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Run, Ye Sons o' Bitches

By Laz Briar

Where do you go to bury yourself? Where do you go to forget what you were?

The long, vast expanse of August scorched road spread out among the empty California sands for miles. Dry shrubs and burnt desert as far as the horizon, rocks sprouting from the ground like oceans of cracked teeth. It's easy to forget SoCal has a lot of nothingness – easy to forget that civilization has a stopping point.

It made Anson anxious. Endless stretches of isolated space weren't new to him; his homestead, after all, was a house surrounded by farms and wooded areas. His home was close to town, but nature closer.

But this? To his left and right, it just went on and on. Rough hills appeared on the distance like painted silhouettes, indistinct and without indication of life. Hell, he was lucky to spot a gas station down the highway. Last one he spied was something called Tom's Quick n' Go, one of those ancient local stops likely owned by some hand-me-down retiree.

Last of “real" society was back in Niland on the 111. Now? Even the law began to evaporate. Where he was headed – rather they – well, you didn't go there to stake out a normal life. Derelicts, dreamers, tweakers, abusers, misfits, outcasts, poor, impoverished. The refuse, the garbage, the forgotten. They all went this way, to the promised land, where gods were deaf.

Slab City. The name tumbled through Anson's mind, over and over. He heard a rumor or two about it back when he first moved. Some of his coworkers joked about it, if he wasn't mistaken. 'Ah that ol' Larry, they tossed em' out to the slabs.' He didn't know what it meant, and at the time, didn't care much. But now he had to, because Ozzie cared, and that's all that mattered.

It mattered enough because they were a couple hundred miles out from their home. Mattered enough they both took off work for the week upcoming. Mattered enough that a simple call brought back a whole world Ozzie forgot about.

Anson didn't know the Ryot family too well, if at all. Every now and again, Ozzie might bring up his mother's work as an officer, and some of the things she dealt with on the beat. His dad, too, was an obscure figure, an office worker who pushed Ozzie into sales with Songbird. He hadn't met them, though Ozzie knew at some point it was an inevitability.

And then came Ronnie Ryot. Absent from most of their conversations, a shadow in memory and name. Ozzie's brother.

It's not impossible for families to separate and fall out of touch. Anson certainly didn't remember the last time he had a formal conversation with his mother, least of all anyone from his side. But, he knew where they were. He knew that talking with them was a matter of picking up a phone, much as he preferred not to. Ronnie, on the other hand, vanished. At least according to Ozzie.

“After my first year in university, yeah," Ozzie had said. “Dad just called me up and said he moved out and didn't say where he was going. Didn't hear back from him."

“Bad fight?"

“I dunno'. Don't think so. He wasn't a bad dude, he just liked his own way. Free spirit shit. Wanted to be like, self-sufficient, live off the land. Dye his hair and do drugs and sleep under the stars. Dad thought it was dumb and mom wasn't havin' it."

The conversation they had revealed a lot. Ronnie was the wilder one, the one who got Ozzie into haze, who channeled that energetic, aggressive hyena nature. Ronnie didn't like the world, Ozzie said. Wanted to leave it and forget it. So, as it was, he left for Slab City.

“He's got an address? Did he say?"

Anson kept his gaze locked on the road ahead. They weren't too far now, probably less than half an hour.

Ozzie was still scrolling through his phone, scanning online maps to get a sense of where they were headed.

“Address? Shit man, they don't do numbers out here. Not like it's '421 rock next to the methhead camper.' He just gave me the odds and ends."

Anson frowned. “I'd kinda' like to know the ends before we get there."

“Nothin' to worry about. We'll find it."

Anson shot the yeendog a quick glance. “Yeah, maybe for you. But I worry. You know what they say about this place? Thieves and criminals and shit knows what else around. I'd rather not get held up by a man with a makeshift knife, if that's okay."

Ozzie leaned back in his chair, looking out the car window. Every now and again, a strange painted rock would appear, indicating that the “city" was drawing closer.

“Ozzie?"

“I heard ya'. I dunno' what to tell you though. He said he's out in a camper close to West Vaesha, near some rock pillars or something."

“West what?"

Ozzie shrugged. “You know man, the goddess thing. Back when I showed you in Dogtown? Remember?"

Anson's expression continued to tug with concern, maybe fear.

“Kind of."

Ozzie wiggled his finger. “Yeah. So. Something near that. He said that's where most of the chimera hung out. East Jesus is where human camps are."

Anson coughed. “Excuse me?"

This drew a laugh from the hybrid. “Hey man, I didn't make the names. Just telling you what he told me."

This did little to settle Anson's concerns. By 'tell,' Ozzie meant a phone call. Just out of the blue. One night, he was cuddling with his boyfriend after dinner, then next thing he knew a stranger found Ozzie's number and got the yeendog all wound up. Ozzie was practically bouncing on his feet. Guess he couldn't blame him – it was like someone came back from the dead.

Then things lead to things. Ozzie was beside himself with worry and enthusiasm. He pleaded with Anson to try and make a trip, to go out and find Ronnie. The older brother, apparently, hadn't bothered talking with his folks either, just Oz. Because Anson loved his boy, and wanted to see him happy, he agreed. But that didn't mean he was happy about it. Now, for all he knew, they were driving into a little sanctuary for lunatics and drug abusers. He wasn't exactly keen on the idea of getting mugged by some green haired 'free spirit' doing it “in the name of the lord."

“So, can I blame you when we end up driving around for hours trying to find him?"

Ozzie nudged Anson. He couldn't hide a smirk – it was cute watching his man get all concerned and uppity.

“I'll sniff him out, if I have to. Not that hard. Besides this place is like, what, just a town?"

Anson clenched the steering wheel. “It's a hangout for people who think the 'law' is just a philosophy next to an endless stretch of desert, Oz."

Ozzie rolled his eyes. “You're an expert on this, now?"

“I'm not, I'm just. . ."

“You met any of these people?"

Another painted rock. Slab City was getting closer.

“No, but I sure as hell know the type. Back home they liked to hide in the woods with their campers and melt their teeth with cocaine and shit."

“That's not what cocaine does."

Anson grunted. “Well I'm happy for the distinction. Point is, I didn't go near it. And the other point is, I don't exactly like the idea of meeting some stranger out in the fuckin' SoCal boonies."

He kept his voice measured, but frustration addled his tone. Ozzie shrugged it off.

“He's not a stranger, he's my brother."

Anson felt his anger spike. He tried to remember, though, why he felt it. It wasn't at Ozzie, it was for Ozzie. It was the idea that doing something stupid could get them both hurt. Get his Ozzie hurt. All for some shadow of a person who just dug up Ozzie's number, somehow.

“That you haven't seen in, shit, five years? Six?"

“Five and a half."

Anson rubbed his head. “God, Ozzie."

A delicate growl rumbled from the yeendog. “What? What? You think you know him? You think he's some mangy shit stuck in a little trailer strung out on heroin? That the almighty image in your head?"

Anson shook his head. “You're gonna' fault me for being worried about this?"

“I'm gonna' fault you for judging someone you don't even know, Anson. It's. My. Brother."

Anson was tempted to scream. “People change."

Ozzie leaned on the door now, keeping his eyes firmly on his side of the horizon.

“You didn't see me losing my shit over your ex, did you?"

That is completely different and you fucking know it. Anson wanted to say it. It was on his tongue, ready to leap out. Goddammit Ozzie.

Before Anson could make the comparison of Jasper and a stranger, Ozzie finished for him.

“I trusted you. But apparently, this doesn't go both ways. Apparently, you either think I don't know my own family, or I'm stupid. Or both."

Even the AC couldn't stifle the heat building in the car. “I didn't say anything like that. I'm just worried."

“You're always worried."

Ozzie chanced a glance at his boyfriend. He saw the prudish, stifled version of his boyfriend, gripping the wheel, eyes locked on the road in defiance. He wanted to snap again. He was so tired of explaining himself after all these months. The kind of things he did or people he knew. Yeah, sure, Ron was a stranger to Anson, but he knew his brother in-and-out. He wouldn't invite them out if he thought they were in trouble – hell, Ronnie was excited to meet Anson too.

“It's going to stay that way. Deserts and strangers don't mix."

A sigh. “This isn't 'The Mountain Can See You.' These are just people and we're seeing one of them."

Ozzie knew he would hit another brick wall, so he capped the conversation. “Will you at least trust me?"

He watched Anson's expression soften. Anson knew he was caught. Because it was true, he needed to trust Ozzie's judgment and not give out to paranoia. He owed him that much.

And, he didn't feel like arguing anymore.

“If I feel like there's trouble, we're leaving, okay? No questions."

Ozzie conceded with silence. Much as he hated someone treating him like a pup, he knew Anson just wanted to keep him safe.

Quietness replaced the heat. Anson was fine with that – he needed to think about what was ahead. He figured Ozzie had a whole list of things he wanted to talk about with his brother. He hoped they were worth it.

-*-

Salvation Mountain crept into view, a mess of painted hope and promises of peace. The derelict remains of campers, automobiles, and junk surrounded the pack of hilly rock – all drenched in religious symbolism. The stone was the preacher, absent of any flock to hear it.

Anson eyed it with curious alarm, driving past the 'entrance' to Slab City, on the lookout for. . . anything, really. There was no going back. Here, laws did not exist. Society did not creep in with power and water. Anyone out here scraped a life through their own inventive means.

If this was freedom, it meant the world forgot you.

Ozzie, however, embraced it. His tail wiggled against his seat and his eyes dilated with new excitement. Anson couldn't blame him, not entirely. This spacious, ragged world fit his chimera nature. The dog side no doubt flourished in the scrappy, junk laden surroundings while his hyena side embraced the harsh sun and unforgiving desert. He just hoped it ended there.

Anson slowed the car and moved past the “mountain." To their left and right, marks of “life" appeared in forms of run down shacks or litter ridden campers. Some were small, some were halved, some were exposed and a loose collection of blankets.

Then, as he continued on, there appeared the tentative displays of society. The dirt road led into a looser collection of paths, surrounding a few large installments with painted signs and garbage. Or, no, not garbage. “Art." Rubber tires thrown together, a wall of glass bottles, statues comprised of cans and broken metal.

Anson tapped the wheel. He spied a few random silhouettes, shapes hanging around their “homes," no doubt eyeing the unfamiliar vehicle.

“Hmm, this doesn't look like what Ronnie was talkin' about," Ozzie said, peering around. His tone had changed, as though their argument never happened. “Might need to ask someone."

The idea wasn't exactly attractive to Anson. “Can't call him?"

A shake of the head. “Naw, he said he had to drive into town and borrow a call."

Shit, that's right. Anson forgot. He yanked his own phone out of pocket. No service. Fantastic.

Taking an anxious right, Anson looked around for something – anything – that looked welcoming to new visitors. If such a thing existed at all. He could hardly tell, as all the objects and buildings looked like a loose collection of civilization's remains.

He glanced at Ozzie, as though the yeendog might have some answer. But he was likely just as clueless.

Taking a left, there did appear to reside some kind of hub, a nexus to the city. A painted colorful sign ejected from the desert, proudly signed “The Oasis," with various welded arrows leading to other parts of the slabs.

“Might try there?" said Ozzie, pointing.

Well, there were spaces for parking, or it certainly looked that way. Anson wiped sweat away from his brow, but not because heat.

“You got your knife?" asked Anson. His boyfriend snickered.

“Relax babe, I don't think these people want to cause trouble."

Ozzie wasn't wrong, but isolation, drugs, and the sun did strange things to a mind. Against all judgment, Anson pulled past the entry point for The Oasis, finding a spot and keying off the ignition.

Once out, the hot August air screamed with the desert. Anson felt his skin prickle from the heat, and the buzz of fat, ugly black flies only exacerbated this. Ozzie, of course, didn't mind it. His hyena genetics shrugged off the sun as casually as his penchant for safety.

Looking around, Anson caught a sitting figure under shade. He was surrounded by the various makeshift walls of the The Oasis, a place that was like a hotel if it was missing walls and conventional rooftops. He thought about waving, but awkwardly made his way over instead.

The figure didn't move, barely regarding the approaching couple. It was a lizard chimera, to Anson's surprise, much like an iguana. Save, however, his scales were aged and frayed, though painted with elaborate dyes and colors. He wore no shirt and his head fins bore multiple piercings, while his eyes looked frazzled and pale.

“Uh, hi, sorry to bother you," said Anson, moving past a gate made of beer-bottles. “We're uh, out of towners, trying to find someone. You know a Ronnie Ryot, by chance?"

The question strained as Anson said the words, like he was speaking a different language.

The chimera tilted his head, looking between the two.

“Everyone knows everyone. But you're not everyone, huh?"

The iguana's voice was deep and rumbly.

Anson frowned. The heat – and this place – was making him ansty and agitated.

“Yeah? I guess not. We're out of towners, like I said. We're just trying to find my. . . friend's brother."

Anson didn't know what kind of values these folks shared, but he wasn't about to risk his safety over a potential drugged-out bigot.

Ozzie stepped forward, leaning. “Ronnie Ryot," the yeendog repeated. “Looks a lot like me. Said something about living in West Vaesha?"

The iguana ignored their queries. “Out huh? How far out? Where you from?"

“Middle of California," Anson said immediately. “Near Los Angeles."

The stranger eyed a fly, swatting it away. “Shit place. But that ain't so far out." Anson couldn't help but feel judged.

He leaned forward in his run-down chair, smiling. “Mm, no. Don't know him in specific. Seen a boy lot like you though." A point to Ozzie.

“Probably in Camp Pale."

Anson scratched his head. “That is where? Somewhere near some pillars?"

The iguana grinned. Some of his teeth were missing. “You a cop?"

Before Anson responded, he gave a hacking laugh.

“Yeah, yeah. The big FU. Big Bird. God's middle finger. Has to be Pale, cause they're ain't nothing else out past that way, except more dirt and spiders."

This time, Ozzie smiled. “Sounds like something he'd like. Is West Vaesha close?"

Here, the iguana stood. He was, to Anson's silent fright, much taller, though his bleached scales didn't hide his relative thinness.

Again, the chimera swatted away the buzzing fly. He pointed off vaguely to his right, spitting.

“Just follow the signs. Ain't so far. Nothing is, unless you wanna' starve."

His gangly arm shot out, fingers spread. “I'm Luek."

Ozzie took it, smirking. “Ozzie. And he's Anson."

Luek nodded, as though he'd known them his whole life. “Ya'll want a tour? We got nice fixins for guests. You gonna stay out in the slab long?"

Anson looked at Ozzie, uncertain. “I think we're going to find his brother first."

“We might stay though," Ozzie added. “Guess it depends." A glance to Anson.

Once again, Luek offered a sluggish nod. “Well, he probably ain't far to find. You come back if you want that tour. You could meet Barlow, he's playin' tonight."

Anson didn't know what he meant by playing, but nodded in thanks. “Appreciate it." Considering the offer, he did his best to retain politeness.

“Maybe we'll stop by later," he offered in concession. The side of his vision caught Ozzie's tail waggle. “How much is it?"

Luek gawked at Anson, followed by another crazed, hacking laugh. “Shit, you really ain't got a clue where you are huh? Ain't no money, ain't no cost. No good out here. Just follow the rules, or you'll get shot."

Despite the pleasant demeanor and spasm of chuckles, Anson felt a dread chill run up his spine. Luek wasn't joking.

“Right. Thanks."

The iguana gave a half-hearted 'mmhm' and went past one of the building fixtures, where Anson overheard several other voices. Satisfied, he returned with Ozzie to the car, looking out in the direction the slabber indicated.

“No fuckin' wonder Ron moved out here," Ozzie said as the car started again. “Money means nothing here? Holy shit, this is him. This whole place."

Anson drove out, catching a sign that pointed to West Vaesha. He could hear the excitement coming from his boy, so he didn't want to stifle it.

“Real peace and love guy, huh? So, you're the hipster, and he's the hippy?"

Ozzie snickered. Well, at least he was enjoying this.

“Money is the root of all evil? TV is why wars happen? That kind of guy?"

The yeendog shrugged. “He might be. Why? Afraid your mind'll get blown?" Ozzie wiggled his hands, feigning emphasis.

Even though it was a joke, a grim thought entered Anson's head. “Blowing minds" probably meant something else around these parts. He shrugged it off, taking a turn as they started down another thin dirt road.

“Who knows man, this place looks cool. Maybe we can get a shack out here. Couple'a deadbeat fags fuckin' each other while flippin' off the flag."

Ozzie grinned, sticking out his tongue. He knew he was pushing Anson's buttons.

“All right, all right. Settle down. Can't tell where the joke starts and serious ends."

Anson offered a weak chuckle, but still. That all sounded a little too authentic for Ozzie.

“Well, I like the fuckin' part."

Anson smirked. “You got me there."

As he drove, turns revealed wide spaces filled with “neighborhoods" of shanty homes and campers, all surrounded by their own array of junk, trash, art, and god knew what else. To Anson's surprise, there were humans here. Most were old, so far as he could tell. One had a beard down to his stomach dyed three different colors. Another was idly riding his bike down the road, giving the car an extra curious glance as Anson drove by.

Finally, a large sign with hastily spray-painted words appeared:

West Vaesha, Paradise of Beasts

On its sides were a sprawl of random nailed objects, and beyond the side, other turns leading into different camps.

Relieved he was on the right track, Anson kept an eye out for Camp Pale. It wasn't far off, fortunately, a left turn that – as Ozzie and Luek mentioned – had a massive rocky pillar. It was easy to see, like an enormous finger, fit with a variety of symbols and artwork. It had been washed blue with large, makeshift statues of the chimera goddess surrounding it, along with a stretch of homes that formed an enormous circle.

“I think this is it," said Ozzie, excitement rattling his tone. Anson looked over and saw the 'yena's eyes dilate. Ears rose, nose flared, and gaze flickered. He hoped Ronnie was worth the enthusiasm.

“Looks like it."

There wasn't exactly a conventional space to park as Anson pulled in. He didn't like it, either, as a decent car in a place where vehicles were older than him didn't exactly attract friendly company.

“Any idea which one is his? Or did he leave that part out too?" Anson said.

Ozzie rubbed his mane, shrugging. “Uh, heh, he said I'd know it when I see it."

Anson frowned. “Please be joking."

“Look, just drive babe, I'll find it. I promise. And if I don't, I dunno, you can fuck me extra hard or something."

Not much of a consolation. Anson grit his teeth, doing as told, wondering which multicolored nightmare belonged to the mysterious brother. It was only getting hotter, and the nearest gas station was thirty miles out. Anson had only so much patience left.

It wasn't until a particular trailer came into view that Ozzie's paw-hand shot to Anson's shoulder.

“There! THERE!"

In a panic, Anson lurched on the brakes. Ozzie was pointing to the right, at a medium sized mobile home little different than the others. It was sun-scorched and sand beaten, piles of random items surrounding it. Save for one difference: over the door, there appeared to be two broken electric guitars strung together with some makeshift words above it – all carved metal.

KILLER CITY

Anson blinked. “Uh, are you sure?"

Ozzie nodded, his muzzle stretched with a wide grin. “Hell yes!" His eyes came to Anson.

“That's him, it has to be. 'Killer City' was a band he always wanted to start. He talked about it as much as he talked about moving to the 'free world.' If it ain't him, I'll fuckin' blow you right now."

Maybe in some other place this would arouse Anson, but here, it just caused more uncertainty. “Killer City" didn't convey the kind of stability he was hoping for.

Still, the lust for music made sense. Anson drove close, switching the car off, giving the shoddy makings a curious once over.

Once again, the couple exited the car. But before Ozzie was halfway out, the home door swung up with a nasty creak. Out stepped a silhouette all at once familiar and strange.

He was a dead ringer for Ozzie, if Ozzie were broad shouldered, a bit taller, and fit with more muscle. But the spots, the muzzle shape, even the curve to his eyes, they were definitely recognizable. Ronnie Ryot looked over the car, gaze darting between Anson and Ozzie, his jaw dropping, arms wide.

“Holy fuckin' SHIT!"

His voice was deep and rough, probably taxed from years of smoking and inhaling dust from the surrounding desert. He hopped down from his steps, rushing over to the stunned Oz.

Anson got a better look. This was like Ozzie, cranked to eleven. He carried a mane like his brother, but it was frosted pink. His ears were both pierced with several makeshift pieces of jewelry, he wore several necklaces, rings covered every finger, his wrists were wrapped with beads and torn cloth, his short grey fur revealed sleeves of psychotic tattoos and, hell, even some of his teeth were gold.

He only wore a simple tank top and pants, and considering the environment, doubtful he had anything flashier. None of this deterred Ozzie, who went rushing to his brother. They embraced.

“Ohmyfuckingodman!"

Anson didn't know what to make of this. But what he did see was genuine. Ozzie was beside himself with glee, and as far as Anson could tell, so was Ron.

They loved each other, that was terribly clear. Time or distance didn't deter them, nor rumor nor word of mouth. They were family.

Ron held his brother by the shoulders, carrying a familiar, doofy grin.

“Oh man, oh man. Shit. I can't believe you're here. Ozzle! Ozzle! Goddamn! I was afraid you couldn't find the place! I didn't even think you were serious when you said you were comin' down!"

The two were a synchronization of happy tail wags and lifted ears. “Are you kiddin' me man? I didn't even. . . I don't know! It's like. . . shit! I don't know!"

For a moment, Ozzie's own grin faded. He gave his brother a shove.

“Where have you been, asshole!? Why didn't you call earlier? Do mom and dad even know you're out here?"

The tone was more pleading than angry. Ronnie shrugged.

“M'sorry dude, sorry, it's hard gettin' phone service out here, haha. I had to bum a ride into town and then bribe another guy to call you. Fuckin' weird ass phones they got now too and shit? Like little computers? I found your number and. . ."

Ron didn't care about Ozzie's expression. “God, it's good seein' you little bro. I missed the fuck outta' ya."

Ozzie gave a raw chuckle, sniffing. “Ugh, you're such a dumbass, Ron." He hugged him again.

“Free spirit idiot. Five and a half fuckin' years. I had half a mind to think you were dead!"

The two broke their embrace. Ronnie looked no different, still grinning.

“Me? Hahah, fuck no! I'll live forever."

A headshake. “You're still on that immortality shit? You haven't changed much."

Ron offered a thumbs up. “You know it."

Finally, his eyes lifted, passing over to Anson, who had remained near the car just in case. This caught Ozzie's attention, who looked between the two.

“Oh, shit, right, right. Ronnie."

Ozzie went to Anson, standing next to him, holding his hand in proud defiance.

“This is my boyfriend, Anson. He's the one who got me out here."

Anson felt little fingers scratch into his palm in comforting caresses. He managed a smile.

“That's me."

Ronnie gave him a long once over, his muzzle receding to a quiet smile. Anson didn't know what to expect. Judgment, maybe? He could certainly sense it – that diagnosis of a stranger. What was going through his head? Are you good enough for my brother? What makes you so special?

The older hyena looked away. He. . . blushed.

“Wow, he's handsome as shit."

Ozzie yipped with laugher, leaning into Anson. “That's fuckin' right he is."

Anson wasn't sure whether to be relieved or alarmed. He settled for the former.

“Uh, thank you." He chuckled too.

Ronnie gave Anson another once over, this time with eyes that were a little. . . different. He stepped forward, offering his hand-paw.

“My bro always did have good taste. Didn't think he'd date a skin though."

Anson nodded, taking the hand. “We're a rarity." The grip was warm and strong. Ronnie didn't squeeze hard but, Anson could sense the deep layers of strength sleeping in his arms. This wasn't a person he planned to cross.

Ronnie crossed his arms. “Damn, you boys are cute together. Where'd you snag him, Ozzle?"

Ozzie was practically wiggling with pride, and started to recount the tale of their relationship.

“It started with some fireworks and fucking."

Joking aside, Ron listened, offering approving nods. Despite the surroundings and strange place, Anson felt warmth bloom in his chest as Ozzie talked about them. To hear his boyfriend speak in such reverence and appreciation was nice. He squeezed the yeendog's hand as he talked. He reminded himself this was why he was out here, this was why he went so far out of his comfort zone.

“So a few months now," Ozzie finished. Anson swat at a fly.

“That's great!" Ronnie said. “Mom and dad know yet?"

Ozzie features faltered, but only just so. He shrugged. “Nah, I'll get to it eventually."

The yeendog glanced to his man, noticing the sweat coating his body. “Hey, asshole, you forget how hospitality works? We're fryin' out here, man!"

All at once Ronnie looked apologetic. “Ah shit, sorry dudes! My bad. Yeah, come on in. Killer City ain't much but she's always open at the legs, hehehe."

Anson was grateful to find some reprieve out of the hot sun, trailer be damned. With Ozzie, he followed Ronnie inside the modestly sized home, a trailer only somewhat cooler inside.

As for the contents, it was a spastic array of what looked like random art projects, junk, music posters, more junk, and grown plants. A single center room – narrow in size – held a couch, offset with a tiny corner kitchen and then a door to one room. The other side held another door, the “bathroom," Ronnie indicated. Bathroom he said in quotes, because, there was no plumbing, so business had to be handled a certain way.

Anson didn't judge, but noticed the general decay of the place. Paint was peeling, holes appeared in parts of the wall, empty beer bottles lie in the sink, unattended. Even his own seat – a simple plastic chair – looked like it was at least a decade old.

“Welcome to paradise!" Ronnie said with pride, falling into his couch. It screeched in protest.

Ozzie looked around, half smiling. “Ho-lee fuck, Ron. This is a real shitbox."

Ronnie winked. “That's freedom, bro."

Ozzie snickered, but, even Anson could see the subtle expression of concern pulling at his features. He sat next to Anson, curling his tail. A dim trickle of light poured in through a series of broken blinders.

“Freedom huh?" Ozzie crossed his arms. “No power or water? Can't even shit normal? Freedom kinda' sucks."

“It does look rough," Anson agreed.

Ronnie waived them off. “It's honest. No bills, no cops, no boss. Last bastion of the truly free, ya know."

Ozzie smirked. “Tell me you don't really believe that."

“Fuck yeah I do."

A sigh. “Ron I like roughin' it as much as the next dog, but this is a bit much, even for me. Like, damn man, you became a ghost. Folks dunno' what the hell you're doing, you can't even make a call without a fuckin' pilgrimage. How the hell'd you get out here?"

Perhaps the better question was why, but Ozzie already knew. At the question, Anson kept his eyes on the older sibling, studying the reaction.

Ronnie just shrugged, picking at one of his gold teeth. “I chased a wild tail and he opened my eyes."

Ozzie tilted his head. By 'wild tail,' Anson assumed it was his girlfriend.

“What? Who?"

Ron winked. “Barlow." Or boyfriend.

It sounded familiar to Anson. “The. . . musician? One of the guys mentioned him."

“That's the one."

“Well?" said Ozzie. “Ya' gonna stop jackin us around or what? Tell us."

Barlow, as it turned out, was a wolf out from the east coast, though he didn't say where. A rough loner, Ronnie explained. Said he was trying to escape everything about life. Did his time and tried things the “right" way, the “law" way. Had enough, heard about the freedom Slab City offered, and took off for it. On his way, he met Ronnie playing guitar at a one-stop bar, doing shows for cheap to get by. They hit it right in more ways than one, and that was that. Free spirits. Two ghosts on their way to a grave.

“Barlow Saxon. Pretty sure that ain't his real last name, but he's a beautiful son of a bitch. We came down and never looked back."

Anson considered the words. So love then? It sounded romantic, certainly. Wasn't that the dream for everyone – to find their significant and just go? Just live? But in the same vein, he picked on other points too. Barlow had a criminal past – whatever that was. And it made him anxious.

Anson knew that society failed people in numerous ways. The question was, what did they become after the fallout? What version of himself was Barlow trying to forget?

Ozzie wasn't satisfied though. He looked ready to explode with another bible of questions.

Instead, he settled for one. “So you found a piece of ass and decided that was enough to just vanish?"

Ronnie's expression narrowed. “Hey, come on bro, he's nice. You'd like him."

“Nice enough to take you away from your family?"

An eye roll. “Mom and dad were never on fuckin' point about this. What do I care? Dad would just say to get a job and mom would probably pistol whip my ass."

Ozzie growled, his fingers folding together. “I meant me, ya' fuckin asshole."

Anson clenched his teeth, glancing at his boy. He sensed the tremors of an argument, and with family, things usually got ugly. He wanted to say something, but what? He kept his eyes on the rotten floor, hoping answer might conjure itself, but none came.

Fortunately, it seemed to roll of Ron, who just sank back further into the couch. His tail smacked the fabric in dull, pensive thumps.

“Aww come on man, it's not like that. You're always my little Ozzle, that ain't gonna' change."

Ozzie sighed. “But it did. You lost touch for five years."

“Yeah, I know, I got that."

A growl. “Do you? You know why I keep saying that? Because, Ronnie, I didn't know what the shit was going on."

Ozzie's head arched, studying the ceiling.

“I thought you and your free spirit ass were dead in a ditch somewhere, or fucked up by some coked out homeless dude. You were gone for so long. . . goddammit! What was I supposed to think? Or mom or dad?"

Ronnie didn't meet the anger in his brother's tone, just crossed his arms and looked away.

“Well I ain't dead. I'm here. And I called you."

Anson felt helpless. He really felt like he should say something, but what the hell could he even offer now?

Ozzie dropped his arms, leaning. “Ronnie. Why?"

The older hyena looked genuinely perplexed. “The fuck? Why what? Because I wanted to see my little brother?"

A forced chuckle. “You can't be real with this, Ron."

His fingers twirled, 'this' in reference most likely to Slab City.

“How? How is this gonna' work? When you called I. . . I don't know. I didn't know how to feel. I was happy. But this? You're in some dump ass trailer and you don't even have water to wipe your ass. How are we gonna' stay in touch? How do you expect to live?"

Again, Ronnie shrugged. “Me'n Barlow are gonna' build a wind mill and shit, don't worry about it."

Anson was quite stunned at the older yeendog's ability to deflect with such casual indifference. Did he not care? Or was it something else?

“Why are you so mad at me? We were just huggin' a sec ago."

Ozzie rubbed fingers through his mane. “It's like you're not even listening."

Ron laughed. “Course' I'm listenin. You're just dramatic. You've always been kinda' uppity, Ozzle. Don't fuckin' worry about it." The tone was bright, bizarre in its optimism.

At this, even Anson bristled. He raised his head to look at Ron. “That's not really fair to him."

Ronnie's eyes came to Anson. So did Ozzie's.

“Doesn't that bug you? A little bit?" Anson continued. “You went missing for years and then you just kind of appear out of nowhere, again. And sure, we're both glad you're okay."

Anson lied about the last part. He wasn't so sure.

“But, don't you understand why your brother is frustrated?"

Ron was quiet for a moment. Then.

“Yeah, I get it. Just don't know what to tell you. I'm alive, I called him."

Now Anson wanted to growl. But Ronnie continued.

“Look, just, chill. How 'bout this? Me'n Barlow gonna play tonight at Oasis. Gonna be fuckin' rollin.' We got this new single we're workin' on, wanted to try it. Just come see, and you'll get it. You'll get why I love bein' out here."

None of these things addressed Ozzie's concerns, and that was plain as day on the 'yena's face.

“So I get to meet the asshole who stole my brother?" he said, half joking.

Ron winked again. “Sure do. Don't flirt though, he's mine."

Then he stretched, popping his arms. “Nah I'm kiddan, you can flirt. He gives killer fuckin' head, so watch out."

This did little to alleviate the tension, at least between Anson and Ozzie. Ronnie's disregard for his brother's concerns was, well, concerning. They were a world apart now, from two entirely different spectrums of life. Though he didn't say it, Anson knew it was tearing at his boyfriend from the inside.

“You still singin'?"

The question came after a dull pause. It snapped Ozzie's attention though. Anson saw the yeendog's ears turn a mild red.

“No," said Ozzie, tone shifting to something more delicate. “I stopped after I went to Salaco State."

Ronnie made a face. “Guess they ain't got degrees for good talent." He sat up more now, studying his brother.

“Heh, you ever hear him? It's good." This he directed at Anson, who, for the moment, decided to set aside the tension for a more amiable subject.

“Oh god, shut up," Ozzie said. “Don't."

Anson smiled. “I sure didn't." He leaned into Ozzie.

“Never heard you sing before."

Ronnie started to laugh, chirping in that hiccup-y, hyena sort of way.

“Wow, I figured you at least would do it for your boyfriend!"

Ozzie looked away. “Singin' doesn't pay the bills."

Much to Ronnie's amusement, he got to explain their garage band before Ron left and Ozzie went for university. Nothing much, but Ronnie had started to practice guitar with Oz covering vocals. He also tried at bass and drums, but they didn't have the means to practice.

Anson listened with fascination, though refrained from digging too hard. He could tell Ozzie was offering a “polite" indignance, but probably wasn't so fond of having a secret dug up in such a raw way.

“Always thought we'd get a crew together," Ronnie finished. “Guess stuff changes."

“Guess so," said Ozzie with finality.

“I'm gettin' hungry," he continued. “You got somethin' to eat or is it just dirt and shit all the way down?"

Ronnie shifted, standing. “Oh uh, I share most of my stuff with Barlow. Just go back down to Oasis and tell em' I said you can have my food shares. We either grow it or somebody cooks it. Barlow's got the freezer, anyway."

Too exacerbated by all the conversation, Ozzie didn't pry. Anson wasn't sure what to make of it either – how'd they settle who got what without money?

As the pair stood to leave, Ronnie offered a smile. A frail one.

“You stayin' for the show, right?"

Ozzie looked between his brother and his boyfriend. Anson nodded.

“Yeah. What time?"

Dark, Ronnie said, so by Anson's count that was close to nine. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about spending time close to desert living strangers, but, no going back now.

With a hug filled with a bit more tension, they turned to leave, Ozzie out first. Anson was close to follow, his eyes taking one last pass around the trailer.

And, maybe he shouldn't have. Because that's all it took to realize you were looking a shadow. That's all it took to see – literally – Ronnie was on a path to collapse. Because, nestled to the side, discarded next to the couch, so innocent and simple, lie an object. Simple, quiet, unassuming. No larger than his finger, yet carrying the weight of a mountain.

Ronnie didn't catch his glance, but as Anson left, he knew what he saw. And all at once, his assumptions, his concerns, they clicked. His judgment was right. And never before in his entire life had he wanted to be so utterly and completely wrong about something.

A syringe, indelicate and tucked away under the couch. Clearly used, and for clear reasons.

Shit. Fuck. As Anson walked back to the car, he scrolled over his encounter with Ronnie. Everything, from his movements to his mannerisms. He seemed so frighteningly passive, so strangely positive. His words slumped together here and there. And his arms? Damn, covered in tattoos.

Vaesha only knew what he was loading into that goddamn needle. How many times a day? How long?

No, I'm overthinking this, right?

He could barely register himself in the driver's seat, or hear the car rumble to life.

It can't be what I think it is. Maybe it's medicine. Or maybe it's just a different kind of drug.

He glanced at Ozzie, who carried an expression of mild frustration. Should he tell him?

What else could it be though? Out here, in the desert, with nothing to do. . . isn't this what happens? Is that why he's so set on staying?

As the car moved, Ronnie waved them off. He started to fade in the reflection of the mirror, a shadow on the horizon.

A terrible, crippling thought invaded Anson's mind: he'll die out here. If it's drugs, it'll kill him.

He cranked the AC, trying to distract himself.

-*-

The couple conversed on the way back, returning to the familiar entry point of Slab City.

Luek was more than happy to oblige the couple's request for food, at the cost of a tour, at least. The Oasis was an odd assortment of opened 'rooms' and bizarre furnishings, with even stranger housemates. Most were friendly, amiable enough that Anson's concerns were put at bay. There was an elderly human with arms scratched by construction work, a slightly overweight vixen with gem-rock earrings, a thin skunk, and a mess of others.

Food came from a makeshift freezer powered by batteries, and The Oasis actually sported its own kitchen, though again, there were no walls. It existed more like a compartment attached to the structure, a fact flies and sand relished.

From Ronnie's offer, Anson was able to cook up a few pieces of unsalted bacon and a slab of chicken. Seasonings were sparse, only salt and pepper, and they had to settle for warm water. They were also offered homegrown vegetables. . . on the agreement they used the compost bathroom if they needed to relieve themselves.

Still, for roughing it, the food was manageable.

“Shit babe, even on garbage food you work miracles," Ozzie said. The pair found themselves a derelict couch under some shade, poking at their plates.

“Not bad huh?"

Anson noticed his boyfriend kept the conversation away from Ronnie, and, he was fine with that. He wasn't sure what to think, and no doubt his boy had to mull things over too. He kept wondering if he could find the words. How could even navigate to the subject? 'Hey hon, I know you love your brother, but he's probably a drug addict.'

And if he did at some point, what would that mean? Would Ozzie try to “save" his brother? It didn't sound like Ronnie was close with his own family – and god only knew how the mother might react. So if he got no help from them, what could he do? Would Ronnie listen? The desert wasn't exactly a place for interventions.

The questions ate at him as he chewed the tough chicken. Of course, there was another option. He could say nothing at all.

Anson tried to force away the thought, but the questions lingered all the way until evening. Since there wasn't much to do, the couple spent some time getting to know the locals, or the few that were around. Most – to Anson's surprise – weren't as outrageous as he expected. Some lived in the slabs because of a disability, or couldn't find work, or went through a crippling divorce. Luek, for instance, recounted he was a manager of a small business in Seattle, but when it went under he lost everything.

Apparently, hot sand and sleeping with scorpions was a better alternative.

The hours drew by in tedious fashion until the sun wedged itself on the horizon, shadows and dark creeping over the endless desert.

Ozzie and Anson were directed to The Range, an area for open “concerts" on the opposite side of The Oasis. It sported a makeshift stage with couches and chairs tucked together, and even had a generator to power a series of lights.

Since the pair didn't know anyone, they found a spot near the edge of the stage. Soon after, crowds of people started pouring in, enough that most of the couches were taken by the time the sun was gone.

At this, Ozzie brightened at least. Ornament lights were hung around, creating a spectacle of illumination, while a clear sky allowed stars to glisten like silver candles.

“No admission? This is gonna suck," Ozzie joked, leaning to Anson.

Anson tried to keep it light. “Isn't your brother playing?"

“That's how I know it'll suck."

A dry chuckle. Soon after, a man walked on stage and introduced himself. The crowd cheered with greetings, and he was clearly a familiar. This lead to the man – an elderly human, the one with the dyed beard – to start playing on acoustic and singing.

Now they call me Roughneck Red,

And I know what them people said,

Sure as I know and sure as he old,

Roughneck Red got a mouth full o' gold!

This lead to “Red" announcing his song name, “The Devil is My Dentist," and the stanzas repeated. After this, he apparently went through a few more songs the crowd knew. To Anson, it was fine, despite the age of the acoustic and rough voice of the singer.

When finished, the audience applauded. Red nodded, making gesture to his left.

“We got somethin' good tonight," he said with an accent familiar to Anson. “You might 'member some of our wild boys doin' a show a few weeks ago. They come back, gonna' give us a good one."

A few more excited shouts. Red grinned. “Killer City!"

The audience erupted, with a few rough howls emerging from the watchers. Ozzie stiffened, crossing his arms, and Anson's thoughts crawled back into him.

Ronnie Rushed, arms wide, muzzle tugged with a grin – the lights catching the metal in his mouth. Slung on his shoulder was an electric guitar. Well, it was good to know how Slab City prioritized his power.

Ozzie tapped his feet. Then, stood, letting his arms fall and offering a wave. His frame softened and he let out a whistle. Maybe it was the way Ronnie came to life on stage, or the way his pink-tipped mane danced against the stage, or how appropriate he was up there. But, it was enough to win Ozzie over, at least enough to put their previous scuffle aside.

Anson stood with him. “He looks great up there."

Ozzie smirked. “He was an asshole who could always steal the audience."

But Ronnie wasn't by himself for long. Like a dagger from the dark, another figure rushed onto stage.

His fur held a dull red, mixed with torn jeans, ripped shirt, and an armada of leather bands around his arms. He stood at Ronnie's height, though much leaner, chains dangling from his pants. Tattoos accented both his shoulders, and he carried a frantic, aggressive gaze.

Ozzie stared. Anson watched him stare. It was clear this was Barlow. Wild, free, aggressive. Everything about his swagger and motion carried it.

“Well, shit," Ozzie said, voice low. “I get it."

He didn't know why, but in that moment, Anson pressed himself into Ozzie, arm around shoulder. Maybe because he sensed the need for comfort. Maybe because reality was harsh. Ozzie was seeing the man that “stole" Ronnie away, and there was probably nothing that could change this.

Ozzie sighed, head resting into Anson.

Anson's gaze held a different scrutiny. “Yeah," he said, remembering the syringe. “I do too."

With the crowd thoroughly warmed, the duo started into it.

“You motherfuckers ain't ready for this!" Ronnie shouted. He pointed to Barlow, who offered a mean grin.

“We got somethin' new for ya'!" said the wolf, his voice surprisingly warm and smooth.

With a guitar strum, Barlow started with a lyric, Ronnie following close behind.

Run, run, run!

Run, ye son's o' bitches!

Run the motor raw, scream the road!

Death momentum, this is my mode!

Run, I will scream, run, I will bleed!

Fuck on the flag baby, this is my deed!

It was harsh, ripping, and a blend of clean vocals by Barlow accented by Ronnie's chilling roars. For a couple of shitty electric guitars on a makeshift stage, it wasn't so bad.

By the time they finished, the crowd was in an uproar. Even Anson had to clap, while Ozzie whistled again. He caught Ronnie's attention, who pointed to him, winking.

After that, they went through some of their other “originals" did a cover of “Ride Like the Wind." Once they finished, the audience was a raucous of motion and noise.

It was thrilling, but also strange, especially for Anson. They were full of so much life and vitality. And yet, as he glanced between them, the syringe kept prodding his mind. How long did they have, he wondered? Were they long for this world, or just shadows screaming in the dark?

The crowd applauded once more as the duo finished, taking a bow and leaving the stage. After them, Red announced some others, but by this point, Ozzie had lost interest. He left wordlessly, hands tucked in pockets. Anson followed.

“Hon?"

Ozzie didn't look at him, head low, ears flat.

“It's getting' late man," he said, not looking to his boyfriend. “Think we should head back?"

They walked past the dirt road, back to where The Oasis was.

“What?" Anson glanced back towards the stage. “You don't want to see Ronnie again?"

Ozzie shrugged. The kind of shrug Ron might do.

“I think I saw what I needed to."

After all the trouble, it couldn't have been that simple. Anson reached out, gently, to put a hand on Ozzie's shoulder. The yeendog stopped.

“What? You mean Barlow? You don't want to meet him either?"

Ozzie's tail drooped. “I dunno' if I should, Ans. I already get it. I see why Ronnie followed him out here. I'm just gonna' get myself mad."

It was hard for Anson to argue. What he knew about Ronnie was already frightening. This Barlow was a whole different factor. God only knew, he might drag them down too. Yet, despite his feelings toward Ronnie, he didn't want the older brother to feel abandoned.

“I guess we could," Anson said, unsure. “But what about Ron? We're just gonna' leave him?"

Ozzie coughed a raw chuckle, looking at his man. “Anson, he left me a long time ago."

He rubbed his eyes. “I'm just tired."

Anson nodded. “I understand."

Once more, he looked back towards the stage. “Look, what if I just let him know we've gotta get going. I can say hi to Barlow. It's something."

Ozzie was quiet for a moment. Then, he gave Anson a slow hug. “Yeah. God, I feel fuckin' stupid. All this for nothing, huh? Dragged us out here for shit all."

Hands crept over the chimera's back, caressing with reassurance.

“No, no, it's good we know where he is."

He looked into Ozzie's eyes, smiling. He saw life in them. This place? It wasn't that. It was death.

“Hey, just head back to the car, all right? I'll let him know."

Concern tugged at Ozzie's features. “You sure?"

Anson absolutely wasn't, but he'd do anything for his boy. “Yep. I'll make it quick."

With this, he let Ozzie return to the car while he waded back through the crowd. Since there wasn't much of a stage, going around it was probably his best bet for finding Ronnie again. He didn't see the duo of hyena and wolf march off anywhere, so he imagined they were still close by.

Ignoring the strange looks from stranger people, Anson went past The Range and behind the large walled platform it was built on. Beyond it stretched mostly desert with a few trailer homes dotting the horizon. It was dark, though not impossible to see – moonlight helped.

For a moment, things were quiet, at least beyond the rough ambiance of stage noise. Anson was alone, his only allies the twitch of desert brush or skittering of night time insect. It made him shiver, and it wasn't cold.

A noise caught his attention. At first it was hard to catch, mostly drowned out by the yell of singers. Then, it became more distinct, closer to a dead tree near his left. It was. . . a groan?

He heard it again, going towards it. Yes, a groan. A little too familiar, both in voice and in nature. It wasn't. . .

It was. As Anson neared the sounds, it was too late by the time he realized just what was going on.

Back to tree, eyes closed, the ember of a lit something in finger, Ronnie let off a chorus of moans as a silhouette worked itself between his legs. On closer inspection, it was Barlow.

His maw had neatly snug itself around Ronnie's exposed cock, a sticky downpour of saliva dripping from his actions coupled with the sordid, sloppy echoes of lips on flesh. He banged his head into the loins, hands on hips, grunting roughly as Ronnie rumbled with approval, smoking whatever the hell was in his hand.

“Nnnrg, shit, this is good. . ." Anson heard. There was an audible smack, followed by Barlow's voice.

“Likin' it, chops? Leaves were kinda' weak but I got it laced. Corker down the way brewed up something real nice for it."

Ronnie laughed. “Don't tell me about it, just keep suckin' my cock, fucker."

Anson turned right the hell around.

He didn't need to know. He didn't want to know. Not anymore. Whatever it meant, whatever it implied, it was just more affirmations he was right. And he didn't want to be right.

He sped away, in fact, hoping he wasn't seen by the pair, but doubtful Ronnie was even paying attention. By Vaesha. It wasn't a syringe, but it was something. And if it was one thing, there was probably more.

Anson got back to the car, pushing aside the thought. Pushing aside this place, this graveyard. Ozzie had leaned back in his seat, eyes closed.

“Well?" he said, without opening them.

He doesn't need to know. He doesn't ever need to know.

“He was sorry to see us leave early," Anson said immediately. “But Barlow seemed nice."

I will not let them drag Ozzie into this place.

“Psh, yeah, sure."

Anson forced a chuckle. “Well, they just said they'll call if they need anything. But you know, happy we came out."

Ozzie took a breath, run hampered by melancholy.

“Were you?" Anson said.

It took a while before Ozzie responded. “Yeah. I guess. I dunno. I hoped I could figure something out, or I'd like the answers. Guess I was wrong. He'll never leave this place, if he can help it."

Anson didn't say anything, keying on the ignition.

No, no he won't.

Ozzie started to laugh. “Shit, what are mom and dad gonna' think?"

“You planning on telling them?"

Ozzie frowned. “Do they need to know?"

Anson didn't have an answer. And really, he didn't want to have one. Carefully, he tugged the car out of The Oasis and back to the dirt road, back past Salvation Mountain with plans to jump back on the 111.

Slab City faded in the mirror. It turned to a silhouette of sculpted shadows, housing the forgotten, the refuse, the dying. It was where people went to be forgotten. It was where people were waiting to die.

Anson left with the curse of knowledge. He left knowing he could say something that might force Ozzie to act. He left, knowing that without help, Ronnie would likely find himself caught in the clutches of the slabs for however long there was. Love, drugs, and death? Ronnie might as well have been a slab himself.

When they returned to the highway, Ozzie was fast asleep, and civilization was right around the corner. Lights beckoned like electric angels and soon, they'd return to their normal life.

Anson looked at his boy, the chimera he loved, the person he'd do anything to protect. He wanted to apologize, wanted to make it right. That was his job, his promise to Ozzie, always.

And then, he wondered. Where did you go to forget what you knew?