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Those Wild Black Ice Boys #1

Rhinestone Tombstone

Jackie wasn't so much an expert at Wizard's as he was a phenomenon.

Watching the red fox standing at any of the arcade machines was a treat. Tonight, Jackie wore a dark purple headband to make sure the curtain of his silky black hair stayed where it belonged; swept straight back, dangling just beyond his shoulder blades. His black Crucified Barbara T-shirt was two sizes too big, hanging well past his hips, the bra he wore underneath making subtle hills at his chest. A black denim miniskirt did its best to cover his hips and thighs, providing assistance for the black-and-green striped stockings beneath. His combat boots, purchased for thirty bucks at Dan's Army Surplus on the other side of town, black, were laced up nice and tight. His tail brushed the felted carpet floor as it danced through the air, framing his posterior.

The owner of Wizard's Arcade knew he was a guy and was never too thrilled to see another drag queen flowing around the arcade, but he knew Jackie had a power, an unnatural ability to draw a crowd just by playing one of the machines, so he always kept his mouth shut.

Jackie's hands worked the controls like lightning. He could hear the voices around him, rabbling all at once into a cacophonous drone of unintelligible noise, but he focused on the screen, his brow skewed into a crease, frowning in deep concentration. Everybody knew he was the best at Leather Rebel, but these past few months the high score list was being dominated by somebody who put in the moniker "LRK." The meaning was not lost on Jackie; the letters meant "Leather Rebel King."

Yeah, sure.

Jackie directed his character through the warzone, making sure every slug from his sawed-off shotgun struck its mark, every healing item acquired, every target obliterated. He focused on the game, envisioning himself as the character, knowing the circumstances that befall someone who loses. He pursed his lips, fingers flying, ignoring the cheers from his fans. Someone told him to get the guy at the far edge of the screen; by the time the stranger finished the statement, the shell Jackie had fired had already ripped the target apart, pixels disintegrating into empty electronica.

Someone had brushed their hand against his butt; his fingers twitched, his mind drawn away from the game for an instant. In that instant, a target had fired a salvo of low-resolution missiles at his character. He tilted the stick to the left, making whorls as he tried to avoid each projectile.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, he thought angrily. He tried to get his head back into the scenario, forcing the music and buzzing sounds that passed for explosions to envelope him. His eyes were starting to hurt; a tear was welling up on the left. He focused himself, taking deep breaths, mental evasion of the world around him.

He reclaimed his composure, telling himself he would be victorious once again. More enemies came raining down from the top of the screen in waves, his ammunition-to-target ratio nowhere near appropriately controllable, safe, levels. He had to go to the spot where the power-up would appear and activate it in the same moment. Any other course of action would mean losing the game.

Jackie breathed slow and deep, willing his heart to ease up, to chill the fuck out and just go with the flow. He fancied he could look ahead into the future, saw himself setting up his three initials of victory, right there at the top, a good reward for forty minutes of standing in one place, his sweat-slick hands nearly slipping over the stick, of trying to remember each movement the enemy targets would make, trying hard not to blink at the most disadvantageous second. The whistles and cheers around him weren't helping, and the pervert somewhere behind him sneaking another touch on his rump.

Then the screen went black, and after a peal of electronic laughter, the final boss appeared on the screen. A big, hulking brute, muscles from here to Australia, the glistening, furless and sweaty flesh of his pectorals and abs straining against metal ribbing and studded leather belts. A faceless entity, his eyes were red and wicked behind the featureless steel-grey ski mask. Several pairs of cattle horns framed his back, crisscrossed with wires that went in and out of his flesh.

"Ain't nowhere to run! Time to burn, sucka!" the hulking man-beast proclaimed on the screen.

"Fat chance!" somebody said behind Jackie, and there was a bout of soft laughter. Jackie took another breath and hit a button to advance the screen. He knew that anything less than perfection would amount to more than just a Game Over screen; his reputation was in the hangman's knot as well.

There was only one target, but avoiding his weaponry was a burden enough. Projectiles cascaded down in a torrential hellstorm of blind and unforgiving fury. Jackie blinked just enough to allow his eyeballs to moisten. Somebody swore as they saw the multicolored chaos sweeping down to Jackie's character, but Jackie knew exactly where to go. He knew just which projectiles could be shot down, and thus awarded points. His fingers worked the knob and buttons with a fervor that made his admirers gesticulate in wonder. His green eyes were wide, pupils miniscule as the light washed inward. His tail twitched.

The minutes went by like November taffy. Jackie's fingers were fucking aching, throbbing to the same beat as his eyes. He moved his character around to the side of the screen, surviving mainly by acquiring double-speed power-ups. He took potshots when he could, whittling away the boss's health bar. Some of his younger audience vocally questioned what he was doing, but the more experienced members knew; he was wasting time, shooting down the larger projectiles to rack up points, cementing his access onto the high score list.

"Alright, that's enough. Get the bastard, girl."

Jackie heard his friend Sylvia somewhere behind him, and he smiled. Several of his friends would often show up to watch him, offering their quarters, drinks, advice, or sympathies if his night resulted in loss. They all knew about the secret he kept under his skirt, but they also knew that he loved doing the act, getting off on mass deception, so they kept quiet. He let the game go for a little bit longer, then began firing every weapon his character owned at the brutish sixteen-bit monstrosity.

He fired a shotgun shell, a simple grouping of six yellow-orange pixels. The game had been designed to expect the player to kill the final boss with a special attack or a larger weapon, so seeing the miniscule shot turn the colossal target into a bleeding mass of flesh, twisted metal, and exposed bone made several people snicker. Jackie rapidly breezed through the end credits screens, eager to get to the point of this whole endeavor.

The high score list scrolled rapidly from the right, gold font lettering within a red border in the middle of electronic black, images of random characters moving around the border. Jackie saw "LRK" covering the top twelve score slots. He sniffed mockingly as he moved the pointer up to the blinking slot at the very top; number one. He put in the initials "BIB" beside his score of 553,939,777. There was some whistling and cheering, and the crowd began to disassemble, the show over. Strangers patted Jackie on the back, and he expected someone to put their hand on his ass again, but it didn't happen. Sylvia threw her arm around him, offering him a red plastic cup filled with what smelled like Mountain Dew.

Somebody in the dissolving crowd asked, to no one in particular, what BIB stood for. Nobody had an answer, and Jackie wouldn't say. He never spoke in Wizard's Arcade. Sylvia threw back her black-and-white hair, forcing a fist into the air and giving a shout. The crowd clapped, and Jackie, blushing, wrapping an arm around his friend's ample waist, pinched her. The badger laughed, tightening her arm around Jackie's neck.

"You did awesome, hon. By the way, you owe me, like, six dollars total for all the coins I put on you."

Jackie scoffed through his nose; he knew that Sylvia had had a pool going on him. That Sylvia would tell him he owed her meant that she won just a little bit less than what she wanted.

They walked together to the exit, washing in the sounds of the arcade. Jackie downed the beverage in one gulp and tossed the cup into the nearest waste bin. He overheard two raccoons at a Space Invaders machine talking as they passed.

"Dude, how come she doesn't ever talk? I've seen her here twenty times and she doesn't ever say a word."

"Man, the way she looks, she don't need to talk."

Jackie grinned, snickering inwardly. He loved emphasizing his body by wearing women's clothes, and he loved being in public while wearing them, but he loved the idea that he was, in some way, deceiving the general public. He didn't understand why it was such an invigorating and exciting situation, but it was, and he enjoyed it thoroughly. It wasn't so much an erotic stirring, but a mental exhilaration, somewhere just under philosophical understanding.

As Jackie and Sylvia headed toward the exit, Jackson Scott, the owner of Wizard's Arcade, held up a can of diet coke in a meager salute. The otter looked more like the legal owner of a ballpark in the 1950's, wearing a lightly starched white shirt thinly striped with vertical brown lines and pressed brown trousers, held up by a pair of suspenders. His shirt was tucked into his pants, augmenting his beer gut. His moustache bristled in a mechanical half-smile. "Not bad, ladies," he said, flashing a dirty look at Jackie.

Jackie smiled, blowing the otter a kiss as they passed him. The man cursed and stomped away, shaking his head. Sylvia laughed, and Jackie chuckled in his throat. They opened the door, and were greeted by the shock of October wind blowing roughly against their bodies, ghost claws grabbing at their faces. "Holy fuck on a fuck train," Sylvia grumbled, releasing Jackie from her grip to zip up her leather jacket. It was much warmer when they drove down to the arcade from Thunder, and the fox had neglected to bring a jacket. Remonstrating himself for his absent-mindedness, he stuck his hands into the cargo pockets of his miniskirt, balling them into fists. He loved October, loved the autumn season in general, but he couldn't deny that it had its handicaps.

Jackie always thought of what his grandfather used to say, that the darker seasons were like the violent will of some gargantuan frost giant, winter being the punch, and autumn being the wind-up.

Sylvia stuck a cigarette between her teeth, turning back to the Arcade to try and block the wind from blowing out her lighter flame. Jackie took the moment to inhale the seasonal smells of October, trying to come up with descriptions of the thoughts and feelings that sparked in his mind. He hated that someone could be a published author and yet be incapable of expressing in plain words his own mental activity on paper. Each time he thought he could put his foot down on a genuine statement that seemed relatively accurate, it would flit away like a bat, back into the blankness of indefiniteness.

Sylvia turned back, her little silver lighter snapping shut, and blew a streamer of dragon smoke into the evening air. The sun had just fallen under the horizon, the distant trees black and grave. The sky was a nova in varying shades of pale yellow, the clouds above reflecting the sun's rays in pinks and purples.

"So, any plans for tonight?"

Jackie looked around the parking lot, scanning the area for anybody who might be loitering or just walking out. Seeing no one, he took his phone out of a skirt pocket. Although he had the physical features that would deceive someone into thinking he was a girl, his voice was too low to try a cheap falsetto--not baritone, but low enough. "I don't know. You know I hate going somewhere or doing something without any preplanning. I thought about getting some overtime at work, but the fucking manager, man. I think Rob and I are just gonna spend some time together."

"Gonna get fucked up or just fucked?"

"We'll see." Jackie began texting Rob, wondering why he wasn't in the parking lot like he should have been.

"How long have you two been together?"

"'Bout two years now. I thought I told you that."

"Well, shit, man, sorry. I can't hold that information in anymore; my brain just cuts the line three minutes after the fact. Take my advice, hon, never--never--take a job in technical support. There're fucking idiots all over the world, and I'm not a goddamn Agony Aunt."

Jackie grinned, waiting for Sylvia to continue, waiting for Rob's text even more. The badger took a few puffs on her cigarette, scratching away an itch on her collarbone.

"I'm telling you, Jay, I believe that everybody has the right to live however they want to live in this world, but there are some people--a lot of people--that have absolutely no business being a part of that order. Crazy, sadistic, mind-numbing morons the world over. Nobody today can go five minutes without bad-mouthing or insulting somebody else, or threatening bodily harm to them. I shit you not, it wasn't like this ten y--it wasn't even like this five years ago! How fucked up is the gene pool today, really? I shit you not..."

Sylvia took a big puff on her cancer stick and turned away. Jackie knew she was done with that final declaration. He pressed his legs together, at least allowing his thighs to warm up as the rest of him shivered. He checked his phone again, and saw the message Rob had sent back.

"Oh, come on..."

He sighed into the darkening evening, humorless smile playing around his lips. That damn Robert...

"Hey, Jackie. You don't think I'm getting out of line, do you?"

"Huh? Out of line?"

"Yeah, with what I just said. You think that's a bit much?"

Jackie looked at Sylvia, looked at her in the evening shadows. Her face was framed by the city lights of White Hill not far away; Wizard's Arcade was only a quarter mile out of the city, lost between there and suburbia. Sylvia looked pretty with short bangs. He pocketed his phone, wishing he had remembered his jacket.

"Actually, I think it's a fifty-fifty split. You're absolutely correct that everybody holds the right to live however they want to live, but therein lies the fine print; total freedom shouldn't permit someone to kill their neighbors without fear of consequence. I know there's a lot of bad people in the world, but they'll get what's coming to them eventually. When you think poorly about someone, there's always at least three other people thinking badly about you, and bad thoughts build up."

Sylvia was quiet for a bit, taking a few more puffs on her cigarette. Jackie blew on his hands to warm them up. "As far as it not being like this ten years ago, things weren't exactly a utopia back then either."

Jackie stopped there, knowing what he'd end up saying if he went further down that road. He shifted his legs, wrapping his arms around his chest. A group of high-school-age youths walked out of the Arcade, bragging and embellishing their exploits. Jackie watched them go, flashing a warm smile their way. One of them, a tall and broad-shouldered raccoon--senior, obviously an icon of some small town high school football team from somewhere--turned away from the main group and started walking toward him. He had a big grin on his face, flashy jacket, hair well groomed. Jackie was curious if he wanted a genuine date, or, jumping that stepping stone, just have a nightly bonking.

Jackie felt bad for the boy when Sylvia took a few steps toward the raccoon, her face dark and threatening. The boy tried to initiate conversation from where he stood, but kept getting rebuffed by the badger. Jackie turned away, not answering the raccoon.

"She ain't interested, punk. Go on, beat your feet."

The raccoon blew air through his teeth, making a dirty gesture, as if Jackie and Sylvia were suddenly beneath him, no longer worth his time. Jackie snickered wetly, and Sylvia straightened out her jacket.

"Little shitbucket..."

"He could've just wanted to talk, Sil."

"Yeah, talk your pants off, more like. I should've let him, just to see his face."

"You mean when he lifts up my skirt and finds a conch instead of a clam?"

Sylvia looked at him for a few moments, her eyes skewed and brows upraised before breaking out in a peal of shrill laughter that cut through the evening cold. Jackie joined her, careful not to laugh too loud.

A small black Cavalier with a poorly covered rust spot near the passenger door pulled out of the rear section of the parking lot behind Wizard's. It pulled into the front, reversed, then stopped beside a big mud-soaked Chevrolet. Flashing blue and pink neon signs from the windows of Wizard's illuminated the face of a grey wolf, a black Megadeth baseball cap hanging over his short brown hair. The windows rolled down, and the wolf stuck his head out, his hefty brown bomber jacket straining against the door.

"Sorry, babe. I thought you meant in the rear."

"Uh-huh," Sylvia smiled, pushing her elbow into Jackie's shoulder, winking secretively. Jackie smiled as he walked to the other side of the Cavalier.

"See ya, Sylvia."

"Bye, hon. Don't stay up too late, now. Hey, Rob."

"Hi, Sylvia," the wolf said, nodding. As Jackie sat down in the passenger seat and shut the door, Rob quickly put the car in reverse. "Bye, Sylvia," he said.

Jackie waved to his friend, locking the seat belt into place. They pulled out of the parking lot, turning around and onto the main road. Jackie pulled his necklace from out of his bra, a large amethyst cabochon. He clenched it in his hands, holding it close to his heart.

"It's freezing out there," he said plainly.

"I know, I'm sorry again. I really did think you'd be coming out the back way."

"It's alright, Rob, really. You know I like the cold anyway."

"Yeah, but still...by the way, you forgot your bag."

Rob reached back behind the passenger seat, keeping his eyes glued to the road. His arm returned, holding Jackie's favorite bag, an army surplus canvas messenger bag, olive green, similar to the type they used in the Korean War. When he had first purchased it, he had the short strap removed and replaced it with a much longer one.

"Oh, jeez, I've been looking all over for that! Where did you find it?"

"Right behind you, in the back."

"Damn. Well, thanks, babe. I thought I'd lost it somewhere in the city, or some creep had stolen it."

Rob stole a glance at his boyfriend, his cheeks starting to blush, the steel-grey fur puffing outward. "Would be a good idea to check inside, make sure everything's still there."

Jackie hummed in concern and agreement. He undid the clasp and opened the flap, his eyes rolling over each object he always took with him when going out in public. He rummaged with his fingers, making sure that everything he could remember putting in there was still present.

Everything was, except for the one thing that he didn't recall ever seeing. He took it out, a small black felt box just slightly bigger than his palm. There was a diamond logo on the front, so he knew it was from some jewelry store.

"What's this?" he mused. He looked at Rob, who shot a look at him, an expectant grin. Rob shifted in his seat, eager for something.

Jackie took the lid off the box, and looked at the object inside. It was a bracelet, a dense black jeweler's wire piercing the centers of nine reddish-orange stones, perfectly smoothed into cool, soft spheres. Three of the stones were lightly banded with white lines, making them look rather like agates.

"Oh, wow," Jackie said, taking the bracelet out of the box. The beads clacked together as he analyzed them more closely. Rob, unable to control his excitement, was smiling full-blown now, trying hard to keep one eye on Jackie and the other on the road.

"D'you like 'em?" he asked.

"I love them. Are these agates?"

"No, they're carnelians. I know most of the stuff that passes for carnelians are really dyed material from South America, but I made sure that these were real."

Jackie slipped them over his right hand, feeling the smoothness of the stones through his fur. He could see the reddish-orange glint of the nine large beads from reflected light that came from the dashboard. His heart was flooded with a wave of warmth that didn't come from the air condition system.

"I really do love these, Rob, but you know I have to ask..."

"Don't worry, Jack. They were up there a bit, but you're worth it to me."

Jackie shook his head as he blushed. He ran the tips of his fingers along the beads, feeling a warmth and calmness seeping from them. "I love you," he said, smiling.

"I love you too, babe. Hey, are you gonna consecrate them?"

Jackie looked at Rob, then looked to the road. The last vestige of the sun was fading away, replaced by the softness of the moon. "You've been reading those books I gave you," he said, neutral in tone.

"You bet I have. I know that I've been a little standoffish with your beliefs, Jackie. I know I've been kind of an asshole, but I'm really starting to get interested in it, and I promise you, I'll be more understanding with what you do."

"Rob...don't."

"What? I'm serious, Jackie. I just want to--."

"Stop it, Rob. You know I don't like to talk about this."

"What?What is wrong with this? I'm telling you that I want to be a part of your life, Jackie, all parts of it. I don't understand why you won't talk about this."

"Stop it."

"You know, I actually have been reading those books of yours, and you know what I found? That you're not exactly the poster boy for your faith."

Jackie jerked his head so hard there was a crick in his neck, a dull pop in his ears. He ignored the pain, too pissed off to care. Rob continued, staring hard at the road.

"You don't use your theology as a spiritual pathway, Jackie, as one should. You're just using it as a defense against your nihilism, a crutch to stand on while you complain about the world's problems. Instead of utilizing the mores and tenements offered by your religion you just reiterate them without doing them. And when someone actually tries, actually wants to be a part of your spiritual world, a world that you barely believe in yourself, you either clam up or shove a sock in their mouth. I'm getting so tired of this..."

Jackie just shook his head, looking out the window, watching the meager spruce and oak and birch trees passing by as they began to head into White Hill. Grass and ground gave way to concrete and steel; there were potholes marking this part of the street like the surface of the moon, the city council having rerouted the funds to build a series of low-rent housing projects on the south side. It actually made sense; the potholes would only get worse as time went on, costing people hundreds every week, which would, of course, go to the city council to waste on other unimportant shit. Jackie sniffed as he glared through the glass; the suffering of others seemed to be a very lucrative venture.

"Jackie?"

Jackie was silent, running his fingers over the smoothness of the beads. They were cool and so soft.

"I'm sorry."

Jackie sighed, scratching at an itch on his nose. He looked at the wolf, saw the anxiety in those greenish-grey eyes he loved so much, the anxiety that he was causing, and sniffed away a tear that was welling up beneath his eye lids. He shook his head, angrily slamming a fist down onto his own knee.

"I...Damn it, Rob, you're right. You're right, and I'm the one who should be sorry. I just...I told you it's hard for me to talk about this."

"I know, babe."

"God _damn_it, It's j--I th...."

Rob was patient, familiar with the scene. Jackie often sputtered when his mind went faster than his mouth. "It's okay, Jackie," he said soothingly.

Rob placed a hand on Jackie's knee, the one he pounded with his fist, rubbing it. Jackie took his boyfriend's hand and held it, letting the softness of Rob's fur and the warmth of the A/C settle the surge of emotions inside him.

They passed the shops in a shadowy haze. Some were still open, brightly lit from the inside and harboring dim silhouettes inside; others were silent and dark, only a few neon signs that a couple owners had forgotten to turn off. Groups of hooded young men and a couple women wandered the sidewalks, busy with only their concerns, searching for something that only walking the city streets at night could bring.

Several minutes passed; Rob turned down Hudson Avenue and from there went up Muller Street, following the barest instincts that well up when driving through White Hill with no aim or specific location in mind. They were leaving the more squalid areas behind, the dark underbellies of the intersecting highways wherein dwelt the glaring and gibbering inhabitants of the city, moving from one shadow to another. Ahead, up on Cromwell Street, the buildings were sharper, trimmer, less filthy, and reached further up into the sky. Billboards hanging over the sides of some buildings wished for one to buy life insurance, or visit the aquarium, or waste money at the casino. Rob headed downward toward Lake Superior, turning right onto the barren Karhu Street.

There was a night life in White Hill, a flowing, surging pulse, and the highways were a series of veins pumping energy and vitality into and out of the harbor city. Near the pier, where the feet of the Hill dipped into the cool darkness of Lake Superior, there was a club called "The Volcano," which catered to those who knew what they were looking for and were solace to those who didn't. There was an intersection where the club rested, spilling a fusion of blues and reds from the blinking neon signs, made nebulous and foggy by steam that wafted up from sewage ducts.

Jackie was the first to see them; a gang of five or more men, mostly canines, garbed in tight-fitting dark sports shirts and jeans. From somebody's Camaro, the throbbing and uncreative beat of the newest breed of rap star was making the windows vibrate within a circle of ten feet.

"Ooh, yes. You wanna have some fun, Rob?"

The wolf glanced to where Jackie was looking, saw the group of serious-looking toughs, and saw the grin on Jackie's face. "Are you sure you wanna do this again? Remember the close call last time?"

"Don't worry about it, babe," Jackie said quietly, already rolling down the window as they reached the red stop light.

Don't worry about it, Rob thought, shaking his head. He was worried, scared, like he always was whenever Jackie did this, but he couldn't keep from smiling.

Jackie unbuckled his seat belt, shifting around so that his knees were in the seat, leaning over the storage compartment between the seats. He lifted up his skirt over the small of his back, pressing his tail and ass out the window.

The group of canines reacted immediately. There was whistling and other vocalizations of masculine awe as they saw the chick in the turquoise panties shaking her ass from the Cavalier, her tail stuck back inside. They gesticulated and clapped and made gestures displaying their intentions.

Rob was shifting his eyes from the stop light to the group of canines, his anxiety increasing as the cherry light remained. "Okay, Jackie, that'll do it. Reel it back in."

"Wait..."

A Doberman pincher in a red polo shirt started walking up to the Cavalier. He had a big grin on his face. A few were taking out their phones, taking pictures.

"Jackie..."

The fox was smiling, getting off on his own audacity and deceit. He wiggled his rump, rubbing the bottoms of his thighs against the door. His heart was hammering in his ears like an AK-47. He could hear the digital snapshots from the gangbangers' phones, their bright white lights flashing rapid-fire around him.

The traffic light changed to emerald green, fuzzy in the city steam. Jackie immediately shifted around, sticking one knee on the seat and jamming his left against the floor mat. He leaned his upper body out the window, smelling the city; cigarette smoke, fast food joints, sewage. He leaned forward; he could see the big Doberman, saw the muscles under the shirt, the glint in his eyes.

As Rob gently pressed down the accelerator, Jackie raised a hand and extended his middle finger. In the huskiest voice he could manage he shouted at the gang.

"Suck my balls!"

The Doberman's eyes went wide for a second. There was a bit of shouting and exclamations, sounds of disgust and sickened astonishment that had only a moment ago been crude encouragement. Rob sped off down the street, Jackie prolonging his toothy smile for a moment longer. Then, laughing, he sat back down, clicking his seat belt back into place.

Rob was laughing, as well, even though a thin sheet of sweat was starting to form from his forehead. He glanced up into the mirror to make sure the gangbangers didn't have any guns, or jumping into their cars to chase them down. In any case, he decided to take a roundabout path down several streets. Shops and people passed by, ignored and forgotten. Jackie straightened out his skirt, scratching at an itch on his inner thigh.

"Oh, man! Fuck, I love doing that. "

"Yeah, you did great, Jackie. I told you your ass is magic."

"Uh-huh. Hey, why am I not hearing any music?"

Rob nodded, feeling the oppression of the silence in the car. He pressed the play button on the stereo, and turned the volume knob up. Jackie, hearing the music blaring through the speakers, instantly perked up; he looked at Rob, who began banging his head as hard as a driver would dare.

"Al-fucking-right! What album is this, Rob?"

"'Defenders of the Faith'; don't think I don't know it's your favorite."

Jackie's hand shot to the stereo, tapping the forward button to track three. They stopped talking, stopped thinking, just listened to the music, living for nothing but what rested in the Cavalier. Everything outside was temporary, an intangible universe outside their windows, not real. The only things that were real were inside the car as it sped down the freeway.

Time was an incalculable entity, made to be measured as an attempt to impose control over universal constants that were ungovernable. For Rob and Jackie, the concept of time measurement shifted from seconds and minutes to the vocal stylings of Rob Halford, measuring "time" as one song faded into another. They drove through the city with aimless pursuit, the night their only compatriot.

Jackie started singing along to the music as Night Comes Down came on, his eyes closed deep in thought, somewhere in his imagination. Rob tried to ignore Halford and listen to the red fox beside him. Jackie always said he couldn't sing, that he hated to sing, but Rob knew that was a lie; Jackie loved singing, and with his voice he deserved to have people hear him. Rob once suggested starting a band and having Jackie up front and center for everybody to hear, but Jackie near instantly shot it down.

This is life, Rob thought. This. Is. Life.

The song faded away, it too disappearing into the night. Jackie sat back, wiping at his eyes. For reasons Rob couldn't understand, the song always made him cry, or at least cut him deep in some way.

By chance, the street Rob had been going down was named, curiously, Race Street, and cut through one of the suburban quadrants close by the city. Rob and Jackie were well acquainted with this neighborhood, with the groomed hedges and elderly two-floor houses, front yards covered with mowed grass and rows of spruce trees, weather-worn garden accessories, and the squeal of tires on well-maintained pavement--"White line music," was an oft quoted term by the locals.

When Night Comes Down became a longing whisper in the stereo, Jackie, after wiping his eyes, looked out the window. He saw lights on in a familiar house, bigger and more well-kept than the ones around it, groups of people coming in and out, music loud enough to reverberate across adjacent houses. He knew nobody was going to call the cops and complain, because everybody was here at this one house.

"What's this?" Jackie said, motioning with his thumb to the small wooden building. "Vince isn't having a party tonight, is he?"

"Looks like it. He didn't say anything to you?"

"No, not a word. Hey, you wanna spend your night watching strippers grind, speed freaks fucking up, and stoners attempting to copulate with furniture?"

"Sure, why not?"

Jackie rubbed his hands together, making sure he had his wallet in his bag, knowing what a party at Vince's often entailed. Rob pulled onto the curb, setting the car in park, instinctively knowing this night was going to be fun.

White Zombie was filling the October night with an acid-drenched horror-world trip. Rob threw an arm around Jackie; Jackie wrapped his own arm around the wolf's waist. When they knocked on the door, a coyote wearing a white Slayer T-shirt and black gym shorts opened the door. His eyes were red-rimmed and moist.

"Hey! Mis hermanos, what's a-happening? Wh-where the hell you two been?"

Vince Ortiz immediately stumble-stepped to the side to allow the two into the house. It was dark, filled with a mixture of blinking black lights and reds and greens, dominated by a classy disco ball; the front door opened into the massive living room on which was set a raised dais above the burgundy felted floor, a pair of stripper poles bolted to the floor and ceiling, both occupied by several well-endowed young ladies. There were perhaps a dozen people wandering through the house. Jackie flashed a smile. "Vince, you dumb borracho! How come you didn't tell us you were throwing_una celebracion_?"

Rob glanced at the strippers, watching some guy at a couch by the wall getting a rather quick lap dance from a busty mouse. Her attire pretty much amounted to little more than a red thong and a pair of black high heels. "Yeah, man. You didn't say a fucking thing."

"De veras? Oh, oh, sorry, man, things happened pretty quickly. I just fucking got here myself. Chale! Come on, follow me. You guys want a beer, somethin'?"

Jackie and Rob followed the coyote across the living room and into the bar. There were a couple people present there, but it was largely empty, lit by iridescent lights above, casting an angelic golden light across the room. Jackie loved parties at Vince's place, the flashiness, the gaudiness, the irreverent bacchanalian pleasure. He sat down at a stool the color of red velvet, tucking his skirt under his thighs. The polished wood surface of the bar was dark and shined aptly like whiskey. Jackie placed his elbows on the bar table and leaned forward, sticking his rear outward slightly like he'd seen girls do in some clubs he had frequented. Rob sat down beside him.

Vince walked behind the bar, disappearing below to retrieve a bottle of Dos Equis and a pair of small, semi-clear glasses. He began pouring the bottle without waiting for approval from Jackie or Rob.

"Everybody gets one on me. Potos up."

They all clinked their glasses and downed the amber fluid in one movement. Jackie and Rob were grinning; Vince had said that to them at every party he threw, showing his piss-poor short-term memory. The alcohol shot through Jackie, cutting through his gums. They slammed their glasses down as a show of accomplishment, or to denote the beginning of another round.

"Shee-it," Jackie muttered, and gave a cough. Rob sniffed and smacked his lips. Vince made no other reaction than to refill the glasses.

An hour later, Vince had wobbled away to somewhere else in the house. As the host, he bore the burden of needing to filter through the residence and make sure his guests were doing alright. Jackie had his muzzle cradled in the crook of his elbow, the whole of his upper body leaning on the broad amber-colored table amid a scattering of empty bottles, his left ear twitching. There was a dumb smile on his lips, the points of his teeth peeking underneath. A chuckling moan escaped his throat.

Rob sat on the stool beside him, one arm propping his head up, the other rubbing Jackie's back. He could feel the bra underneath the fox's shirt and the subtle bumps of his spine. He watched Jackie move softly under his touch, trying to listen to him moan over the fresh course of Brujeria that rattled the speakers. Jackie could never handle his liquor.

In the whiskey-fog that filled his mind, Rob began thinking about the first time they met, the first time they drank together, the first time they slept together, their first argument, their first break-up--how long was that, two, maybe three days?--and so on and so on. His mind perused the tapestry of their relationship in a jumpy and broken fashion. Then, he thought of his father. He thought how weird it seems that starting a relationship with one person seems to ruin one's relationship with others. He knew and hated that that wasn't the medium of all loves the world over, so everyone could know what it was like to be yelled at and accused of being a sinner and have the one parent who raised you no longer see you as a son. He wondered what his father was doing now.

He didn't know, didn't know and didn't care. Instead, he focused on Jackie, on the one person he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He was so smart, a lot smarter than him, a lot stronger, too, in other ways. He also looked so fucking beautiful, whether he was in a skirt or pants.

Speaking of which, Jackie's skirt had been pulled up from under the seat, decency forgotten in the fiery joy of American-made whiskey, the hem dangling over the brass seat pole. Rob rubbed up and down his boyfriend's back, knowing he wanted what was underneath. His bloodshot eyes roamed over the proportionate curves of Jackie's ass, watching how it pooled around the seat; his hand reached further down, brushing the base of his tail with his knuckles.

He let his fingers wander over the fabric of Jackie's skirt, feeling the warmth of the fox's rump coming up through it. He sniffed, dimly able to understand in his state that he was coming down with a cold. He squeezed, and Jackie gave a soft groan. He ran his hand along Jackie's ass from one cheek to another, relishing in the softness of the skirt. He moved in his seat, taking his hand away long enough to adjust his slowly growing member.

There was a glint of light in his eye, a stray strobe of light from the other room. Rob looked up, slowly, and saw a cat, some cat with weird black-on-grey striped markings. She was standing in the doorway, cherry red hair long and done up in a ponytail, leaning on the frame, arms crossed under a red GWAR tank top. It looked like it was one size too small, Rob thought with a certainty, as sure as there wasn't a bra underneath and are those real or not? He couldn't tell. The cat gave him a look, a look, and Rob felt a stirring in his pants as he looked at the high-cut denim shorts that covered her hips. He jerked his hand away from Jackie's ass without realizing it.

She hooked a thumb into the pocket of her shorts as she walked toward him. She had a beer in one hand; Pabst Blue Ribbon. As she came to him, she brushed her hand along his back, setting the beer down on the table. He hated Pabst Blue Ribbon, but he didn't mind as her hand went under his arm, around his waist, down over his belly, and over the noticeable bulge in his lap. He smiled. She squeezed gently, pressing down; he could smell her perfume, something like woodsmoke, cedar trees, winter soil; something sweet in a state of decay.

She brushed her lips against his neck, blowing softly on the fur there. He shifted his hand around onto her leg; it was nice and warm, very warm. She grabbed his hand and brought up to her chest, letting him fondle her breasts through her top. He turned his head slightly to get a better look--huh, they are real--and as she pressed up against him he felt himself straining in his pants, the denim fabric too confining.

Then, all of a sudden, it was over; she stepped away from him, grabbing her beer off the counter. With her other hand she grabbed his wrist, bringing him up out of his seat. He looked at her, saw her blink coyly with eyes the color of blue-grey slate, like something vast and distant in the horizon. The stranger turned around as she dragged him toward an adjoining room, her tail wrapping softly around his waist. He looked down, admiring the shapeliness of her ass, the sound her thighs made as they brushed together.

Ass is ass, Rob thought as he let himself be led away, faltering in his inebriated state.

At the table, Jackie snored brokenly.

---

"Your cappuccino, sir?"

"Oh, yes. Danke."

The old wolf accepted the coffee from the pretty young vixen, tipping a polite smile her way. She smiled back and walked away, immersing herself back into the hustle of the coffee shop. It was noisome this early in the day, with many young students from the University of California trading notes for the following exams, or stories of the previous night's sexual exploits.

Today, he was Swiss. He affected a Swiss name, taken from a man he had killed many, many years ago. He wore clothing purchased in a marketplace shop in a small town at the foot of the Bernese Alps. He spoke with a slight accent, using enough Swiss verbiage to assuage the common public. He was very old; old enough, some might have thought, to have lived through the Second World War. In truth, he had lived through that conflict, but not in Switzerland.

His beard was grey like volcanic ash, tapering down to a point that hovered above the blue Formica table. Bottle cap spectacles were placed on the bridge of his banded black-to-grey muzzle, the middle piece slightly bent and sticky with the adhesive residue of Scotch tape. When he moved, he moved slowly with hands that shook, bending at nonexistent pain at what people thought were damaged hips or ankles. He had a polished hardwood cane--that was Swiss, too--leaning gently against the table. To the world, he was everybody's grandfather.

A bear came into the coffee shop, the annoying little tin bell above ringing several times. The old wolf cringed slightly at the sound, at the gentle vibrations that raced through the more comforting drone of a dozen voices speaking all at once, cutting through the noise like a knife. He hated it, hated it, _hated_it...

He took a glancing look at the tall, broad-shouldered bear who had come in; mirrored sunglasses, panama hat, faded camp shirt, khaki shorts, white sandals, just as he said he would in the correspondence. He was old, too, with a small moustache faded to white, his fur, which had once been brown, now faded in spots to a grey. The bear spotted him and, stepping aside to allow a group of young girls to pass, began walking to his window-side booth.

The wolf who was not Gunnar Ekerot laughed inside his chest, outwardly putting on a show of a sore throat.

"Mr. Ekerot?" the bear said. He had a folded issue of Popular Mechanics cradled under one beefy arm.

"Yes?"

"Isaac Merridew."

The bear proffered his hand, and the wolf took it in his own. He knew that that wasn't the bear's real name; he had been told he would receive the man with a coded name with a recognizable message. The coded name's initials were IM, meaning "It's Me." The bear sat down in the booth opposite him, setting the magazine on the table close by his hand. He fanned himself with his other hand.

"This damn heat. California isn't really my cup of tea."

"I understand. Weather can often be a most capricious woman."

They exchanged pleasantries, bantering about the weather and other banal topics until a waitress came by and took the bear's order: a mint decaf. The wolf sipped from his own cup, taking the moment to glance out the window at the passing vehicles thundering down the freeway.

After the waitress had left, conversation shifted to business. The bear, adopting the role of an alarm and communications contractor, began talking about his business, and the wolf, making something up, put up the role of an aged clockmaker. Perhaps it was a bit of a cliché, but it was an imagined past he felt comfortable with.

Five minutes passed. The waitress brought the bear his coffee and left. He drank it all in one heaving swallow while the wolf watched him from behind his thick spectacles. Setting his empty cup down, he motioned for a paper that the wolf held close to him.

"Did you get the paper my aunt sent you?" Mr. Merridew asked, his hand held out in mid-air. The wolf smiled politely as an electric sensation shot through his limbs; he loved this game far too much. "Of course," he said with a slight nod, pushing the paper toward his companion. "She was most insistent for you to have it."

There was a bump in the pages, hardly noticeable by anyone who had the gumption to glance at it. The bear accepted it, setting it in the booth beside him. He stole a glance inside, the barest of looks, and saw the thing that was causing the slight bump in the paper. A flash drive, no bigger than his own thumb, was taped to one of the pages; an article containing a summary and response to the Stuxnet virus attack. The flash drive was white with a curious design on its front; a small circle at the bottom of a straight vertical line, all black. It made the deputy of the National Security Administration think immediately of something falling, like snow, a rock, or a comet.

"Here, take this. There's something interesting on page fifty."

The bear pushed his copy of Popular Mechanics to the wolf. He took it, not bothering to check inside; he knew there was a sum of five hundred thousand dollars bundled inside of it, the same amount that they had agreed to over the phone several weeks ago.

"Danke."

"Tell me something, Mr. Ekerot," the bear said, idly scratching at an itch on his face. "Can you guarantee that there won't be any slippage, or an accident of any kind?"

The wolf knew what the man meant by slippage; if the computer virus inside would be activated by simply plugging the drive into a computer or by opening the files within, and damage the user's computer for whom the files were meant. The wolf took a moment to clean his spectacles, then, placing them back on his nose, looked the bear directly in the eye, matching his concerned expression.

"Sir, I am very old. Very, very old. In my entire existence, there is not one single thing that I have done where I haven't taken great thought and greater pains to ensure that nothing but perfection is achieved. You will not be disappointed, Mr. Merridew; my gift will do what it was intended to do."

The wolf cannot recall the last time he had spoken so much of the truth in one short speech. Each word was laced with genuine, acidic sincerity.

The bear smiled and thanked the wolf, epilogue to an old theatrical play. He offered his hand again, and the wolf took it. "The American government thanks you very greatly for your service," the bear said.

The old wolf, quickly reminiscing of all the times he had accepted the same speech from other dignitaries of other countries, flashed a wide smile. His teeth were very white and glistened from the sunlight that came in from the window. "Thank you, Mr. Merridew. I will take that with me to my grave."

The bear nodded a professional, mechanical nod, and got up out of the booth, placing a five dollar bill on the counter for the waitress. He walked out of the coffee shop--that damn tinkling bell again!--, straightening his hat.

The wolf who was not a wolf watched the man through the shop's window, watched him as he got into his rental car, drove it out of the lot, and into the surge of the freeway. He smiled, flashing his alabaster knives again, but inside he was shivering.

This was a fun game. It hurt him deep inside to know that it was going to end.