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The Wasted Youth

By Ken Anderson

Chapter 1 - Penance and Reflection

---

"All right, boys! It's breakfast time! Get on your fuckin' feet!"

I can hear the chorus of groans and curses before I even open my eyes. I suck in a breath and wince at the pain coming from my stomach. Not again...

I can't keep doing this...

Heaving a sigh, I turn over on my bed and try my best to ignore them. I pull the blankets over mmy head. Just let me sleep... Let me sleep and dream about the life I could have been living, as far away from this place as fucking possible...

"Let's go! Let's GO! Move your lazy asses!" The raised voice commands. I stifle a growl as the guard claps his paws together noisily, further increasing my agony. I squeeze my eyes shut as the blinding white lights on the dirty ceiling are switched on. My body flinches involuntarily as a loud "thud" echoes throughout the room. Oh, great... He's tipped some unlucky bastard out of their bed and onto the floor. This kind of thing happens a lot. Once or twice, that unlucky fucker has been me. I guess Sergeant Redding hasn't had his coffee yet. He's usually not this bad...

Something cold and wet splashes my face, and I cry out in alarm as I jerk upwards to a sitting position and begin rubbing my eyes. Squinting through the blurry haze, I see Sgt. Redding glaring in my direction. That old wolf is a serious pain in my ass... He can never get enough of torturing me. When he sees that he's got my attention, he gives me a sadistic sneer before turning his focus towards another prisoner. I try my best not to yawn as I slowly pull myself to the edge of the crappy mattress and stretch my legs towards the floor. The oversized, midnight-blue jumpsuit wrapped around my body drags behind me as I push myself to my feet.

... It's gonna be one of those days...

"Salas, 9172149! Clayton, 1063614! Make your beds and get your shit together! You're on kitchen duty!"

One of these days, I'm seriously gonna kill myself...

"Come on, Sarge!" I whine, "That's the third fuckin' day in a row! Why do I have to do it?" I point a claw across the room. "Why not Manny? He hasn't had a job all week!"

The muscular lion I'm pointing to bears his teeth in a silent snarl. He raises his thumb to his neck, and makes a dragging motion across his throat. I give him a smile. He wants to fight? Bring it on; I haven't had a challenge in three weeks, now. He's got it coming, anyway...

My ears suddenly perk up and my eyes go wide as I hear a familiar 'click.' Oh, shit... This isn't going to end well. Before I can react, Sgt. Redding has whipped around to face me, his collapsible baton extended and arcing towards my right knee. I grit my teeth against the pain as the steel rod crashes into the side of my kneecap, sending me falling to the ground in a crumpled heap. Sgt. Redding hovers over me, his pearl-white fangs glistening in the harsh flourescent light as he growls menacingly. Jabbing a single claw towards my chest, he barks,

"You think you're the big shit, Clayton?! You don't run shit in this place! This is MY fucking house! MY fucking world! So just shut up and do what you're told! Now get your ass off my floor! You're on kitchen duty!"

I grit my teeth and do my best to suppress a growl as I struggle to stand. I have to use my mattress to push myself to my feet. It hurts so much...

As Redding turns around to continue his morning 'motivational speech", I sit back on my bed and rub a paw over my injured knee. Great... Now, not only will I have to stand on my feet all day; I'll have to do it with what feels like a cracked kneecap... And If I know Redding, I won't get to see the infirmary for at least three days. That bastard Manny will probably try to start something way before then. Honestly, I give it a few hours, tops. Shit...

Just another day at the Ranch...

My eyes start to wander as I tune out the noise. I stare at the nondescript white paint on the walls and the ceiling. Hospital white. I stare at the polished wood floor, and I wonder why... Why am I here? How did this happen to me? What could I have possibly done to deserve this? All I did was make some money. All I did was make some friends. With my eyes, I slowly trace the floorboards and scan the bunk beds, and I see the faces, the sad faces staring back at me, and once again, I am reminded.

I know. I know why... It's all because of me. I'm such a fucking idiot... This whole thing is my fault. If I hadn't fucked up, I wouldn't be here right now.

If I hadn't fucked up, two good people would still be alive.

I'd had everything going for me. Everything. It was all working out so perfectly. I was having the time of my life. I was the fucking king of Harbor Hills High! I had friends, plenty of cash, and everybody loved me! How could I have known everything would go so fucking wrong?! Tell me, how could I have known?

It all happened so fast.

It all took less than twelve months.

If you'd told me what was going to happen back then, there's no way I would've believed you. Not a chance in hell. If you'd told me that I'd be spending a year in juvie for possession with intent, I'd probably have laughed you out of the room. If you'd told me that two of my best friends would be dead before it was all over, I'd probably have punched you in the face.

God, I was so stupid. How could I not have seen this coming? Oh, well... as the people of my generation would say, 'That's the price you pay for the game you play.' And the price is always high. And everybody pays.

What, you don't get it? Fine. This will take a while, but I guess I'll have to explain.

But before I do, you want my advice? Leave your wallet and all tobacco products in your car. Prisoners can't have access to paper money. Steel your heart and calm your nerves, 'cause this ain't all fun and games. And don't worry... They don't strip-search you in this place.

Visiting hours are from eight to five...

---

Twelve Months Ago

It's only eight A.M., and already, something's wrong.

"Charlie, have you seen that pot I bought last night? I'm not feeling too well."

James' voice echoes through the halls of the mansion as he digs around in their bedroom. I can hear Charlie rummaging around in the den downstairs, muttering curses under his breath as he shifts the furniture.

"I haven't seen it, babe!" he calls out. "Not since last night!"

Yeah... This is a typical morning with my dads. So far, it's been a perfect start to a perfect day...

I find myself feeling a little guilty for some reason, though... I can't quite put my finger on it. Oh, well... Whatever it is, I can worry about it later.

The king-size Rizla paper is soft in my claws as I finish tucking in the corners of the monstrous joint I'm currently rolling. I roll the cone back and forth between my fingers before dragging my long tongue across the gum strip to seal it shut. Yeah... Early-morning wake-and-bake. There's nothin' like it in the world, I tell ya. I take a few seconds to admire my handiwork, before tucking the joint snugly into the inner pocket of the unzipped hoodie I'm wearing.

I gaze out the windows across from my bed, the sunlight streaking bright rays of heat across my back. It looks like another perfect fall day. Beautiful...

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of an empty plastic baggie laying on my desk. Aww, shit... Really? A groan passes my lips as I hang my head. Not again. I hate it when this hppens.

Wait for it...

"JAKE!" Their voices call out simultaneously.

"Yeah!" I scream back. "I'll be out in a minute! Chill!"

I shake my head to clear away the fog as I brush off the cover of the magazine in my lap and stand up from the edge of my bed. Tossing the periodical onto the desk, I snatch up the empty bag and stuff it into my pocket. We'll burn that bridge when we come to it. I walk into my small bathroom and check my reflection in the mirror. My fur is clean, thankfully. The passing of fall into winter is taking its toll on my coat. Now, not only is it thick and hard to clean, it's still that weird, creepy shade of white mixed with gray. I run some water over my paws and use it to spike the fur on my head. There... That's better.

My eyes fall to my paws, and my claws brush over the tattoos permanently dyed onto the fur across my knuckles. "Lone Wolf." I'd gotten it done a couple weeks ago, and I'm actually pretty happy about how it turned out. I mean, sure, I may be a half-breed, but so what? I pull open the medicine cabinet and snatch up a small bottle of talcum powder. Pouring some over the ink, I rub it into the fur to hide the letters. I haven't told my dads about the tattoo yet. Knowing James, he'd probably give me a lecture about the permanence of getting your body inked. Knowing Charlie, he'd probably wouldn't care in the least. If you must know, I'd actually forged their names on the consent form that I'd had to turn in to the artist before he would finally agree to ink me. Hey, I wanted a tattoo. I do what I want.

I can hear their footsteps on the stairs as I dart back into my room and quickly stuff the bag of pot on my bed into the backpack which rests on the floor. Not even five seconds after I've zipped it shut, my parents reach the door. Charlie stands in the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest. James leans against the door frame, looking stressed out. I guess he's having one of his bad days...

"Jake?" he calls over to me. "Did you see a bag of pot in the den when you came home last night?"

My tail wags nervously. My paw unconsciously snakes its way around my neck, and I feel myself scratching. I really hate it when I have to lie to my parents.

"No, I didn't see it, " I say, the empty bag burning a hole in my pocket like a handful of hot coals.

"Shit..." he mumbles, before turning back down the hallway. "I guess I'm going dry..."

"Don't worry, babe, I'll call my guy. We can get some more." Charlie reassures him. I hear the soft footsteps as my foster father departs; that slow, steady, shuffling gait of defeat. Great... Now I feel even worse.

Charlie clears his throat loudly, and I suddenly realize that he's still standing in front of me. I can see the concerned look on his face as he eyes me with disappointment.

"You smoked it all up again, didn't you?" he says.

That's Charlie for ya. Always right to the point.

I can't help it anymore. I slump my shoulders and nod my head, my eyes tracing patterns in the carpet near my feet. I hear him sigh, and watch as his arms drop to his side. He steps in through the door, and leans in to whisper.

"Kid, you've got all the pot you could possibly want. Why'd you have to take his? It's gonna take me hours to cheer him up now; you know how he's been lately..."

I nod my head once more, and take a seat at the edge of my bed. James had recently lost a good job doing behavioral therapy for injured veterans coming back from overseas. He'd been dreading his return to chemical dependency counseling. I don't blame him. In his view, handling war vets suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder was a cakewalk compared to convincing drug addicts to relinquish their dope of choice. Even with all his experience and his reputation for success, he couldn't convince every one of his patients to stay clean. The vets, on the other hand, tended to show more improvement. He'd lost the job after word had gotten around about his own problems with drug addiction. One e-mail was all it took. The corporate world is hell on ex-junkies. Especially those who tried to turn their lives around.

"I'm sorry, dad..." I say, picking up my backpack and setting it on my lap. I grip the zipper in one paw and tug it open. "I wasn't thinking. I just walked in, saw the bag, and snatched it up."

Stretching the backpack open, I poke around inside. After a few seconds, my paws close around what feels like two mid-sized bags. Pulling them out, I hand them over to Charlie.

"Here. Take two eighths. That should more than make up for it. Again, I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

He takes the bags from my outstretched paw, and holds them up to his nose. Taking a deep sniff, he smiles appreciatively. "Wow. This a new batch?"

I give him a nod. "Yeah, that's Purple Kush. I picked it up last night; that's why it took me forever to come home."

"Nice..." Charlie says with a grin. I watch as he starts digging around in his other pocket for his wallet. When he removes a couple of bills, I shake my head and wave them away.

"Keep your money, dad. It's on the house. Like you said, I have more pot than I could ever want." I give him my best apologetic smile. He just chuckles and shakes his head as he slips the cash back into his pocket. "Hey, even your old man's gotta pay for his drugs sometime."

"Yeah, eventually," I say, chuckling as I zip the backpack shut.

Actually, I've never taken a dime of Charlie's money. The truth is, when I started selling pot a little over a year ago, I never once imagined that I'd end up supplying my own parents. I originally got into the game because it seemed like a way to kill two birds with one stone, you know? It was freshman year at Harbor Hills, I was smoking tons of pot, and I needed a steady supply of money. It didn't take me long to put two and two together, and realize that if I was selling the stuff, I'd be able to make five times what I already made scrubbing tables at Benny's Diner. And as an added bonus, I would have more than enough left over to smoke. Seems pretty simple, right?

Well, in the beginning, it was. For a while...

Eventually, it got to the point where I had a list of customers as long as my arm, and hardly enough pot to keep up with them. My supply was dwindling and people were starting to get pissed off. It all came to a head one night when I'd made the mistake of promising eight different people that I would have an ounce for each of them before the night was over. Eight ounces. That's a half-pound. My usual supplier was out. I'd taken all the cash for the order in advance, so by the time the clock struck midnight, I had already received three threatening text messages on my cell phone, been engaged in four heated arguments concerning the arrival of the stuff, and had one customer actually visit me in person. I had to tell him off right there on the front porch. Nobody was happy with me.

In a desperate last-ditch move, I finally caved. I needed some serious help. James was at work that night, and the guys from Chaos Theory were all out partying to celebrate the release of their latest album. Charlie was the only one around; he'd turned down the offer of drinks in favor of sitting in front of the gigantic TV in the den with an ounce of pot and the house bong, a three-foot tall monster of a device crafted from multicolored glass with practice and precision. That thing hits so smooth... Anyway, I'd been sitting in my room, contemplating the situation, when I'd decided to head downstairs and see what Charlie was up to. I needed something to take my mind off the issue at hand.

After three full loads of the bong, however, I finally broke. Weed has a way of doing that with me. That, coupled with the fact that honesty is usually the best policy with this family. Basically, I just blurted it out. "I'm selling pot," I told him, "I've been selling it for months. But right now, I really need some help."

I explained my problem, and all the while, he just sat there, smoking from the bong and listening quietly. At the end of it all, he'd hardly said a single word. Finally, I'd shrugged my shoulders and turned to face him. "Well, dad? Aren't you gonna say something?"

He'd set down the bong, and exhaled his last hit before replying, "I knew you were selling pot the day you picked up your first ounce. I got a phone call from your dealer. He buys his pot from CJ, and that's one of James' oldest friends. Everybody knows who you are, Jake. They all know who you belong to."

I remember the feeling of my heart pounding in my chest as he told me this. My eyes going wide. My knees shaking.

"Now that we've got that out of the way," he continued, "Let me just say that I don't like the fact that you're doing this. I'm your dad; I'm supposed to be teaching you how to be on the straight and narrow, you know? This isn't the kind of job I would've wanted for you. But we both know that if I tell you to stop selling, you're just gonna keep it up anyway. So here's what I'm gonna do for you. I'm not gonna say a word about this to James; it'd give him a heart attack. And I won't turn you in or try to give you any lectures about how you're throwing your life away; you already know you are. You've basically admitted it. Now... You've told me your problem, and here's how I'm going to help you solve it..."

And that was it.

Ever since that night, I've been buying my stuff straight from the source. It turned out that CJ was the guy who could open all the doors. He had all the right connections in all the right places. Seven years in federal prison had sharpened his mind and broadened his horizons. After that night, I was set. If I wanted it, I could get it. Wholesale prices, higher quality, new customers, new products. God, I was like a kid in a candy store for a while... Everything was going so great.

Sometimes, it seems like there's nothing that my dads wouldn't do for me...

Charlie turns to leave. Before he can get out of the room, however, he stops.

"Oh, yeah. Me and the guys have finished recording in the garage. We've already taken most of the equipment out. You can have the place for a few days, if you want. I know it's been a while since you guys rehearsed."

My ears perk up, and I start nodding my head furiously. "Fuck yeah! I'll let them know. Think you can give me a ride to class?"

He smiles and nods, before walking out into the hall. "I'll be downstairs. Find me in the den whenever you're ready."

I tell him that I will, and he departs. And almost immediately, I start panicking. I haven't rehearsed with my band in nearly a month; we haven't had a chance. Charlie and his band, Chaos Theory, have been using the mansion's four-car garage as an impromptu recording studio for the past three weeks. According to him, they wanted to try and capture that raw, underground-only sound. Garage rock. Punk rock. Hardcore. Grunge. Over time, I've heard so many names for it that I've started to lose track of them all. Charlie's first albums with Lost Shepherd had embraced that sound to the fullest; trashy and heavy, and yet smooth and emotional. That's what it's all about, man. No-holds-barred. In-your-face. Uncut. Unclean. The isolated Id of rock and roll.

But I don't have time to think about that right now. I've got bigger things to worry about. For starters...

Where the hell is my guitar?!

I drop my backpack and check under my bed. Nope. I jog over to my closet and start working my way through the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. It's not here, either. FUCK! Where is it?! I start pacing the room, trying to remember. I'm getting a little frustrated now. I check the bathroom, the hall closet, and the desk area. Nothing.

Where is it?!

If I could only find the damn thing, I might be able to get in a good half-hour of practice during lunch. God, it's been so long, I starting to wonder if I've forgotten how to play my own songs. I keep searching.

"Hey Jake, let's go!" I hear Charlie shouting from the kitchen downstairs. "You're gonna be late!"

Screw it. I've got plenty of time after school. I decide to worry about it later, and grab my backpack off the floor. Slipping it over my shoulders, I switch off the lights and leave my room. When I reach the staircase, however, a sudden crashing noise fills my ears and I freeze. After a second, I hear the loud clatter of what sounds like bottles and cans knocking against kitchen's linoleum floor.

"JAKE!"

Oh, shit. That doesn't sound good.

"WHY IS THERE A GUITAR IN THE REFRIGERATOR?!"

I stifle my laughter as I slap my paw against my forehead. Giggling to myself, I stuff a hand into my pocket and pull out my cellphone. As I'm bounding down the stairs, I set it up to record video. There's no way I'm missing this. This is YouTube gold. How the hell did my guitar get in there, anyway? I can hardly remember anything about last night...

Oh well...

I must have been stoned...

---

The deep rumble of the Chevelle's souped-up engine rattles my vision as Charlie pulls the car into the parking lot of Hoover's convenience store. The small crowds of students gathered in front of the dilapidated structure are quickly silenced as the watch us pull in. Getting closer, I notice several sets of eyes staring directly towards me.

Customers. Right on time, as usual...

I feel a paw tapping impatiently against my shoulder. Turning my head, I see Charlie trying to hand me my guitar case. "I don't even wanna know what you were on last night..." he mutters, as I take hold of the nylon strap and pull the guitar over my shoulders. After grabbing my backpack from the floor, I open the passenger door and step out onto the concrete.

"Neither do I," I call back as I pull myself out of the car. "But whatever it was, it must've been good."

"I'm raising a little junkie!" Charlie laughs. He shakes his head as he puts the Chevelle in reverse. I shut the door, and he rolls down the window.

"Hey, like father, like son, right?" I call out.

"That's the kind of thinking that's gonna kill you one day! Have fun in class, kid. I'll see you at home."

I smile and give him a parting wave as he backs out into the street. Without warning, he peels out, leaving thick, dark tread marks on the blacktop as he races away. I notice that the crowds have all stopped to watch. I can't help shaking my head. That's my dad... He always likes to show off.

As the Chevelle vanishes over the horizon, I turn my attention back to the business at hand. Scanning the crowd hanging around in front of Hoover's, I start to go through the list of customers in my head. Half of them aren't here this morning... I'll probably hear from them later.

My paw tightens around the strap on my backpack as I hear footsteps approaching from behind. Whirling around, I come face-to-face with a shady-looking cheetah dressed from head to toe in black and gold. He must be from one of the gangs around here. The tattoos above his eyes seem to bob up and down as he nods his head towards my bag.

"What's up, half-breed? You re-up yet?"

I look around to make sure that nobody's watching. It's bad enough that I have to do this stuff in public. You can never trust these cats. In fact, last I heard, there was a huge turf war going on between the canines and felines, a war which was being waged to decide which species could lay claim to Harbor Hills High. Even though I, personally, have never claimed a side, I'm always seen as an enemy by these cats because of what I am. But that doesn't matter much to me. Money only comes in one color: green.

And if I'm being perfectly honest, I could give fuck-all who "runs" the school... As long as I'm making my money, they can claw each other to shreds...

I take another look behind me, just to make sure. When it comes to illegal business, a little paranoia never hurt anybody. When I'm finally satisfied that we're in the clear, I set my backpack on the ground and pull back the zipper. The cheetah taps his foot against the concrete impatiently as I dig around inside, trying to find the bag that contains just the right amount. After a few seconds, I pull out a mid-size package and hand it over. I watch as he hastily crams it into his pocket, and I can hear the sound of paper rustling as his paw comes up clutching a fistful crumpled bills.

"That's one-fifty, right?" he mutters under his breath. I can tell that he wants to get out of here as quickly as I do. I give him a silent nod, and he slips me the money as we shake hands and say our goodbyes. I immediately take several steps in the opposite direction as he departs. Gangbangers around here are extremely unpredictable, and I really don't feel like getting shot today...

I remain on edge until the cheetah leaves the parking lot and makes his way across the street. When he's finally out of eyesight, I heave a sigh and shake my head.

That's one problem out of the way...

I consider heading into the store for a bottle of somtething fizzy and loaded with caffeine. Like most other modern teenagers, I can't live without massive amounts of the stuff, and unfortunately, we're out of coffee at home.

Before I can follow through with this plan, however, my muscles go rigid as a shrill whistle comes from behind me.

Shit...

A low growl passes my lips as my ears perk up and my muscles tense. There's only one guy on campus who does that. And this guy gets off by treating everyone else as if they were a bunch of ferals. Hence, the whistle. It's his favorite way to greet people. That annoying screech coming from some random direction, as if it wasn't an insult to canines, and you shouldn't stomp over there and kick the smug bastard's face in.

Slowly, I turn towards the large brick wall that separates the store's parking lot from the apartment complex next door. My eyes trace their way over the graffiti, the bullet holes, and the whispering faces, scanning the numerous canines leaning against the wall for the one I'm looking for. I manage to find the ugly muzzle and bloated face without much difficulty. The short, pudgy bulldog gives me a nod and waves me over.

"What's up, J?" he calls out as I approach.

Asshole...

He reaches a paw towards me and I stare down at it, keeping my own paw wrapped tightly around the strap on my backpack. Forget about it. You think the feline gangs in this place are bad? Well, let me be the first to tell you; my so-called 'brothers' are the worst. The canine gangs are some of the most brutal, unforgiving bastards I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. Case in point: Greg Lorenzo. Greg "the keg". Now, don't let that name fool you. He's not a party animal. No, Greg the keg is the leader of the school's largest band of canine delinquents, and to impress those heartless pups, you have to be absolutely stir-fucking-crazy. Allow me to explain.

Greg the keg was always a vicious character. There's no doubt about that. Throughout most of his short life, he'd taken pride in making sure that no matter where he went, people feared him. Unfortunately, like most times in life, things didn't always go according to plan. And if Greg couldn't shake you down, well...

You got to find out why they called him "the keg."

According to legend, a couple of years ago, Greg was invited to a keg party being held by a few well-known seniors. This was during his freshman year, before he'd become a gang leader. If you believe the firsthand accounts of what happened, and most of us do, then you'd know how the entire disaster got started. I'll give you the short version.

The party was on edge. The beer was all gone, and the weed had all been smoked. The people were tired, irritated, and for the most part, out of their minds. Your typical, All-American Friday-night madness. The people were hungover and restless, and the last thing they needed was for something to get out of hand. Unfortunately for them, this was the real world, and anything that could go wrong, would go wrong.

Unfortunately for them, Greg just happened to be the target on which a group of partygoers had chosen to take out their frustration.

Out of the blue, according to eyewitnesses, a group of older kids and recent graduates had banded together to confront Greg, who'd been seen sitting in a corner of the living room throughout the night, taking sips from a gallon-sized bottle of cheap whiskey. They were all of the opinion that since Greg was the only one at the party who was still in possession of alcohol, he was automatically obliged to share it with everyone else.

They must have felt safe in their numbers; assured of their strength and combined might. They must have felt confident. What they didn't know, or rather, hadn't taken the time to find out, was that Greg was known for having an explosive and wildly unpredictable temper. On some nights, he was calm and cool, smiling endlessly, conversing happily, and passing around bottles and joints like it was the most natural thing in the world. On other nights, he was sullen and withdrawn, content to sit in a corner alone and drink himself into a catatonic stupor.

In this state of mind, he was inconsolable. In this state of mind, he was unstoppable. In this state of mind, he would fight anyone for any reason, and sometimes for no reason at all.

This is what the unfortunate group of partygoers would discover that night.

My dad once told me that Greg has something called "bipolar disorder." I just call him a fucking psycho. I don't need science to explain it for me.

While the numerous accounts of the actual fight differ in certain details, such as who swung first and who went down and where, everyone who was there that night completely agrees on one thing - At the end of the chaos, Greg was the last one standing. Some people even say he still had the bottle of whiskey in his paw. From that day onwards, when you heard people talking about Greg, you'd hear them say_, "Watch out for Greg, man. The guy's like a fuckin' powder keg, there's no telling when he'll explode!"_

And that was it.

Gregory Lorenzo became "Greg the keg," a name which was feared and respected by anyone who had the misfortune to walk the halls of Harbor Hills High. The smug bastard received so much attention that every year, there was a new crop of freshmen who almost worshipped him. Now in his junior year, Greg still uses his 'legend' to fill his ranks with loyal followers. He grabs the attention of everyone in school, from the principal to the teachers and the lowly-paid security guards... He gets in their heads and he gets on their nerves. And he loves every goddamn minute of it.

Everybody knows who he is and what he does. But not everybody cares.

Me? Personally, I can hardly stand the guy. Everyone has their limits, you know? But we'll get to that later.

"Got something for me today?" he asks, eyeing my bag with a knowing smile on his face.

I nod my head silently and reach around to unzip my backpack. As much as I might hate to associate myself with the crazy mutt, Greg and I have a business arrangement.

When I'd first started selling pot, Greg's status as a gangster was still on the rise. Not being one to miss a good opportunity, he'd quickly singled me out as what he liked to call a "good earner." Once he'd made this fact known, I'd quickly been approached close to a dozen times with offers to join his gang. He even offered me a position as the gang's sole distributor of drugs. Still, each time I was approached, I'd politely declined. I wanted no part of that bullshit. In my line of work, I find it easier to walk around with nothing but my reputation and my product. I don't need to add a gun to my arsenal.

In the end, he'd finally given me an ultimatum: either I cut him in on my profits, or I stop dealing at Harbor Hills.

From the start, I knew that I was at a disadvantage, since more than three quarters of my customers attended school there. And eventually, I agreed on one condition.

We had to split the risk.

Greg crosses his thick arms over his chest as he watches me fumble around inside my backpack. I try my best to avoid eye contact as my paw wraps around the two large bags. I pull them out and hand them over.

"Remember, you owe me five hundred by Friday." I tell him.

He gives me a single nod as he stashes the bags in his jeans. It's a fairly simple arrangement, really. I front his gang a couple of ounces each week, and in turn, we split the profits. Fifty-fifty, just the way I like it. All it means is less legwork for me, and he's not selling to any of my regulars, so I'm not losing any money. Plus, at the prices I'm paying for the stuff, getting half of what I normally make will still turn me a profit. As long as the boys pays up on time, I don't really see a reason to complain.

If I have to collect on a late payment, though, Greg knows that he's gonna have to deal with CJ and his ex-cons. Even he's not crazy enough to fuck around with them.

Greg taps me on the wrist and nods his head towards a group of felines hanging out at the opposite end of the parking lot. I heave a sigh, and shake my head. I guess I hadn't been as careful as I thought.

"I see you're selling to the cats again," he says. I can read the contempt written across his muzzle as he stares them down. His brown nose wrinkles, and his short, brown-and-white splotched fur seems to stand on end as several sets of feline eyes turn to stare back at him.

"When are you gonna cut that shit loose? It's not right, you know what I'm sayin'?"

I give a short laugh, and shake my head. Singing my backpack over one shoulder, I reply, "Yeah, so what? Their money's the same as yours, man. It doesn't make a difference to me."

I turn to walk away, waving a paw over my head as I head for the entrance to Hoover's. I can feel Greg's eye's burning holes in the back of my head as I walk on, but I just smile and pay him no mind. He knows better than to try that racist crap with me. I've said it once, and I'll say it again: There's only one color that I care about.

And that color is green.

As I reach the glass door, with the steel bars bolted to its exterior slowly falling apart with rust, I reach out my paw to take hold of the handle. Taking a deep breath, I pull the door open and step inside.

A burst of smoky air blasts the fur on my muzzle as I step into the dimly-lit store, nodding to old Johnny Hoover as I walk past the counter. The old human has owned this place since before my dads were born, and apparently his eyesight has gotten worse over the years. Even a kid as scrawny as me could walk into his store and walk out with beer and smokes. He must be unfamiliar with the signs of aging in us canines, or in any other species, for that matter. In this place, a fuckin' ten year old could be twenty-one. Threading my way through the cramped, narrow aisles filled with junk food, over-the-counter drugs, and other miscellaneous items, I push my way towards the large selection of soft drinks housed in the refrigerators lining the back wall.

I need something good...

My eyes scan the rows of cans and bottles, each with different logos and eye-popping designs. Red Bull? Nope. That stuff is like water for me. Monster? Rockstar? Forget about it. The stuff I'm looking for was banned in Harbor City about six months ago, but somehow, old Mr.Hoover always seems to have an endless supply...

At least, that's what I thought. Where the hell is it?

"Lookin' for something?"

My breath catches in my throat as I freeze. I know that voice. I feel the corners of my muzzle pulling back in a smile as I turn around. There he is. The only guy I could ever really call my friend.

"Bobby!" I exclaim, wrapping the skinny black panther in a friendly embrace. "Where the hell were you, man? I was looking for you outside!"

I release him and he shrugs his shoulders, nodding his head towards the two large cans gripped firmly in his paws.

"I came in to pick up the last cans of Rush, man. The old bastard says he's not gonna have any more for two weeks. I figured you'd want one, too."

My eyes go wide as he tosses one of the cans in my direction. Snatching it out of the air, I crack open the tab and start slugging the nasty-tasting stuff down. This is it. This vile-tasting blue-green gunk, this carbonated nightmare, this is it.

This stuff is as close as you could possibly get to legal speed. At least it was, for a while. Eventually, as is usually the case, the government, to the dismay of fully-functional, working-class drug addicts everywhere, decided to step in and shut down the party.

But of course, just because something has become illegal doesn't mean that there isn't any left to be had. Anybody remember Four Loko?

As the last drop of Rush passes my tongue, I crush the can in my paw and lick my lips clean. My tongue is going numb, and my throat burns from the flood of carbonated liquid. In ten minutes or so, I'll be ready to go to class...

Meanwhile...

"So, dude, you got that joint?" Bobby whispers, sipping slowly on his Rush as if he's savoring the taste. I pat my pocket and nod my head. Of course I've got the joint, right? Smiling covertly, he ducks behind a shelf as he pushes me towards the back door.

I guess I should give you a little history on Bobby...

I first met him when I was seven years old, at a critical point in my life. I met Bobby on the day that my parents died; the day my father decided to kill himself and take his family with him. It was the day my world got turned upside-down.

Bobby was the first kid in my class who'd ever said more than three words to me; the first friend I'd ever really had, from day one. And for years, I'd come to know him as much more than a passing friend. Over time, the two of us would become closer than brothers.

After the death of my parents, the state ordered that since I had no living relatives, I was to be entered into the foster-care system. This, for me, was the beginning of my downward spiral. At least, after a while...

But the one thing I had to look forward to, every time a family returned me to the orphanage, was Bobby. After a while, I'd learned that his parents had also been killed. In their case, however, their deaths had been accidental. His father had been driving drunk, with his mother asleep in the passenger seat of the family car. Bobby had been in the back seat when it happened. According to him, his father never saw the truck coming towards them in the opposite lane. He didn't move out of the way until it was too late.

As an orphan, Bobby had spent much more time in foster homes than I had. He was quick to let me in on the secrets of success. "If you don't like the family, you get em' mad at you," he once told me. "If you like em', you do anything they want."

For the longest time, I tried my best to heed his advice. I tried to be the 'good son' with every family who chose to adopt me. Unfortunately, with my withdrawn personality, and later, my addiction to speed, I found that this was an impossible goal. For the longest time, I was too far gone to be saved. For the longest time, I was numb.

Needless to say, I always got sent back.

And then, there was Bobby. While I was busy being shuttled from family to family, from home to broken home, Bobby would patiently wait for me. He was never adopted, at least not during my stay at the orphanage, until one day, when it all came to an end.

One day, when I came back from living with yet another family, Bobby was gone.

I'd cried for days.

Why was my friend gone? At the time, I was too young to understand, but I felt, for some reason, that I'd been left behind. There were countless attempts on my part to come to terms with this loss. First, I tried to ignore the fact that he was gone. This worked for a couple of hours. After that, I decided to get high. I decided to get very, very high.

This is when my drug use began to spiral out of control.

This is when I met Charlie and James.

Over the years, as I went back to Middle school and finally got off the meth, I started to feel, once again, like I'd never make any friends. Once again, I was the outcast; the bottom of the barrel. Even the other kids from the orphanage despised me.

When I finally got to Harbor Hills, however, all that shit went right out the window.

On my first day at Harbor Hills High, I remember walking through the halls, trying to familiarize myself with the layout of the place, when I heard someone cursing loudly while banging their fists against something metal. Turning a corner into an adjacent hallway, I nearly dropped my newly-acquired textbooks when I saw him. There he was, fighting with an old locker as he tried to get his stuff squared away. After all those years, there was Bobby, staring at me with this smile like nothing had ever happened.

Naturally, we picked up where we left off. That's to say, we went out and celebrated.

And the party hasn't ended since.

Thanks to Bobby, I finally managed to come out of my shell. I finally found myself able to socialize; to hang out with people I'd never met before and to bring out a part of me that I'd never known existed. Thanks to Bobby, I became one of the most popular guys in harbor Hills High. The girls wanted to go out with me. The guys invited me to their parties. I could be found at almost every social function that was organized off-campus. The house parties and the concerts. The club nights and the keggers.

Thanks to Bobby, I could now see the world, and I finally realized that I wanted to own my share of it.

Well... Maybe not THIS part of the world...

My nose wrinkles as the stench almost knocks me down. I wave a paw in front of my muzzle in a vain attempt to waft it away. I'm about to say something, but I manage to stifle my complaints. I don't even want to open my mouth out here. Good lord, this place is disgusting...

Heaving a sigh, I step away form the door and Bobby follows me out. I can't hold back my laughter as he begins coughing violently for several seconds, pausing finally to take in deep gasps of garbage-tainted air.

"I think I swallowed a fly or something, man!" he chokes out. I shake my head and laugh.

Lowering my gaze towards the ground, my eyes come to rest on the small mountains of garbage which completely cover the sparse patches of grass poking up from the hard-packed dirt. The alleyway next to Hoover's never gets cleaned. Even before my dads were born, the place has always been known around Harbor Hills as one giant, open-air landfill. Are you done with that beer? Toss the can into the alleyway. You've finished your lunch? Toss it over the fence and we can head to class. The police have raided the store, and all the kids are getting busted? Grab all the dope, and toss it into the alleyway. The cops don't get paid enough to root around in this AIDS-infested rat's nest. No amount of health benefits that can possibly help out after you step on a dirty needle and your prick starts falling off in tiny pieces.

But still, sometimes the place can get pretty crowded. Especially around lunch time on Fridays. Not to mention, every once in a while, you might get lucky and score the free drugs that someone chucks over the padlocked fence.

"So, what's the plan?" Bobby asks as I retrieve the joint. I shrug my shoulders as I stick it between my lips, feeling around in my pockets for the zippo lighter buried under the wads of bills.

"Well, I've got an exam today..." I mutter, as I spark the joint. Bobby groans loudly and slaps a paw against his forehead.

"No, no, not THAT plan!" he exclaims. "I'm talking about the party! You DO remember being invited to a party tonight, don't you? Hell, you even told everyone you were gonna find us a keg! Now, I don't know how you expect to come through with that, but I'm assuming you have some sort of plan?"

My breath catches in my throat as the hazy memories of last night start to come back into focus. Did I really say that? Damn... Now I REALLY want to know what I was on last night...

"Whose party is it, again?" I ask. Bobby lets out a burst of laughter as he reaches out and plucks the smoldering joint from between my claws. I can see the corners of his feline muzzle twisting upwards in a smile as he shakes his head sadly.

"You forgot, didn't you?!" he shouts. "Jesus, man! You need to lay off the fucking dope! Ariana's throwing the party. She invited us herself! You don't remember the post-game party last night? You know, Ariana, the girl you've been chasing after for the past two years?"

I punch him in the shoulder and he laughs loudly, rubbing his arm as he hands over the joint. I run my paws through the fur on the back of my neck and heave a sigh. How could I have forgotten? I take a huge toke from the joint and pass it back, exhaling loudly as I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head.

"Bobby?" I say. His head bobs up and down as he gives me a nod.

"What's up?"

"I'm an idiot..."

He gives me a smile and shakes his head disappointedly, smoking quietly as his tail swishes back and forth near the ground.

"Yes, Jake... Yes, you are."

"How the fuck am i gonna get a KEG?!" I whine, "I'm barely sixteen years oldd!"

Bobby shrugs his shoulders and reaches a paw towards me with the roach. I take the last puff, before stomping it out on top of a pile of trash on the ground. "That's the problem, right?" he replies.

I nod my head in agreement as we start making our way back towards the door. Why couldn't I have promised to bring a bag of pot or something? A keg was going to be damn near impossible for me to purchase legally, or even illegally, for that matter. I didn't have any friends who were of legal drinking age, and the people that I DID know would never agree to buying a bunch of beer for a house full of minors. No way. Talk about a lawsuit waiting to happen.

This was a situation that required some serious thought...

What was the best approach?

What time did the liqour stores close? Do they even store kegs at liquor stores? No...

Bobby guides me through the narrow maze of cramped aisles as we head for the front door, waving casually to Mr. Hoover as we step out into the parking lot, the morning sun beating down on our faces as we walk. The quesitons are running through my mind as if someone has put a tap on my brain and turned it on full blast. Who will grab the beer? Who's gonna give us a distraction? Who's got a set of wheels?

I reach out to tap Bobby on the shoulder as we come to a stop before walking across the street.

"Hey..." I call out. "Do you think we can use your truck tonight? I've got an idea..."

The panther freezes in his tracks, and slowly, he turns to face me. "Are you insane?" he asks. I nod my head and smile, stuffing my paws into my pockets as I speed up my pace. "Yeah. We're gonna need it for what I've got planned. Gas it up and grab us some ski masks, will ya?"

Bobby stands paralyzed as I continue towards the school.

"Well, how long do we need it for?" he calls after me as I depart.

"Two hours!"

"How many in your crew?!"

"Including the two of us? Five or six! Just meet me at the mansion after class, alright?"

Bobby gives me a parting wave as he watches me leave. I return the gesture as I move on. Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I note the time, and quickly type in a number. I've got five minutes before the tardy bell rings.

The line rings loudly as I approach the large set of steel double-doors which lead to the school's cafeteria. I reach out a paw to grip the handle as I jerk it open and quickly march inside. The ringing continues.

I've got five minutes to find the people I'm looking for. I've got five minutes to set everything up.

The line stops ringing as someone on the other end picks up.

"Hello?"

I've got five minutes to set my plan in motion.

---

My legs are killing me.

My shoulders are throbbing.

I try my best not to make eye contact as the sullen faces make their way past me, holding out their trays as they reach my station, and pulling them back seconds later. I pay little attention. For me, it's about timing.

Scoop.

Serve.

Scoop.

Serve.

One fluid motion. A machine. A robot. This is what I've been reduced to.

"Such a shame..." They'd all say, if they could see me now... "What a waste."

"All that potential..."

Scoop.

Serve.

Repeat.

Damn it...

My busted knee is burning with every movement as I hurry to make sure that every prisoner gets an equal portion of I-can't-believe-it's-not-oatmeal. No, really, I couldn't tell you what the fuck this nasty cinammon-smelling stuff is...

To me, all the food in this place looks like a tub of snot.

"Hey, Clayton?" Someone whispers. I stop moving. Every muscle in my body tenses. In this place, when someone calls you out, it usually signals an attack. I can feel the adrenaline starting to course through my veins as I tighten the grip on the large metal ladle in my paw.

"Jake?"

Taking a deep breath, I whirl around to face my challenger, a skinnny, black-haired equine. He throws up both hands and takes a few steps back when he sees the rage seething in my eyes.

"Hey, whoa, take it easy..." he reassures me, "I'm not here to fight. No, I've got a message for you from Dave, man. You know, the guy who runs your barracks?

"Caveman Dave??" I ask, bewildered. "Benny's kid?"

"Yeah," the horse nods, motioning towards a door in the back of the ktichen. "He's in there with a couple other guys. They want you to join them. I'm supposed to cover for you out here."

My mind is racing with doubts and curiosity. I'd heard that Benny's oldest son had gotten locked up almost a year before I had. Until now, however, I didn't know that he was on my block.

He reaches a hand out for the ladle. Still a little paranoid, I hesitate before handing it over. Clearing my throat and straightening out my jumpsuit, I put some haste in my steps as I march towards the storeroom. What could these guys want? For all I know, it could be an ambush. For all I know, they could want me dead. I mean, this is fucking juvie, right?

No...

No, I've got no problems with the hoofers. They've left me alone, and I haven't bothered them. They couldn't possibly want to kill me after all this time, could they? I mean, I've only had problems with the cats around here. The hoofers usually side with us when we have our little scraps against them. Due to their strength in numbers, we see them as a common enemy. Is this about Manny? That bastard's got it coming to him... At least, he will if I have anything to say about it.

I catch sight of the bison's thick mane as I approach the brightly-lit room. He nods to me from his seat on top of a milk crate, the cool air causing his breath to come out from his nostrils in thin streams of fog. Hee raises a hand and waves me over. I take a moment to check my surroundings before approaching the door. If this was a set-up, something would have gone wrong by now. I feel my pocket for the five-inch nail concealed in its lining, and heave a sigh as my paw brushes over the solid steel spike.

Oh, well... Whatever happens, happens, right?

And around here, if something goes down, there's nothing that anyone can do about it...

---

That was chapter one, folks! Sorry for the wait. I've found myself caught up in dozens of small side-projects lately, none of which, unfortunately, have seemed to pan out. Oh, well. That's life, right? Anyway, I hope you all enjoy the first chapter in the sequel to Charlie and James! This is just the beginning to a long and winding story, so I'd advise you all to just be patient and hold on tight. It's gonna be a bumpy ride.

As always, and comments or reviews are well appreciated. If you find any typos or the like, feel free to PM me. For all my meticulousness, I may or may not have missed a couple.

--Ken.