{"sf1_id":4103,"sf2_id":"znJwO6k1","title":"Maranatha - Chapter IV, as told by Q. I. Malloy","author":"khakidoggy","words":8224,"posted_at":"2004-11-23T03:49:00.000Z","tags":["Action","Adventure","Age Play","Anal","Doberman","Lion","M/M","Plot Development"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4103-maranatha-chapter-iv-as-told-by-q-i-malloy","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/znJwO6k1","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/52/a1/52a19b45-1205-44cf-b84f-fe42ab22faa9","description":"#4 of Maranatha","content":"  \n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\nM A R A N A T H A  \n  \n  \n  \n© Osfer, November 2004  \n  \n  \n_All rights reserved.  \n  \n  \nMay only be distributed for free.  \n  \n  \nMay not be altered in any way.  \n  \n  \nContains material of an erotic and homosexual nature which may be illegal to  \nread in your country, state, province or region.  \n  \n  \nThe author takes no responsibility for transgressions on the part of the reader  \n  \n  \nComments welcome at  \n[[email\u0026nbsp;protected]](%5C)._\n\n  \n\n**Available on paperback in 2005**\n\n  \n\n[  \nMail the author](%5C) for information  \nor [  \njoin the mailing list](%5C)!\n\n  \n\nCheck out [Maranatha on WikiFur.](%5C)\n\n  \n\n~ Enjoy. ~\n\n  \n\n  \n\n* * *\n\nChapter IV - As Told By Q. I. Malloy  \n  \n  \nEvery problem has multiple solutions. The easy way, for instance. The right way,  \nwhich is usually harder. Both of them are usually clear, it's easy to determine  \nwho wins how much in each scenario, and mathematics like game theory and similar  \ncrap offer ways of charting which option is most beneficial all around, making  \nthe decision really easy.  \n  \nBut there's another solution to every problem, I think. A new way. One that's so  \nradical and so round-the-bend that nobody sees it coming and you can never tell  \nbeforehand if you have a candle in a snowstorm's chance of getting the result  \nyou want.\n\n\u0026nbsp; Me, I'm all about the new solutions. That's my bread and butter. When my folks  \ndivorced way back when and the custody battle waged so hard that it rattled my  \nteeth, they finally decided to stop bickering and asked me, to my face, who I'd  \nrather live with, mum or da.  \n  \nSo I chose my mate Owen. Not mate as in lovey-dovey like some folks use the  \nword. Yanks'd say 'buddy' or 'pal' and the kids from the private school I  \nattended might say 'chum' nowadays, I don't know. We packed one night and  \nhitched a ride with a trucker. Owen 'paid' the dude and while they were busy in  \nthe back seat I nicked his wallet as well as, to my massive surprise, a nice fat  \nstash of coke he had in his glove compartment. Truckers, can you believe 'em?  \nWith the cash from his wallet we rented a car, but not before I poured some of  \nthe coke into a little zip-loc bag, hid it in one of the truck's seats and  \ndusted enough of the powder around that any half-trained police dog would be  \nbarking like his dick was stepped on if the trucker tried to call over the  \npolice.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; We rented a car with the money and felt like bad boys. Between Owen's ass and my  \nquick fingers there was nothing we couldn't do. At least, that's what we thought  \ntill we got to Maranatha. It's a nice city, I must say, but to us back then it  \nwas bloody Babylon, where it rained money and snowed trouble. Three months we  \nwere there, living out of the rental car we never bothered bringing back - not  \nthrough cleverness on my part, but because the rental company went bankrupt -  \nsaving up the money Owen earned on his knees and I earned from other people's  \npockets, when we realised there already was crime in Maranatha, and they didn't  \nlike us kids moving in on their turf.  \n  \nWe were damned fucking lucky thatt we got nabbed in the collar by McIlwain,  \nbecause any of the others would have taken us to the fucking cleaners. He took  \nus into a room and told us that everything we'd earned, everything we had was  \neing taken from us and that we could earn it back, and earn more on top of it,  \nby working for him and being fair. And don't you just know it, old McIlwain was  \ntrue to his word.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; These odd ramblings are the thoughts going through my mind as I'm sitting in a  \nchair in my mate - sorry, pal - Collin's apartment, still holding my cell-phone  \neven though the call ended so long ago the battery's almost dead. I'm  \nballs-naked, and I'm cold, but that's not why I'm shivering. The last call was  \nfrom a number I didn't recognise, which always pisses me off, woke me from a  \nreally nice dream, which always pisses me off more but my mood was darkened even  \nmore when I recognised the voice. A sharp, snaring high-pitched cocksucking  \nferret's gloating fucking... Sharpish called me up to tell me Owen had come to him,  \noffered himself instead of Alice and that, while he was of a mind to take 'em  \nboth, McIlwain overruled him.   \n  \nWhen Xerxes, the grand Persian king, led his army westward, conquering left and  \nright, he amassed an army so great that they couldn't camp anywhere more than a  \nsingle day because they'd exhaust the local food supply. To cross the Hellespont,  \nthe shortest distance between North Africa and Greece, so many ships had to be  \nbuilt that it was soon realised that they might as well lash them together and  \nform a bridge, over which the army could march. During the night of the march,  \nthough, a storm swept up and dashed most of the ships, killing hundreds of  \nthousands of soldiers and putting Xerxes himself in danger. The captain of the  \nship he was on knew he had to act fast so he had the bridg-ropes cut and set the  \nship free, but it had already been damaged and was taking water. So he ordered  \nhis crew overboard, which allowed him to keep the ship afloat long enough to  \nreach the Greek shore. The next day, when the heads were counted, Xerxes called  \nthe captain forward and with great pomp and ceremony, he laid a medal around the  \ncaptain's neck, for saving the king's life, but before the captain could say  \n'thank you', an axe swept down to chop off his head as punishment for causing  \nthe death of his entire crew.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; This is how I feel about McIlwain. His word ensured the safety of Alice and  \ndamned Owen. No-one can touch his word, not Sharpish and not his cronies, so  \nAlice is truly, truly safe. Which is just bloody wonderful, because that's no  \ndoubt what Owen wanted. To be the fucking hero.   \n  \nBloody hell, there's tears rolling down my cheeks. I can stand the ache in my  \nbelly, but this is just... shaming. Oh, fuck it, I hate him, I hate that stupid  \nfucking wolf, I hate Owen for being a hero.  \n  \nNo, wait, that's not fair. I don't blame him for wanting to do whatever it took  \nto save Alice. I understand that. I understand that all too well, actually. You  \nsee, I hate him, because he woke up before me.  \n  \n  \nI was dreaming the dreams Owen and I once had of Maranatha, except these dreams  \nwere about another place, just someplace else, and instead of being in bed  \ntogether, there was someone between us. A young lion, slim and shapely, pretty  \nas a prayer book and sweet as an apple on Chrizzo, as the big guy said. In his  \nsleep he'd roll over, facing first one of us and then the other and being just  \nas happy in each place. There'd be rain outside, but, you know, when it rains  \noutside it only ever makes me think about how, right now, I'm comfy and warm in  \nbed.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; At least, that's how it usually feels. Right now it's raining outside too, but  \nit's no warmer in here than out. In fact, I'd rather be out there so I wouldn't  \nnotice these fucking tears.  \n  \n\"Malloy?\" Alice's voice is so musical, and so funny, too. He never says my name  \nright, always puts the stress on the first syllable and makes the last sound  \nreally long. \"Come back to bed... It's cold,\" the boy purrs, rolling over onto his  \nback. I can see him from my seat in the living-room, lit by the light of the  \nshop-sign just outside the bedroom window, showing off the beautiful curves of  \nthat young body. Smooth chest, flat tummy, discrete sheath and balls and slender,  \nfirm thighs.   \n  \nI'm in love with the boy, I think. I don't know because I've never been in love.  \nClosest I've ever been with anybody is with Owen, and he's more like a brother.  \nThe kind of brother that lets you fuck him for a couple of quid. Alice, though...  \nI'm hurting right now over the loss of Owen, but I can imagine how much worse  \nit'd be if I lost Alice.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; It's nuts, of course. It's one thing to be a chicken-hawk but it's a whole other  \nbag to be in fucking love with a fourteen-year-old. Wait, no, he's fifteen now.  \nI keep forgetting.   \n  \nSo I keep the whole thing to myself, and it ain't hard because I'm such a  \nhorn-dog and I fuck Alice now and then anyway, so nobody thinks it's any  \ndifferent from any of the other boys, dudes or men I fuck. Actually, the thought  \nof what a stud I am, which is a really shallow, small-minded and egomaniacal  \nthought to have, gives me a little comfort right now. Nice.   \n  \nThe comfort is easily molded into confidence, which I'll need when Alice sits up,  \nworried and naked and crawls over the bed toward me, looking around. \"Where's  \nOwen?\" he asks, his round ears folded. The little fella's on all fours, knees  \napart, he's even instinctively raised his tail - that kid was made to be fucked,  \neven Owen says so - and it looks like he senses there's more going on than our  \nfavourite wolf in the whole world just going to take a midnight piss.  \n  \n\"Owen's gone, luv,\" I say to him and it's a fucking miracle my voice doesn't  \ncroak. \"He went to Sharpish to get him to stop coming after you, and he did.  \nLooks like all Sharpish wanted was to rent you as a slave to some fat Argentine  \nfor a few months, but Owen managed to convince him that he'd make a much better  \nfucktoy than a green-behind the ears fifteen-year-old. So he took Owen instead,  \nwhich means we won't be seeing him for a few months. But he'll be back,\" I  \nassure him, smiling and nodding. I'm ashamed, more than of anything I've ever  \ndone, at how easily I can lie to this boy.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; He looks relieved first, then horrified and then he settles for the golden  \nmiddle road. \"He... did that for me? But I didn't want that! If I had knowed, I  \nwould have gone to Argentine and I would be back in few months!\" he pleads, as  \nif trying to reason with me.   \n  \nI feel something. I feel it a lot, and it's what makes me so good at what I do.  \nI sense when people need something, see, and that's the vibe I'm getting from  \nAlice, and I know what he needs. \"Hush, luv,\" I tell him as I stand up out of  \nthe soft chair and start padding toward him. \"It was Owen's call, he didn't even  \ntell me about it. So we ought to be grateful to him and not complain or worry,  \nbecause we'll see him soon. Right now he's someplace unpleasant but he doesn't  \ncare because he knows you're okay. And I know that's how he feels, because  \nthat's how I'd feel.\" I've walked into the bedroom, closed the door and I'm  \nstanding by the bed now, letting Alice press his cheek against my abdomen,  \ncradling his head, tousling that silky soft pink hair of his. He nuzzles at me,  \nflicks his tongue out to lick the rim of my sheath as if out of habit.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"I'll be grateful,\" he promises softly, looking up at me with those... those  \nbeautiful eyes. \"Do you think he will call us? I would like to tell him how  \ngrateful I am. He was very brave, to do that for me.\" The lionboy smiles up at  \nme from groin-height, hugging my waist. \"You were like heroes, coming to save  \nme. I dreamt about that,\" he says with a nod, making a loose bang of pink hair  \nbounce in front of his eyes.  \n  \nI smile at him and push him genlty backward. His fur feels even softer than  \nmine, satin, and while I'm proud of being as hard-bodied as I am I must say even  \nmy narcissistic fingers would rather caress the supple, firmish curves of this  \nhere lionboy than my own rippled belly. Which isn't to say I con't often get off  \non touchin' meself, when I'm wanking.   \n  \nHe's on his back on the bed, splayed out all comfy-like. He looks up at me with  \nthat honesty and openness you never ever see outside of the bedroom, and even  \nthen it's rare. He loves me. I know that and he knows I know and it's not in  \nthat way, because, well, that'd be fairly weird. But it's enough for me. And he  \ntrusts me, too. He's lying naked on his back in a stranger's bed, accepting  \nevery word I tell him as gospel, inviting me to make myself comfortable on top  \nof him. That look in his eyes... He doesn't know what I want, but he shows me with  \nthat smile of his that he wants whatever I want, whether it's just to cuddle or  \nto get dressed and go out, or...  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Maybe I'm projecting onto him. Maybe my spider-sense is all wobbly. Either way,  \nthough, without thinking about it or intending to I ease into him as I crawl  \nonto the bed. I can't remember when I got hard and I don't know but I'd swear he  \nhadn't even noticed my dick entering him, he just keeps looking up at me with... I  \ndon't know what I see in his eyes. Friendship, love, lust, gratitude, passion,  \nworship, you tell me. But the tension I feel in his muscles, such as they are,  \nthe little watery glint to his eyes, that all dissipates as the inches slide in,  \nhe sinks deeper into the pillow and smiles a little wider.  \n  \nAnd starts to purr.  \n  \nHe's so warm, is Alice. Warm to the touch, but warmer inside. Snug and tight.  \nSometimes he says it hurts when I fuck him, but if it really hurt him I'd know  \nit, so I guess he just says it so I'll feel like I've got a big dick, which I  \nalready do, so he needn't make the effort. He doesn't get hard, which is another  \nreason why people generally call him Alice instead of Aleš, because sometimes  \nthe clients he services have him dress up as a girly when they rent him. He's  \nnot particularly fond of it, and neither are me and Owen, but the kid takes his  \nwork almost as seriously. I never get why he won't let himself get hard. At  \nfirst it was because he wanted to be 'professional', like Owen, but now he says  \nit 'simply doesn't occur' to him. During sex his mind's so focused on the cock  \nin him that he simply doesn't think about the one in his own sheath.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; In fact, when he's getting fucked he doesn't think about anything but the cock  \nin him, which is why I think he needs it so bad. I'm half-way in him by now, on  \ntop of him. I've slipped one arm under his shoulders so I can rest my weight on  \nthat elbow and stroke his body with my free hand while we kiss, and I slowly  \nthrust my way in deeper. He lazily wraps his slim arms around my nack, those  \nlittle claws gently dragging along my hide. He melts into me, his body moulds  \nitself to mine, accommodating, accepting, fuck is this boy beautiful...   \n  \nHis lips taste sweet and his tongue-piercing clacks against mine, his soft pink  \nhair smells like ambrosia and as I fuck him in Collin's bed, hearing the  \nmattress creak and police sirens wail outside, light from the headlights  \nflashing into the room - I realise that this is what it must feel like to make  \nlove. Except better, because then the one you're with is feeling it as well.  \nWhich may sound like I'm bitter or sad about... about this stuff, but brothers and  \nsisters, let me tell you: if this is the best I feel in my entire life, I won't  \ncomplain in the end.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;  \nI don't know how long it took, but he's finally passed out. He's still under me,  \nboth of us and the bed are wet with sweat, which I'll admit is mostly mine. It's  \na fucking miracle, but I only shot in him twice and each time I thought he'd  \nclose hi eyes and go o sleep, but then he'd kiss me fiercely and ask for more.  \nAnd it'll be a breezy day in Satan's sauna before I deny this kid something he  \nasks for so sweetly. I'm half-tempted to keep going, since I'm getting mighty  \nclose to spurting a third load up this boy's snug little tailhole and fall  \nasleep still inside him, but reluctantly I slow my thrusts and roll off him.   \n  \nMy dick shrinks back into its holster almost instantly and I waste no time  \npulling my clothes on. Black khakis, black silk short-sleeved shirt. Torn at the  \nshoulder, from where Owen grabbed it and as I tie my shoelaces, I wince at the  \nwouns on my arm from when Alice grabbed me there and sank his claws in. Trickles  \nof dried blood run in either directions from the little wounds and only then do  \nI realise, this fuckable little tyke actually saved my life yesterday. I think  \nabout waking him up and I think about putting a bandage on my arm and reject  \nboth as wastes of time, so I quietly open the door, flip the lock closed so it  \ndoesn't close behind me - I don't have the keys to Collin's apartment, see - and  \nwalk down the hallway, down the stairs, out the front door. I pull a bottle of  \nmilk from the crate by the door and jam it on the threshold so I don't get  \nlocked out, and quickly take a look around.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; There's a bicycle chained to a lamp-post and a bunch of cars parked by the  \nroadside. I only think for a fraction of a second before I pick one, a spacious  \nblack van - no, wait, it's called something else. MPC? MPV? Multiple people  \ncarrier or vehicle, don't know, don't care. I give the bike a sharp kick as I  \nwalk past, which is a shame since it's a nice hybrid bike that probably means  \nsome courier's living, but I'm thinking my problems are worse than his right  \nnow. A second later I've yanked one of the spokes from the wheel and I cross the  \nstreet.  \n  \nIt's deserted at this time of day, with the faint promise of sunrise casting a  \nblue glow over everything in the world, making it seem incomplete as if Bob Ross  \nhasn't cracked the Van Dijk Brown and Titanium White to add some colour and give  \nthis one lonesome citizen on the street some Happy Little Friends. For now I'm  \nhappy enough to be on my own as I walk up to the van, spend half a second  \nscanning the interior and the doors and two seconds later I've jimmied open the  \ndoor, and toss the bent spoke on the ground.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The ignition is next, the plastic casing buckles in my grip and wires spill out.  \nNothing I ain't seen before. All the doors unlock, the inside light goes on and  \nI climb In further. It's got that usual MPV interior, with a broad driver's seat  \nand passenger seat, then two seats against each other behind the driver, and  \nanother two seats behind them on the passenger side. Perfect. I check for any  \nbelongings that might be in here, to see if I can be a thoughtful thief and  \nleave them on the pavement for the car's owner to find, but there's nothing, not  \neven a photograph In the glove compartment. Must be new. Gonna be a nasty  \nsurprise for the owner, but, well, what can you do?  \n  \nAs I head back into the house I pull my phone out of my pocket and just as I'm  \nabout to dial I realise the battery's dead. \"Fuck it,\" I mutter and head back  \ninside. Up the stairs, down the hall, in through the door. I go through Collin's  \nclosets, finding those fuck-ugly hoodies he likes to wear and the very latest  \nsneakers and finally a gym bag. Cool. I gather Alice's clothes from different  \nareas of the room, fold them all neat, and put hem in the bag along with the  \ntightest t-shirt and gym pants of Collin's I can find, as well as a towel. After  \nall, Alice wore those clothes for three days and as attached as he may be to  \nthem, he'll probably want to slep into some clean clothes after a shower, even  \nif they're unfashionable.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I sling the bag over my shoulder and walk into the bedroom, gather the sheets  \nhe's lying on and bundle him up in them before I hoist him up in my arms. He  \ndoesn't so much as stir, just sleepily grabs my shoulder with one arm and, with  \nthe other arm swinging against my thigh, I walk out the door and let it close  \nbehind me. Down the hall. Down the stairs. Out the door. Into the car. And into  \nthe morning.  \n  \nInto Maranatha City.  \n  \n  \nRed's finally begun creeping into the world when I pull up at my destination. I  \nlean over my shoulder and lay a hand on the sleeping bundle of lionboy in the  \nseats behind me, feeling him stir but continue sleeping nonetheless, and with a  \nsmile I exit the car. Ah, suburbia... land of opportunity, back in the good old  \ndays. See, most burglars like flats - apartments, you folks might say - because  \nthere's a lot of them and they're an easy mark, but I liked suburban homes  \nbecause they're really well-protected and it's a high-risk, high-reward type of  \njob. See, home security systems count on two types of breakers-inners: the  \ncrude, brute force kind and the kind that tries to be conniving and sneaks in  \nand tries to disable the system. But there's always another way, and I always  \nloved trying that. It goes ack to that new solution rant I was holding earlier,  \nwhich is something you ought to keep in mind for the remainder of this story.  \nI'll keep mentioning it so you don't forget, and it'll make sense later, I  \npromise.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; So I look at the house as I walk up to the porch. Just look at it. Dark windows,  \nwhich ain't strange this time of the AM. One car on a driveway big enough for  \ntwo, and it's a wimply, boxy little Volkswagen which ain't been cleaned in a  \nwhile. There's a trash can at the side of the house that looks empty and the  \ncurtains ain't been drawn in the living-room, exposing all the precious  \nelectronics in there to the public.  \n  \nSo I grin and, confident, I ring the doorbell, nice and loud, nice and long. I  \nsee no lights going on in the house, which is a good sign, and I can faintly  \nhear some sounds from inside, which is even better. I ring again. The hallway  \nlight coms on and a large figure looms at the door, a silhouette splintered by  \nthe frosted, rippled glass in the front door, which promptly opens.   \n  \n\"Hey Mark,\" I say to the raccoon in the doorway, wearing a pair of Pokemon  \nboxers and a serious frown.   \n  \nHe looks at me in disbelief, which makes my jocular grin even wider. \"Malloy?  \nWhat the - do you know what time - Malloy, you, you, what are -\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Chill,\" I instruct Mark and push my way inside, looking up the stairs. \"Nice  \nhouse. How long 'ave your parents been on holiday?\" I ask as I make myself right  \nat home, marching into the kitchen. I realise I'm starving. \"Is Lucy here?  \nLucy!\" I call loudly. \"Where are you at, you sexy thang! Mark, my buddy Alice is  \nasleep in the car, be a doll and go get him, would you?\"  \n  \nMark's easy to push around and, while it certainly ain't polite, it's the  \nquickest way to get him to do what I need him to do. He's so dumbstruck, poor  \ndude, that he walks out the house, in his boxers, goes to the van, opens the  \ndoor, carries the light bundle of ionboy into the house, closes the door and  \nthen realises what he was doing and scowls at me. \"What the fuck?\" he hisses and  \nI put my finger to his lips, indicating the sleeping teen he's holding. \"Jesus,  \nMalloy, what the-\"  \n  \nI'm halfway through making myself a gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous sandwich - a  \nsweet white pistolette with mayo and mustard and cheese and ham and lettuce and  \ntomato when a tigress comes out of a door in the hallway, the one leading to the  \nbasement stairwell. She's dressed only in a button-up shiirt, big enough on her  \nto preserve her modesty. \"Malloy!\" she says happily and bounces over to me. I  \ncatch her in one arm as she hugs me and kiss her on the cheek.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Hey doll. You still with this loser?\" I ask, jabbing my mustard-stained  \nbreadknife at the raccoon. Really, it honestly amazes me that a 'coon like Mark,  \nwith glasses and a paunch and no sense of style can score a hot piece of tail  \nlike Lucy and I make no secret of that. And you might think he takes offense at  \nit, but when I make the jibe the feller starts grinning and blushing like he got  \ncaught doing something good. She sees something in him that nobody else sees on  \nthe outside and he treats her like a bloody princess, which is really, really  \nsplendid.   \n  \nShe notices the bundle Mark's holding clumsily in his arms. \"Hey, who'd you  \nbring?\" Lucy asks, letting me go and hopping over to her boyfriend, striped tail  \nswaying and inspects the handnsome young lion wrapped in the blankets like  \nKal-El when he arrived on Earth. If you don't know who Kal-El is, well, I'd feel  \nlike too much of a geek explaining it to you. Suffice to say, it's something  \nMark would know. \"Malloy, you didn't-\"   \n  \nI continue making the sandwich and finish Lucy's sentence. \"Seduce an innocent  \nschoolboy, get him high, have my way with him all night, only to have him pass  \nout on me because I doped him up too much and bring him here until I can think  \nof a story to tell him and his parents?\" She blinks at me, her mouth moving, and  \nnods. \"Don't worry. That's my little buddy Alice and he just needs a safe place  \nto rest for a while. Looks like you got room to spare, too. Would you mind doing  \nme a big favour and watching over him for a couple of hours? Plus, can I borrow  \nyour beau in the meantime?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Lucy, rather strong despite her feminine elegance, takes Alice from Mark's arms  \nand into her own. She's barely bigger than the boy she's holding, yet she  \ncarries him with the ease of a mother carrying her waen and starts up the  \nstairs. \"Sure,\" she decides and waves to me. \"See you boys later, okay?\"  \n  \nMark, during al this time, has simply been standing there, unsure. He takes a  \nstep forward and I raise my hand to silence and stop him, take a bite of my  \nsandich, chew, swallow, enjoy, and then speak. \"Mark, my lad, I'm goin' to make  \nup for bein' so cross with you today. Tell me, have you ever robbed a bank  \nbefore?\"  \n  \n  \nI've got this plan, see. Despite what I told Alice, Owen's still in trouble and  \nI'm going to get him out or fucking die trying. Which would make it a really  \nsimple sort of deal, wouldn't you say? Except I've got to ensure that nobody  \nelse dies with me. Which makes it complicated. There's some simple elements to  \nthe plan, mind: I need muscle, I need information, and I need money.   \n  \n\"Where are we going?\" asks Mark as he climbs onto the passenger seat and slams  \nthe van's door. It took remarkably little to convince him to come with me, just  \na few hints, a few compliments and two shakes later he was rushing down to pull  \non some clothes and now we're pulling out of his nice, quiet suburban street  \nwhere the first alarm clocks are going to start ringing in just a few minutes,  \nwhile Alice gets to sleep in the secure, motherly, chaste intimacy of sharing a  \nbed with Lucy.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"We're going shopping, Mark my lad. Can't rob a bank without some supplies, can  \nwe?\" I ask, all chipper. The steering-wheel feels big and the van ain't got the  \nguts of my late Corvette, but it'll do. I'm deliberately being mysterious,  \nbecause I know Mark. His curiosity'll make him forget his objections, which  \ngives me time enough to put the seduction on and get what I want. Not, you know,  \nthat kind of seduction. Temptation, more like. \"You're good at maths, aren't  \nyou, Marky?\" I continue when he's about to open his mouth. \"Maths, computers,  \nthat sort of thing mixes. So let's say you were to steal one hundred thousand  \nbucks for me - just hypothetically - and that I'd give you five thousand bucks.  \nDon't sound like a good deal, does it?\"  \n  \n\"It'd be a bad deal,\" I continue, enjoying the easy banter as much as I enjoy  \ndriving around the deserted city this time of morning. Which, in case it weren't  \nobvious, is a lot. \"With anyone but me. Because while it certainly ain't  \nfifty-fifty, it's definitely fair. Because I'd be giving you some things that  \nmoney simply can't buy, Mark. You want to know what I'd give you that'd make  \nthis deal fair?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I look at him only once while I drive, just to see if I'm hitting the right  \ntrack with him. He's got his eyes glued to my face, fidddling with his  \nseat-belt, and nods. Perfect. \"Hell, I'd give you the opportunity to rob a  \nfucking bank, Mark. And the absolute security, the total guarantee, that you  \nwouldn't get caught. Ever. Now, even if you never talk about it, how brilliant  \nis it goin' to be to know what you did, when your buddies are bragging about  \nscrewing up ATM machines or changing somebody's driver's license file? I know  \nhow you guys brag. You all claim to know how you'd approach something like this,  \nbut none of you do it. None, except you.\"  \n  \nI see the lights go on in Mark's eyes. There's trust there, too much, really,  \nsince we've done a lot of good business but not enough for him to trust me with  \nhis judicial future... Good thing for him I ain't a scammer, and after this is  \nover I'll teach him not to be so trusting in future. For now, his trust makes  \nthings easier. \"The bank we're hitting is the Northern Transnational,\" I say in  \nresponse to his next question. \"And all I need is for you to follow my plan to  \nthe letter, trust that I know what I'm doing, and, fuck it, you'd better be as  \ngood as I think you are. Hold on to something,will you?\" I ask and accellerate  \nhard.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Mark's been so focused on me, glancing between my face, my torn shirt and the  \nwounds on my arm - both of which really helped spark Mark's sense of adventure,  \nmethinks - that he didn't notice where we were driving. Out of the suburbs and  \non to the malls, straight past the big superstore and furniture mal and on to  \nthe electronics giant, ironically titled Athlete Electronics, up the driveway to  \nthe front parking lot... He looks out just in time to be jolted by the bump as we  \ngo off the parking lot and onto the grass, skid around a tree - fuck, this van's  \na slow bitch in the turns - and I stamp on the gas pedal as the loading doors  \ncome into view.   \n  \nThey're the kind that roll up and down and let trucks come in, if you've never  \nseen 'em before, and really, they're pretty damn tough. I think Mark's about to  \nremark on that, seeing those thick red doors come into view really quick-like,  \nbut just then I give the wheel a quick twist and I've gotten enough of a feel  \nfor this slug of a van to judge the angle right. The tyres screech, the van  \nswings and with another bump it bounces off the loading lane and onto a path  \njust barely large enough for the van to pass through, with bushes on either  \nside. Ifollow the curve of the path and Mark grips his chair, I turn the corner,  \nsay a quick prayer to the gods of memory to make sure I judged it right and gun  \nthe engine as the car rams through the twin wooden doors of the staff entrance.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;  \nThe rear-view mirrors snap off as we burst into the staff lounge, a stylish  \nend-table smashes beneath the left front wheel and, giving the steering-wheel  \nsome rapid twists and hitting the break motherfucking hard, we come to rest in a  \nperfect one-eighty, facing toward the shattered doors, the engine still humming.  \nPerfect.  \n  \nI leave Mark in the car to pant and reel at what just happened and hop out,  \nfollowing the sound of beeps out of the staff lounge and to a door. The door's  \nlocked. I open it with the best lockpick in the world (my boot) and the door  \nswings wide open, splintered wood spraying into the office I step into. Whoever  \nruns this place and owns this office is a stupid fool, he's left files open on  \nhis desk and the curtains are open. Ah well. I head to the beeping security  \npanel on the wall, which shows the countdown until the alarm is tripped.   \n  \nHmm.  \n  \nI seem to have hit a little snag, here. Last time I looked into the office there  \nwas a SecuVax 3500 model panel on here, but I'm faced with a SafeTron A-15  \n(honestly, who thinks of these fucking names?) now. The counter's at nine  \nseconds, the little display glowing an ominous red, beeping faster. Mark's come  \nout of the car, gingerly stepping toward the door. Before he can ask me what's  \ngoing on I silence him with a raised hand, and think.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; SafeTron A-15. How do we go about this, Malloy? With the SecuVax it was a simple  \njob or pulling off the frontplate and putting a paperclip between the red and  \nblue connectors in the upper left quadrant of the board, but this... Oh, wait,  \nthat's right. I remember now. Panic over. I walk away from the panel, while  \nMark's eyes go wide as the counter reaches six, and then five and walk back to  \nthe panel with a gold-plted letter-opener from the manager's desk. At least, I  \nhope it's gold, otherwise we're fucked.  \n  \n\"It's cool,\" I assure a severely panicked Mark with my coolest smile and jam the  \nletter-opener up the underside of the gap behind the panel, slashing forcefully  \nfrom right to left. I feel a small jolt that makes me cry out a puppish little  \nyelp, but luckily Mark's too spazzed out to think any less of me over that. The  \npanel goes blank and Mark exhales in relief, which is stupid since the countdown  \nwill now continue in the security system's internal clock. Slowly, I slide the  \nletter opener back from left to right, keeping my other hand on the panel, and  \ngrit my teeth hard together so that when that electric jolt hits me, and this  \ntime doesn't let go, I don't accidentally bite off my tongue.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; It fucking, fucking, fucking hurts and for a second I can't feel anything but  \nevery nerve in my body protesting its fate until finally I muster the focus to  \nguide my spasming muscles and I pull my arm away, the snapped-off handle of the  \nletter-opener coming with it. I stagger back, wheezing, but I don't allow myself  \nto rest. A splitting headache, which would go away if only I closed my eyes for  \na few seconds, throbs at the back of my skull as I check out the panel's screen,  \nwhich shows the green all-clear light.  \n  \nMalloy, you're still awesome. All it took was to cut off the panel's power and  \nconnection to the internal system so the panel's clock would reset and then  \nre-establish the connection, in this case, with a well-conducting, cold-plated  \nletter-opener. The systems would then try to synchronise but if I caused a long  \nenough short-circuit, in this case, by using my lovely, sore body as a conductor  \nbetween th epower outlet and the panel casing, the panel would be unable to  \ncommunicate its failure to the main system and upon synchronisation would inform  \nthe system that all was clear, and the countdown was over.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Ladies and gentlemen, can I have some applause?  \n  \nActually, hold that.  \n  \nI hear foot-steps outside, faintly enough that Mark doesn't hear them. \"Wait  \nhere,\" I say to him and walk unsteadily out the door, closing it behind me. The  \nstaff lounge is a mess, what with the wooden doors being burst into the room,  \nshredding one of the couches the store managers so thoughtfully placed there and  \ntyre tracks leading to the still-running van. Fuck, my head hurts... I stagger  \ntoward a door in the wall next to the van, feel myself lurch sideways, toward  \nthe kitchen...  \n  \nYou know that game, where you run around with your finger on a pole in the  \nground, five times as fast as you can and then try to get to another pole a  \nlittle further on? Everybody always sways and staggers because they feel the  \nworld spinning, but I always won that game. Because the trick in this game, just  \nas it is when you're runing rooftops, is not to think about where you're  \nrunning, but simply to run. So I run.  \n  \nAnd then I'm at the door and there's loud footsteps on the other side of the  \ndoor and I see it opens outward so I launch myself forward and up and dropkick  \nthe door, which bursts off its hinges and both of us crash onto a portly,  \nuniformed security guard on the other side. He flails his Mag-Lite torch right  \ninto my hand, I accept it gratefully and as I come to rest on the door on top of  \nthe protesting guard I swing it hard enough to knock the night-stick from his  \npartner's hand. I press on, stamping on the door to give the fat guard a knock  \nin the gob and jump toward the partner, a panther who looks like he can handle  \nhimself. I bring up my knee and, thank fucking god, I catch him right under the  \njaw and send him flying backward.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I land on my rear leg and press one hand to the wall of the hallway I'm now in,  \npushing off to spind round and swing a kick at the downed guard, catching him  \nacross the cheekbone as he tries to get up. His hat flies into the air and  \ncrashes against the other wall, sliding down like a leaf. When I stop the spin  \nmy other hand continues its swing, landing on the polished black handle of the  \npanterh's nightstick, which landed perfectly braced against the wall.  \n  \nThe god of burglary loves me, there's no other explanation.   \n  \nWithout looking, I grip it and from the feel of it I've got it by the long end,  \nso when I charge up to the panther, who's crawled up and is about to launch  \nhimself at me I use my split-second head-start to swing the baton down and slam  \nthe crook of the nightstick's side-handle right onto the base of his skull with  \na satisfying crack... and the guard falls down.   \n  \nNow I take a moment to steady myself. I fall onto my hands and knees and let the  \nshivers pass over me, trying not to puke onto the panther, who really looks  \nquite tasty in his blue uniform. The world slowly stops spinning inside my head,  \nthe whining I hear in my ears quietens and the throbbing ache at the back of my  \nbrain lessens somewhat. It's more bearable now.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Mark, now, ccautiously opene the office door and peers out. \"Malloy?\" he  \nwhispers softly, sounding as sweet and innocent as Alice in my fazed state. I  \nwave to him to indicate I'm fine and, taking deep breaths, I crawl over to the  \npanther to sever the cord of his walkie-talkie with my claws, then stand up and  \nwalk to the other guard to do the same. \"Come on,\" I says, opening my eyes and  \nshowing Mark a grin that's every ounce as confident as I feel shitty, \"Let's go  \nshopping.\"  \n  \n  \nThere were only two guards In all of Athlete Electronics, just as I suspected,  \nand they'll be out for the count for a good wee while. I sent Mark off with a  \ncoin to get a shopping-cart and the instruction to fill it with everything he'd  \nneed to safely hack the Northern Transnational. I had deposited the guards in  \nthe small side-kitchen and pushed one of the couches in front of the door by the  \ntime he came back, his cart laden with carefully-stacked equipment, dusted with  \npieces of styrofoam from the packaging he ripped open, which gave the whole  \nthing a very christmassy feel. His eyes shone like Roman candles, which fizzled  \nout when I told him that, while we'd take all this stuff so nobody would figure  \nout what specifically we'd come for, we'd be dumping every last piece by the  \ntime the job was done.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"This'd be worth doing the job, Malloy,\" he sulks as he straps on his seatbelt,  \nchecking, once again, to make sure that all the items are stacked and strapped  \nsecurely on the back seats. \"I'd take this gear instead of the crummy five  \nthou.\" He's only been a real criminal for an hour, and he's already talking  \nabout thous and grands as if they're petty change. Mark really is the coolest  \ngeek I've ever met.  \n  \nI shake my head and drive the car slowly through the smashed-in doors, which are  \njust barely wide enough for the van to fit through, careful not to bust the  \ntyres on any nails or shattered glass there may be. \"This stuff's hot, man. If  \nyou want to get away clean you'll do as I say and part with it, and be happy  \nwith the five thousand. Believe me when I tell you, you never earn as much as  \nyou steal - they say that about honest work versus crime, but it's true of just  \ncrime as well. You steal a hundred grand, you only get five... But that's five  \nmore than you'd have otherwise.\"  \n  \nMark sullenly accepts this. It's hard to keep up my 'cool, confident' façade  \nwhen really, I want to pull over and vomit for a while. My head still hurts from  \nthe jolt and my fingers tremble, but I can't let that show. If Mark has even the  \nslightest doubt at any point, hs confidence will waver and we'll be busted. I  \nhave to keep him believing it's an adventure, that he's along for the ride and  \neverything's cool. It's good that he's sulking over the money, it means he's not  \nworried.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Go on, get in the back and start setting up your stuff. We'll be at the bank in  \nabout ten minutes.\"  \n  \nMark unbuckles his belt and climbs through the gap between the driver's and  \npassenger seat, squeezing his overweight body through. Once he's beside the two  \nseats behind the driver's side, opening the laptop and starting to wire it up  \nto... Honestly, I don't know what all he's connecting, just driving's hard enough  \nat the moment. But anyway, once he's started that he looks at me in the  \nrear-view. \"We're going to the bank? But why'd you need me to hack?\" he asks.  \n  \nHe's maybe thinking I'm going to rob the bank. He's maybe thinking about a Die  \nHard-style break-in with terrorists and explosives experts and a hacker working  \nas a team, to the tune of the Ode to Joy. I shake my head.  \n  \n\"Mate, I don't know computers and even I know what we're going to do. It's...  \nclose to six AM, banks don't open for another couple hours What happens when you  \ntry to transfer a large sum of money like a hundred thousand bucks outside of  \nregular hours?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I can see Mark working away in the rear-view, and it's an impressive sight. He's  \njostled by the car's motions but he's focused on the job, not getting frustrated  \nwhen he drops smething after I hit a bump. His face is bathed in the light of  \ntwo laptop screens and fuck knows how many LED's. \"If you've got an business  \naccount, you get a call from the bank to your registered number to confirm the  \ntransaction, otherwise it's delayed till the bank opens.\"  \n  \n\"Right,\" I say, turning a corner. The business district skyline comes closer as  \nwe pass from the suburban colony into the city proper, with the Sargasso  \nbuilding jutting up like a dagger into the rising sun. Just to the left of that  \nis Northern Transnational, and our target. \"More specifically, an alarm goes off  \nin the bank's security office. Since there's so much redundancy and the business  \ndistrict has a security force on-call locally during the night, the bank  \nminimises its personnel to only one person in the building at night, to minimise  \nthe risk of fraud. This one person is a guard, a tech and a banker, so when your  \ntransaction is sent, an alarm goes off in his office, he places a call to the  \nbank's central office, sends along the details and the central office calls  \nyou.\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"So,\" says Mark, thinking aloud more than worrying, \"if we transfer the money  \nthe bank'll call the account owner's office. And if they're not there, the  \ntransfer will be held for a few hours. And if they're there... we're in a lot of  \ntrouble. So how do we stop the call from being made?\"  \n  \nI pull up, right in front of the bank's glass walls, balls-out arrogant. The  \n'coon is grinning wide, not even concerned about getting caught any more, just  \nthrilled by the excitement of as daring a heist as this. \"This is perfect,\" he  \nsays with a gleeful yelp. \"There's so much wireless coverage I can flip networks  \ntwice a minute and never lose the connection!\"  \n  \n\"Whatever you say, mate,\" I reply with a chuckle, taking a pen and the car  \nmanual from the glove compartment, writing two numbers one above the other, with  \nan arrow between them. \"Transfer one hundred dollars from this account to this  \none,\" I tell him and hand him the book. \"No more than a hundred, you get me? And  \nif the names that flash up surprise you, don't worry about it, just get the job  \ndone. I'm afraid my phone's dead so we can't stay in touch, but just do the job  \nand it'll all be cool. How long do you need?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Mark looks more confident than I've ever seen him, and I must say, it does e  \ngood to se ehim like this. A part of me feels like I'm doing him a favour,  \nletting him participate in as fine a heist as this, giving him an experience  \nthat'll enrich his life forever and seriously impress his chick - I'm pretty  \nsure she won't flip out, once she hears the whole story around the job. Or  \nrather, part of the whole story. \"Half an hour, give or take, to transfer the  \nfunds and another half-hour to cover my tracks. Think you can give me enough  \ntime?\"  \n  \nI look out my window, through the glass walls of the bank's lower floor and into  \nthe brightly-lit lobby. \"Half an hour's about all we got. Don't worry about  \ncovering your tracks, we'll be dumping this equipment and nobody can trace it to  \nyou.\" I open my door and step out, but the 'coon surprises me, grabbing my arm.  \nUnfortunately, it's the sore arm, and I wince.  \n  \n\"Sorry, dude,\" he says, quickly letting go and scratches his chin right under  \nhis left eye, at the rim of the mask-like discoloration around the eyes his  \nspecies have. \"But, seriously, unless I've got the extra time, they'll be able  \nto trace it to the recipient account!\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I flash him a smile, trying not to sway too much on my feet, as I lean in the  \ndoor's opening. \"Don't worry about it, mate. Just get the dough sent. I'm  \ncounting on you, y'hear?\" I say and close the door, and walk to the building,  \ntrying desperately to keep my pace steady.  \n  \n\n_To be continued._\n\n  \n\n**Available on paperback in 2005**\n\n  \n\n[  \nMail the author](%5C) for information  \nor [  \njoin the mailing list](%5C)!\n\n  \n  \n  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"Maranatha","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4098-maranatha-chapter-iii-as-told-by-owen-zelazny.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4105-maranatha-chapter-v-as-told-by-q-i-malloy.json"}}