want to scream; I want to cry. I want to punch holes through the walls of this filthy elevator. I want to pour gasoline on the floors of every hallway of this crappy tenement, and burn the place to the ground. I want drugs. I want alcohol. I want to feel numb. I want a plane ticket to fucking Sandstone, Arizona... But something keeps me from doing any or all of these things. Something, somewhere in my mind, keeps me sane... If only I had the clarity to figure out what it is...

The elevator lets out a 'DING' as it reaches the ground floor. The doors squeak open with their usual puff of dust, and we all exit. Marshall, the landlord, gives me a sympathetic smile as we pass him at the front desk. I simply lower my eyes, and sulk towards the main entrance. "You guys get the van, and meet me over by the Chevelle." I tell my friends. "I've gotta get my guitar."

They break off from me as we step out onto the messy, well-littered sidewalk. As I walk slowly towards the secluded alleyway where I know the car is parked, I notice that the sun has already begun to set. I must have slept late again... The deep blue sky has been painted a radiant shade of warm pink, but the peaceful effect is marred by the stain of the gloomy, grey-black clouds that hover menacingly over the red-orange disk of the sun. I pause to stare into the light as I stand before the covered form of the Chevelle. From my vantage point, standing between the two abandoned buildings, The entire sky appears to have turned to grey. The visual illusion somehow makes me smile; it's as if nature itself can feel the pain that I'm suffering from. I wonder if James ever got to see this...

Twenty minutes later, we've arrived at the recording studio. Oz holds the door open for the rest of us as we trod silently into the white-painted hallway of the dilapidated brick building. I shift my guitar from my right shoulder onto my left, and stare at the checkered linoleum on the floor as I lead the band towards our reserved recording booth. So many thoughts and feelings are reeling through my head right now. The oxy has kicked in and I feel a little noddy, but the drug only seems to intensify the emotions that I'd hoped they would help me bury. That's what I get for trying to cover up the way I feel... God, if there is one, must be punishing me...

As we step into the control room, I notice the producer and engineer giving me pained looks. They'd both been in the crowd at Fender's last night. Everybody knows how it all went down. It's probably front-page news on every two-bit tabloid by now. I can see the headlines: "CHAOS THEORY LEAD SINGER SEPARATED FROM LOVER AMIDST HAIL OF GUNFIRE. FMTV CREW CAPTURES ALL."

"How're you feeling, Charlie?"

It's the producer. He's a husky with black-and-white fur and bright blue eyes. His voice is strained with sympathy as he speaks. I shift my gaze to look at him, and see that his ears have drooped and he's staring back at me with an expression of sadness pulled across his muzzle.

"I'm alright, Ben," I sigh, "I'm cool to lay down a few tracks..."

Ben nods to me as he waves a paw towards the empty booth. The engineer, a well-built Indian jackal with numerous tattoos on his face, offers to carry Zack's drum set from the back of the van and help him set it up. The tiger nods to him, and the two of them leave the room to retrieve the equipment.

Oz, Cory, and I enter the booth, and begin to plug in and tune our instruments. We don't have to bring amps to the studio; the ones that they provide are of a far better quality than the ones that we own. Even Oz, with all his money, wouldn't be willing to spring for one of these things. There's a reason that the studio versions of songs tend to sound a bit better than when they get played live.

I'm standing in silence, tuning the strings on my guitar, when I look up and notice that Zack and the engineer have burst into the control room and slammed the door shut behind them. The engineer braces his body against the door frame, panting loudly as sweat pours down his muzzle. They both look winded, as if they'd just run a marathon. Peering closer, I notice that Zack has a bleeding cut above his left eye. I unsling my guitar, and set it down on the floor, before turning to Oz and Cory.

"Hey guys, I think something's up." I point a claw towards the control room.

They look up from their preparation, and see Zack screaming at the producer from behind the soundproof glass. The husky has risen to his feet. The cut on Zack's forehead is bleeding profusely, and he presses a paw down on it in an attempt to stem the flow of blood.

"Oh, shit," Oz exclaims, "That doesn't look good..."

The two of them drop their instruments and follow me as I head for the door. I throw it open, and we all march in.

"What happened?!" Oz shouts.

"Fuckin' Johnny Echo!" Zack screams back, "That's what happened!"

Oz and I exchange angered glances. I push my way past Zack and walk up to the engineer. "How many outside?!"

"F-four of them," he stutters, "There were four of them in all. That reporter, the doberman, he was the one in charge. He had a few guys with him. Gangbanger types. A bull, a stallion, and a black wolf. They were fucking huge; looked like they could tear our asses to shreds! "

"Any guns?"

The jackal shakes his head 'no.' "Two of them had baseball bats," he explains, "The other one came at us with a knife. Zack tried to fight him off, but he got cut up. We hightailed it back here."

A low growl escapes my throat as I feel my paws clenching tightly into fists. That rat bastard! What the hell was his problem?! He got his damn interview; why the fuck would he attack us?!

"Get out of the way." I snarl.

The Jackal pauses for a moment, as if thinking over my request. Finally, he shakes his head, and moves away from the door. "You're fucking crazy, dog..." I hear him mutter as he walks over to his boss.

"You wanna see crazy?" I say with a devious smile.

I turn to Oz, who cracks his knuckles and gives me a single nod. I hear a loud pounding coming from the other side of the door. "WE KNOW YOU FUCKERS ARE IN THERE! COME OUT HERE AND LET'S SETTLE THIS!"

The voice sounds throaty and dry. Whoever it belongs to must chain-smoke at least two packs per day. Either that or he's a crackhead... Either way, I've definitely got the advantage.

"What the fuck do you want?!" I yell back, tensing myself for the fight to follow. I expect them to kick open the door and storm the booth, but this doesn't come immediately. I hear a soft chuckling coming from the other side as I'm greeted with the familiar drawl of our least-favorite FMTV reporter.

"Well, well, if it isn't Charlie," Echo calls out. I can smell the bastard's thick cologne from this side of the door. I can almost feel that familiar smirk form across his muzzle as he continues.

"You and your human fuck-bitch have a lot to answer for! That interview should've made my career! I should've been able to write my own goddamn ticket with any news agency in the country! Do you know what happened instead?!"

"Someone pulled out the knot in your ass?!" I yell back. I hear Zack and Cory snickering at my snide comment. Turning to face Oz, I see that sadistic grin on his face. He's gonna enjoy this...

"I GOT FIRED!" Echo roars. "AND NOT ONLY THAT, I GOT FUCKIN' BLACKLISTED! I CAN'T EVEN GET A JOB AT A DAMN GAS STATION! DO YOU KNOW HOW HUMILIATING THAT IS?!"

"Sucks for you, asshole!" Oz cries out. "What're you gonna do about it?!"

"YOU'RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT! YOU! KICK DOWN THIS FUCKING DOOR!"

My paw grips the doorknob firmly as my ears perk up. Oz motions for everybody else to head into the recording booth and they obey, locking the heavy door shut behind them. It's just him and me now. He presses his back to the wall next to the door, and gets ready. I can hear the tell-tale sound of footsteps as one of the thugs steps back to get a running start. I make out the heavy thud of his footpaw smacking against the wooden floorboards as he launches himself forward. 'DO IT! NOW!' My mind screams.

I throw open the door.

When you're dealing with a crew of gangbangers, there's a few things to watch out for. Number one, they're almost guaranteed to be jacked up on some sort of drug. Usually, some people would see this as an advantage in a fight. If you can't feel pain, you can keep going, right? ...No... This is a common misconception, and is very rarely, if ever, the case. Number two is that gangbangers tend to believe that size is everything. Sure, it makes them look intimidating, but when you're dealing with someone who's been in more fights than you have, with people who are just as large, or even bigger than you, that intimidation factor is no longer effective. What these guys won't admit is that even the biggest, steroid-slamming musclehead can be taken down with a few easy blows. Finally, gangbangers tend to have a one-track mind when it comes to manual combat. They always believe it'll work out in their favor. They think that if they kick down a few doors, break a few bones with a bat, or cut someone up with a knife, they've won. More often than not, this may be true. Especially when said gangbangers outnumber you two-to-one, and are backed up by a fed-up, pissed off doberman whose career you've just managed to ruin...

Shit. These assholes definitely don't know me and Oz...

As predicted, a black-furred foot comes flying through the open doorway. It's the wolf. I can see the baseball bat gripped firmly in his paw. Oz springs into action, snatching up the extended leg, and driving his own foot heavily into the seat of the wolf's pants. I hear a sickening 'SMACK' as the wolf takes the full brunt of Oz's kick directly in his sheath. The thug gives a loud whine before falling to the ground, curled up in the fetal position. The wooden bat falls noisily to the floor, and Oz scoops it up. The two of us jump away from the door as the bull and the stallion come running into the control room, with bloodlust in their eyes and rage written all over their faces.

The bull charges towards me with a large combat knife gripped tightly in his hoof-tipped fingers. I manage to dodge his initial slash as he lunges forward and swings the blade in an arc at the spot where my chest used to be. The key for surviving a knife fight, especially when you don't have a weapon of your own, is distance. You put enough distance between you and your opponent's knife-arm, and he can't hit you. That solves one of your problems. The other problem is getting your opponent to drop the knife... I duck another wild swing as I'm forced to step back again, almost knocking over the metal folding chair that was Ben was sitting in earlier.

Fuck it.

I snatch the thing up in my paws, and snap it closed. I use it to parry a thrust as the bull attempts to close the distance between us, and drive my foot deep into his gut. He doubles back momentarily, and I use this time to make my move. With a roar of anger, I bring the chair down on his head. The thin sheet metal makes a resounding 'CLANG' as it gets impaled on the bull's sharpened, polished horns. Gangbangers love to do that shit; I never understood it. He raises his hands to pull it off and toss it aside, but by that time, I'm all over him. He lets out a loud grunt of pain as my fist connects with his jaw, sending him flying against the wall of the control room. His thick arms draw inwards to defend his muzzle as I deliver a series of quick body shots to his stomach, before grabbing the chair in my paws, and using it as leverage to throw his body to the floor. The knife clatters to the ground beside him as he lands on his back, and finally manages to pull the chair free. He never sees me coming. As soon as he pulls the object out of his field of vision, my foot crashes against his skull, driving it against the wood with a loud 'THUD.' He goes limp. Snatching up the knife, I turn around to help Oz, who's busy with the stallion armed with the other baseball bat.

Oz ducks a swing from his opponent's bat as he sees me coming, and quickly puts some distance between him and his attacker. I position myself behind the thug, directly opposite Oz's location at his front. We've got him boxed in; he's not getting out of this unscathed. The stallion twists his head and spots me, the large fighting knife gripped firmly in my paw. I see his sneer turn into a look of worry as he considers his options. Too late. Oz runs up to him and drives his bat into the horse's gut with incredible force. I think I can hear a few ribs crack as he doubles over, clutching his chest. Oz raises the bat high above his head, and brings it down in a swift, decisive blow. The wood splinters and cracks as it explodes against the horse's skull, sending chips of maple flying throughout the small control room as the Stallion falls to the floor, not moving.

Oz flings the destroyed weapon over his shoulder, and snatches up the other bat as we approach the door. I can hear loud footsteps running down the hall as Echo attempts to make his escape, but I'm not about to let that happen. I leave the injured wolf for Oz to work over as I sprint after him, panting loudly as I run. I can see the doberman's crimson shirt-tail flailing wildly from under his expensive tuxedo jacket as he keeps moving, heading for the main entrance to the studio. From where I am, I can see the black luxury SUV parked directly in front of the glass doorway, just waiting for him to hop into it and drive away.

As I haul ass after him, I flip the knife in my paw so that the blade is resting in my palm, the handle extending from my fist.

My dad may have been a total asshole, not to mention a career bank robber and a rapist, but he was adamant that his pup should know how to handle a knife with skill. When I was just ten years old, he'd insisted that it was time for me to learn how to throw a blade with deadly accuracy. I'd spent months practicing; not that I'd had much of a choice. Every time the knife would hit the target handle-first, I would grit my teeth in preparation for the punch across my muzzle that was sure to come. Eventually, though, I managed to get the hang of it.

I proved this to my father one day, when I intentionally hit a target nailed to a tree handle-first, only to jump back and throw another knife directly between his legs when he tried to hit me. The blade had nicked the seat of his pants, splitting them open before sinking into the ground underneath his tail. He'd frozen in place for a moment, a shocked expression pulled across his muzzle, before bursting out in triumphant laughter. It had been one of the only times my dad had complimented me on anything I'd done. He made a point of knocking me cold out later that day, however.

As Johnny nears the door, I extend my arm, and take careful aim. I'm not trying to kill the bastard; I just want him to remember this for the rest of his life. I rear back my throwing arm, and let out a roar as I snap it forward at a forty-five degree angle. The military-issue fighting knife sails up through the air in a wide arc, before falling towards its intended target. Johnny gives out a loud yell and crashes through the glass door as the blade buries itself deeply into the back of his leg. He falls to the ground screaming, his paws shaking as they reach for the knife sticking out of his calf.

"I wouldn't do that," I inform him, as I slow my pace to a steady walk. "You pull out that knife, and you'll bleed out in less than a minute. Right now, it's buried in your femoral artery. If you don't get to a hospital in fifteen minutes, you're as good as dead."

I can hear him whimper in fear as his ears droop and his eyes look up to me with a silent cry for mercy. I smirk evilly as I shake my head. It'll be a cold day in hell when that happens. There's not gonna be any mercy. Not for this asshole. Not now.

When I reach him, I drive my fist into his jaw so hard that the doberman's head snaps back with the force. He goes limp against the metal door frame, the broken glass sticking out from the frame cutting into his skin as he falls down on top of it. There's no point in doing anything else. This fucker's done. I take my cell phone out from my pocket, and dial '911'. I silently hope that he bleeds out before the cops and paramedics arrive.

Three minutes later, I'm back in the recording booth being interrogated by the police. Franklin, Oz's older brother, is the ranking officer at the scene, and he's the one asking me the questions.

"So, what happened here?" the otter asks me.

I shrug my shoulders, and motion with a paw towards the instruments laying on the floor of the booth. "We were getting ready to record." I begin, "Zack and that jackal over there, the engineer, went out to the van to bring in the drums. They came running back a minute later, with Zack bleeding from the cut on his forehead, screaming that there were guys outside coming in to beat us up. They were being led by that asshole Johnny Echo, the ex-reporter from FMTV. Apparently, he had a grudge against me for what happened during our interview yesterday. He said something about getting fired."

Frank nods his head and laughs as he writes the information down on the small notepad clutched in his paws. "Yeah, I saw that." he tells me. "If you ask me, that guy was just trying his best to be a prick. Now, how did these guys--" he points at the three battered and bruised gangbangers sitting against the wall in handcuffs, "--End up getting their asses kicked? I mean, the wolf over there is begging for us to get a doctor to check out his testicles. He seems to think that one of them may have... Exploded?"

I chuckle and look towards the wolf, who shifts his gaze to the floor and gives an audible whimper as I check him out. I notice a dark stain on his shorts. He must've pissed himself. I wonder what Oz did to him while I was chasing Johnny.

"You're gonna have to ask your brother about that." I tell Frank. "He's responsible for that particular injury."

Frank glares at Oz, who's leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. The younger otter just sneers and nods his head. "Yeah, that was fun."

We go on to explain how the gangbangers attacked us; how we took their weapons and defended ourselves from bodily assault. Frank just nods and writes it all down. Everything is fine until he decides to ask me about the knife in Johnny's leg.

"And the reporter?" he says, "How'd he get a military-issue KA-BAR stuck in the back of his calf?"

I shrug my shoulders, and point to the bull. "I honestly don't know, dude. The knife belonged to that guy, over there. Maybe Johnny tripped and fell on it when he was running? I specifically remember kicking it out into the hallway when 'horny' here dropped it."

My bandmates give wry chuckles as I berate the bull. The thug says nothing; exactly what I was counting on. If there's one thing you can respect about gangbangers, it's that they know to keep their mouths shut. They know that one word, just one word whispered to the cops, and their gang leader will have their heads on a platter. They know to bite the bullet and serve the time that comes with it. Especially if they fuck up like these guys did.

"We'll see..." Franklin murmurs. "If what you say is true, the security camera footage should confirm your side of the story. Now get over there with your band."

I nod my head and grin widely, walking over to the spot where Oz is standing. I take my cigarettes out of my pocket, and offer one to him, which he accepts gratefully. I give one to Cory as well. The cheetah's sitting against the wall next to his mate, his tail twitching to and fro. He hasn't said a word since the fighting began. Zack was carted off by the EMTs a few minutes ago. He'll be at Harbor General getting his cut stitched up before he gets questioned. I'm not worried, though; we've managed to get our stories straight. Zack's the lucky one; he's the victim of a violent assault, and nothing more. He doesn't have to feel guilty about what Oz and I have done.

Oz lights up his smoke, and passes the lighter on to me. I use it to spark mine as well, before handing it down to Cory. Cory's paw shakes as he takes the lighter from my paw; I can see the look of fear in his eyes, and hear his quick gasp of surprise as his fur comes into contact with mine. I give him my warmest smile. I'd never hurt a friend. Especially not the mate of one of my closest companions. Oz leans over and kisses his mate on the cheek, stroking the fur under his chin with a claw. "I'm sorry you had to see all that, baby..." he whispers, as he leans in for another kiss. "You must be really freaked out."

Cory shakes his head once. "I've seen you guys fight before; I mean, it's nothing new... God knows I've jumped in plenty of times... But THAT... THAT was just brutal. That wasn't a fight, it was an ASSAULT... I didn't know you guys were even capable of doing the things you did. And Charlie, the way you threw that knife--"

Oz kisses Cory deeply on the muzzle to cut off his speech, and the cheetah murrs as his mate strokes his cheek comfortingly. That was a close one... I find myself praying that none of the cops heard him.

"That was unexpected," Oz tells him, "We never intended for it to happen... I promise, if we get out of this all right, you'll never see me go off like that again."

Cory snorts, and shakes his head once more. "No, I know you better than that, Ozzy... There's always gonna be fights. You'd do it to protect Charlie, or Zack... You'd do it for me."

Oz sighs, and nods his head. "If it was you they were after..." he whispers, "They wouldn't have called for the ambulance. They'd be calling for the coroner."

Cory chuckles as he hears this. I watch as he cracks a smile. "I know... I just need a while to process everything that's happened. I'll be fine. As long as you're all right, Oz, I'm happy. I love you..."

"I love you, too," Oz replies.

I can't help but smile as I watch them share their moment of intimacy. Their connection reminds me of the love that James and I feel for each other. If he'd been here, he'd probably be in the same state as Cory is right now. Shaking... Scared... Looking to me for hope and reassurance...

Looking to me for comfort and warmth...

The thought almost makes me cry, and I try my best to brush it away and focus on the situation at hand. I take a drag from my cigarette, and tap Oz on the shoulder. He turns to face me and nods his head, "What's up?"

"Did you snag the tapes?" I whisper. He nods his head slightly. "I did one better. I snapped the disks. They're in my stash-spot in the van."

I smile once again, and keep smoking. We're good. For a speed freak, Oz is really thorough when it comes to committing crime and getting rid of leftover evidence. There's no way the cops will find the incriminating evidence. We all turn our heads to the door as Frank's partner, a young leopard with golden-yellow fur, enters the room shaking his head. "They're all gone, Frank," he says to his partner. "There's no DVD's. The cameras didn't catch a thing."

Frank turns to stare at the three of us leaning against the wall. I flash him the peace sign, and continue smoking my cigarette. I can hear his exasperated sigh as he places a paw to his forehead and draws it down across his muzzle. He's got nothing, and he knows it. He has no choice but to cut us all loose.

"Get the hell out of here," he mutters, waving us towards the door. "We'll call you if anything comes up."

The three of us leave the room, marching down the hallway towards the front door. Before Oz exits the booth, however, he turns to his brother and flashes him a toothy grin. "Always good to see you, big bro." he says.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"

I hear his footsteps scurrying to catch up with Cory and me as we shove open the metal door frame and step out into the cool, dark night. I've got a new song playing in my head as we walk towards the van. It sounds like it's gonna be a hit. What should I call it? Shit...

Wait, I know... I'm gonna call it "Johnny."

---

The dream fades away as I open my eyes and sit up in the bed. My head hurts a little; I'm hungover. I reach into the drawer on the nightstand, and pull out a bottle of vicodin. Slipping off the cap, I toss several of the oblong tablets past my lips, before chewing them up and swallowing them dry. The bitter taste remains on my tongue after the pills have gone down, and I shiver with disgust as I throw my legs over the side of the bed.

I check the clock on my cell phone. It's nearly seven PM... On the day after our anniversary.

The ambien and booze knocked me out for almost twenty hours. Jesus... I don't think I'll be taking that combo again. I think back to the aftermath of Johnny Echo's foiled assault, and chuckle as I remember what had ocurred.

The new song, 'Johnny,' had gone on to become a hit single on our last album. It had received air play on every popular rock station, hitting number one on the billboard charts for three months in a row. All of our fans had assumed that the song was talking about the interview with Johnny the day before the assault. Even today, I smile and nod my head when they ask me about it. I don't tell them that the lyrics are about my revenge on that fucking mutt. I don't tell him that the words of the chorus literally describe the feeling of the knife leaving my paw and sinking into that bastard's leg. That song is like a private joke between the members of the band; only we know it's true meaning. I haven't had the chance to tell James about it yet...

As for Johnny, he sort of disappeared after checking out of the hospital. Nobody's seen him since that day. According to some of the people I asked, he just decided to pack up his stuff and leave town... Good riddance...

As I retrieve my pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and stick one between my teeth, I stare through the blinds at the hot-pink sky. It's sunset.... The lighter flicks to life in my paw as I touch the flame to the tip of the smoke, and inhale. All of a sudden, I stop.

I feel it... That spark... Inspiration.

Words start to piece themselves together in my mind as I throw the lighter onto the floor and dash to the closet to retrieve a shirt. I need to go outside. I need to go outside right NOW.

I snatch a shirt off of a coat hanger and pull it on, not bothering to cover up my pinstriped boxers with a pair of pants, before digging around for my song book. Where is it? WHERE IS IT? I find it buried under some clothes on the floor of my closet... I need to get this down... This is the one... This is the song that I want to write for my mate. An anniversary gift. A musical display of my longing and emotion...

I charge out of the bedroom and run to the front door, flinging it open. I don't bother to close the door, let alone lock it. Every tenant who lives on this floor knows who the apartment belongs to. Nobody will rob it. They all know better. I thrust my foot into the bar that opens the door leading to the staircase, and start taking the steps three at a time as I make my way down. I can't miss it; I CAN'T. I've only got a few more minutes before it's over...

In less than two minutes, I'm at the alleyway where the Chevelle is parked. I'm bent over, panting loudly as I try to catch my breath. My heart pounds in my chest, but I ignore it. To anybody who happens to pass me while I'm out here, I must look like a mental patient... I turn around to stare at the sky as I walk around the corner to the car. There it is... That perfect illusion... Our illusion... Our place...

Where the sky turns into grey.

I seat myself on the hood of the car and begin to scribble down the lyrics to the song that's been eating away at me ever since I got out of bed. The words flow freely, endlessly, pouring from my heart and mind. When I'm done, I read it over several times. It's perfect. It's not too messy, it's not too clean. It doesn't look professional, but it doesn't look bad. It's sad... but hopeful. It's perfect. It's ME. It's James, and my longing for him. It's US.

I haul ass back upstairs to the apartment, and almost crash into the wall as I snatch the cell phone up from the bed. Flipping it open, I dial '411', and ask for the number to "The Rock." 9.33, The Rock, is Harbor City's most popular rock station. I've gotten to know the DJ, who calls himself Matt Hellfire, personally over the years. He plays all of our greatest hits, not to mention our new singles. He's the guy I call whenever I've got something new for the fans to hear.... Unfortunately, he never gives me his number... I ask the operator to connect my call when she finds the number I'm looking for. I light up another cigarette as the line rings. My foot taps nervously against the floor as I smoke. This isn't a normal, everyday request. What if he says no? What if--

"Ninety-three-three, The Rock. Matt speaking." his voice cuts off my thoughts as he answers.

"Matt?!" I almost scream. "This is Charlie! From Chaos Theory? Listen, man, I've got a favor to ask you..."

"Charlie! Hey, it's been forever, dog! Yeah, go ahead, I'll hear you out."

I pump my fist in the air as I explain what I want to do.

"Do you have any free slots tomorrow? I just came up with this song; an anniversary gift for my mate. I was wondering if I could come in and play it live on the air? You'd get the exclusive, and all I ask is that you shop it around to radio stations in Arizona..."

The line goes silent as Matt considers my request.

"You wanna come in here... and play a new song LIVE on the air? At MY station?"

"Yeah, yeah!" I shout. "I'm sorry if this all seems so rushed, but I--"

"Dude, all you had to do was ask!" Matt interrupts me. "Yeah, I'll set up the equipment. Can you be here around noon? Is it just gonna be you, or are you bringing the band? And why Arizona?"

"It's just me!" I reply. "I'll be bringing my acoustic! It's not gonna be like our usual stuff; this is something personal. The reason I want it shopped around in Arizona is because that's where James is staying. He works at a rehab center in Sandstone."

"Well, I'll say this for you, man..." Matt chuckles. "You seem really excited for this opportunity. I don't think I've ever heard you sound this happy about anything. If it makes your day any better, I'll try my best to get it out there. You start practicing. I'll see you at noon tomorrow."

"Awesome! Thanks, Matt, I really owe you one."

"Just remember me when you release your next new single." Matt tells me, before the call disconnects.

I'm smiling. I'm elated. I don't know if it's the vicodin, or the fact that I've come up with the perfect anniversary gift for my mate. I take out my song book, and go over the lyrics again. It's not a happy song. Quite the opposite; it's downright depressing. But still, it captures the way I feel perfectly.

...I've never felt so happy to be so sad.

---

Whew! *wipes sweat from brow*, There's chapter 10! I hope you guys aren't disappointed; it took me a while. I really need to figure out how to get more readers! If anybody has any good advice, let me know! To everyone who reads my work, you're all awesome; thanks for all the support. Be sure to let me know what you think! I've gotta crash out before I start working on the next chapter tomorrow; I've already got it all planned out!

--Ken.