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9.

Max grabbed Lupe’s shirt collar and rammed him forcefully against the stall, jutting the gun into the nook beneath his jaw and chin. The poor boy never received abuse of this nature from a pistol-wielding anthropomorphic before. He wasn’t entirely certain just how much more he could tolerate before snapping past the point of no return and doing something he’d regret later on. For now, he'd put up with the shep-coon's shit.

“Did they find the charges yet?” Max asked. His single right eye appeared to be doused with gasoline and lit aflame, burning ferociously.

Lupe shook his head with bewildered confusion. “What?”

Wrong answer.

“The charges! Did your bosses find them? Please God tell me they didn’t–”

“How am I supposed to know, amigo? I’m here with you right now. I’ve still got your sperm aftertaste in my mouth for fuck’s sake! Obviously, I wouldn’t know anything about any charges since I’m not out there searching the rooftops or storage facilit–”

“MotherFUCKING FUCKER!” Max yelled, aiming his weapon towards the ceiling and firing off a single deafening round. The report echoed with a roar that barreled through the small enclosed space and rumbled the tiling beneath their feet. Even the water in the porcelain seats vibrated as if strumming a guitar string nearby. The cloying scent of sulfur and cordite now imbued within Guadalupe's sinuses as Max took aim back at the boy's trembling face, frightened and pale as a ghost. “I hate repeating myself so I’ll ask you one more time, capische?” Max asked.

“…Okay.” Lupe whimpered. His ears were buzzing so hard that the only way to tell what Max said was by reading his lips, comprehending speech patterns.

“Right. Now as I asked before, did the bastards find the charges yet? None of your own people found them in place, I take it?" Max asked. Guadalupe remained silent, still attempting to comprehend his question. "Answer me, Guadalupe!!” Max hollered.

Lupe raised his hands to the side of his head and turned white, any color left in his cheeks were now flushed out beyond all compare. Max had practically been talking to (or in this case yelling at) a dead body, so it seemed.

“What fucking charges, amigo? I don’t know a thing about any charges, what charges do you mean?” Lupe said in a panic, trembling intensely. A tiny stream of blood trickled from one of his ear canals. His lower lip quivered and his eyes grew misty, on the verge of more confused and horrified tears.

A droll awkward silence settled in. Max loosened his grip around the boy’s shirt collar and Lupe sat back upright, coughing a bit from a brief moment of bad air circulation. Max’s grip was rather strong for his body type, even if first appearances insisted otherwise. He may have looked like an unhealthily skinny punk to others but put the shep-coon smack-dab in the center of a trying scenario involving probable risk (including the abhorrent promise of near-death) and see how scrawny he still remains.

“What do you mean, ‘did they find the charges?’ What fucking charges do you mean, ese??” Lupe repeated. He held a bewildered look of earnest surprise upon his face.

Max grinned queerly and shook his head back and forth while cupping his achy temples between the thumb and index finger-paws of his free, non-pistol-wielding hand-paw. He brought the hammer back down with his thumb-paw and lowered the pistol slightly, still keeping the aim fixated on Lupe, just not at his head. For now any further funny business attempted would result in a rather attractive and sizable hole blown into the young man’s chest, if that came down to it.

“Listen to me if you want to live, Lupe.” Max demanded.

“Okay…” Lupe replied. His tone of voice took an uneasy quivering nose-dive. The young boy’s pale-brown lips were pried shut. His eyes bulged from their sockets with absurd fascination over such an amazingly romantic - if not completely awkward and painful as fuck - evening spent with this anthropomorphic psychopath so far. Staring into Max’s one boldly engaging eye, brown cornea and slender brow, lashes blinking with fluttering whips, his potent canine gaze intoxicating the boy’s entire senses, Lupe suddenly began to feel a strange electric sensation creep back into his groin. Purely without warning, a fresh erection sprung forth. Lupe attempted to conceal the one-eyed trouser trout’s giddy cameo appearance by pushing it down against his pant leg, cheeks blushing furiously beet-red, returning a little color back into his paleness and breaking a sweat upon his forehead. Holy shit amigo, nice timing to become aroused once more.

“Right,” Max inhaled deep, let loose a tremendous exhaling sigh through his nostrils and continued. He slumped his shoulders down and spoke solemnly. “A few months ago I was sent here by my own informants to cash in on a liberal payment of weapons and ammunition that was slated to arrive at this location, quite exclusively." Lupe nodded in response, listening with wide-open ears. "So there were only a few others, myself included, all sent forth with equal directives in mind and a similar goal to be reached – this very warehouse. These weapons we were meant to collect were supposed to have arrived in this very location and bartered for a fair price. A real underground sting operation, if you will." Max spoke eloquently and clearly, giving Lupe fluttering sensations in his chest. "We were sent in as scouts and couriers, drug dealers and gun-runners. Sent here to make the deliveries roll out smoothly. As smooth and successful as possible. Of course, all the goods were originating from this very same building. Like the Grand Central Station of druggies, right here in this very forest. You follow me so far?” Max asked.

Lupe nodded his head up and down rapidly in agreement. Max smirked generously at him and cleared his throat, trying to talk over the sound of the outside bass tone. Yelling chants in Spanish to the ravers through a bullhorn, the DJ’s insisted on a full-out orgy of sounds and beats. Max had to make this a quick explanation.

“Okay then… so when me and a few others unveiled the contraband supply, we soon came to the horrible realization that the bastards had supplied the wrong damn firearms to us. Not only that, they were incompatible with the ammunition included as well. A massive fuck-up by far. I could have cared less, but my employers were far less than impressed with the situation overall. They ordered C-4 experts directly to this very building in order to rig it to the teeth with plastic explosives and detonate it ‘when the timing was just right’, quote-on-quote. Evidently, us both being here wasn’t as much of a fluke as I’m admitting to you after all. Guadalupe, I believe Sciorrenzo set us up to be here purposefully at the exact moment when those goddam explosions were set to go off.”

“Wait, so you mean…” Lupe stared questioningly at Max, attempting to recollect what he’d just heard, shaking his head uneasily and clearing the haze from his collective thought process just enough to grasp what Max had told him.

“That’s right kid, if you had shown up earlier you’d have been out of this place fast enough to have seen fireworks from a distance, me too as well, I guess. However, it seems as though we may both end up being roasted into fucking fleshy marshmallows if we don’t act quickly and get the lily-livered Christ out of here!” Max said as he looked around cautiously, ensuring nobody was listening in to their conversation, performing the glorious act of eavesdropping.

As he was about to unlock the stall and help the kid to his feet to plot a narrow escape, the main restroom door flung open from outside. A multitude of voices flooded in between the non-stop clustered patterns of groovy dance beats.

“We need to kill those dirty rats before they totally narc us out!”

“I get dibs on that coon-dog faggot!”

“Bullshit, I got dibs on him; you can go for his butt-buddy boy-toy!”

“Like hell I will! I fucking hate human scum!”

“Chew on this, you piece of shit.”

Uproarious laughter echoed in the bathroom, followed by a sweet acrid scent of marijuana - goddam stoner renegades. Max always seemed to ascertain the best of luck when it came to routine business engagements. Guadalupe glanced up at Maxwell with troubled eyes and Max propped his finger-paw up to his lips, insisting silence, shushing Lupe. He inhaled deep and let loose a troubled sigh, hoping these rouges wouldn’t hear him or Guadalupe far too excessively.

“Would both you silly ignorant cunts just chill the fuck out already? Sheesh crimony, I swear I feel like a damn babysitter sometimes, the way you fools always...” The rest became drowned out – nothing more than barely audible mumbles and softly-spoken nonsense, carrying over the implosive throbbing rave beats (now graced with a Mariachi side-rhythm of some kind), well enough to be just barely heard.

A shattering sound echoed through the bathroom with a loud brittle crackling. Millions of tiny glass shards came raining down upon the tiling. A wide teardrop-shaped sliver of glass slid into the occupied stall and Max looked down to see his own reflection staring back up at him. He cocked his head at an angle to appeal to his single eye and used the shard of reflective mirrored glass to peep in on the assembled mercenary group, hot on his ring-tailed trail, ready to strike both him and his new-found butt-buddy prick down first, just to ask questions later. Inconveniently, Max could only see two of them, from their undersides up.

“All of you scum buckets, shut the hell up and listen to me and I mean RIGHT fucking now!” The others in the room grew silent immediately, save for a brief cough or clearing of one’s throat. The fluorescent bulbs suspended above the bathroom on the plaster ceiling flickered dully, attracting a small gathering of dainty moths. They twisted and bent their ribbed satellite antennae to and fro while swirling around the air within the thin light bulb’s aura, dive-bombing and swooping through the sodium-arc glare in strange aerial patterns.

Obviously this more dominant and tenor-octave voice belonged to none other than the alpha leader of the pack, or at least as well as Max figured.

The clamoring voices faded down softer until silence flooded his ears. Max carefully peered through the glory hole embedded into the stall and scouted out about five thugs, maybe six. What appeared to be either a caribou or a large buck scratched an itchy spot against his buttock as he inhaled his sinuses and hocked a chunky yellow blotch of snot into the standing urinal bowl, right next to the coagulating vomit. Beside him, a fox and a random mammal of some kind (maybe a ferret or a weasel by the looks of it) were the ones standing closest in proximity to the one and only occupied bathroom stall. Their tails flicked back and forth, whipping alongside each slight nuance and gestured movement of their owners. Max had considered the risk of prying the door open and firing his weapon into the minor disorganized group of hit-anthros, probably going out in a slew of spraying gunfire, a real Bonnie and Clyde-inspired fate. Unfortunately, his plan of action was interrupted by a sudden frenzy of swift pain upon his thigh. He winced and glanced back at Guadalupe with unbelieving shock. The young prick informant had cautiously whipped out a switchblade and impaled the glinting steel into Maxwell’s furry shep-coon thigh without even missing a single beat.

Whatever patience Max may have possessed before had now been inevitably shattered beyond repair.