* * *
It ended.
The brown thing shot out of the undergrowth, a four-legged blur that seemed to glide, rather than run, across the shady asphalt of downtown Main Street. It had emerged from an abandoned lot that at one point in time had been the site of a skating rink but was now an unkempt jungle of creeping ivy, poison sumac, and milkweed thistle growing spindly and dry behind a rusted wire fence.
Russell hit the brakes and skidded the truck to an oblique stop in the middle of the street. An elderly woman in an oncoming Cadillac honked as she swerved around the truck.
"What the hell—" Pete said, leaning forward and nabbing his glasses off the dashboard.
"Did you see that?!" Russell asked.
"I told you, Mike," Pete scolded, putting his glasses back on. "I told you not to do that to Rusty’s seat while he’s driving. You’re lucky we’re not dead."
"It wasn’t him, Pete." Russell turned and peered out the rear windshield, but the brown thing was gone. "Something ran out in front of me. I think it was a dog."
"It was probably a stray heading for that vacant lot over there. Who cares?" Pete glanced at his watch. "Can we go now, Rusty? I really need to get home."
"What do you have to do that’s so important, Pete? What? File your nails? Brush your hair? Besides, the thing ran from the lot, not into it."
"So what? A stray’s a stray. Let’s go," Pete said anxiously, bobbing his head at O’Brien, who still stared out the back window, searching for the elusive dog. "I need to do laundry or something." Then, whispering to Russell behind an open hand: "I’m about to lose it with that kid. I’m about five minutes away from punching his lights out. He’s crazy!"
Russell nodded and said to Mike, "Okay. You can sit down now, O’Brien. I can’t see around that huge noggin of yours."
O’Brien complied and they continued along in silence. Less than a minute later Russell hooked a right onto Johnson, then took the first right after that, which spat them onto Deer Street and its low, moss-draped canopy. It felt good to be back, at least to Russell—perhaps to Pete as well, for he sat up taller in his seat now that his house was in sight. And sure enough, the instant the truck came to a stop, Pete threw open his door, jumped out, turned, and shot Russell a look that all but screamed: Do something about Mike, will ya? Turn him in to Price the first chance you get. He’s dangerous.
And it pained Russell’s heart to see that look on his friend’s face, because while he had been trying so hard to keep things together lately, Pete had been all too eager to tear them apart. And it wasn’t just Pete’s and Mike’s friendship Russell was thinking about (if they even had one; Russell wasn’t too sure about that), but also his and Pete’s.
I don’t know what’s happening to Pete or why he’s been acting so weird these past couple of days. Is he jealous of the attention I’ve been giving Mike? Can he be that petty?
The answer was yes, he could. Who else did Pete have other than Russell? No one. He was as alone in the world as O’Brien. Different circumstances—opposite circumstances—but the same result. Where Pete sought the cold, replicable world of science, O’Brien chose the warm, animal comforts of his dog—of all dogs. Two extremes, one outcome: isolation. Was O’Brien better off for having Huey? Hard to say, because what if he didn’t have Huey, or any dog for that matter? Would that force him to go out, be sociable, and behave normally? Probably not. He’d still be dysfunctional. He’d just be dysfunctional without a dog.
Pete, on the other hand…
At times, Russell pitied Pete for no other reason than his living in a dogless home. Russell—and the vast majority of western civilization’s dog owners—held strong to the faulty tenet that a canine’s presence alone somehow magically made a person more humble, more loving, more human. He truly believed that Pete was missing out on something every soul should experience, an unconditional love as pure as it was unstated. After all, you can’t hug a telescope, and the only warmth you can get out of chemistry is by holding a test tube while its contents are undergoing an exothermic reaction. So icy and distant, Russell would contemplate, is science. How it does nothing but push us further away from the things that matter most. Every gain, every so-called "step forward" comes at a cost of a little piece of humanity’s collective soul. The farther we set our sights, the colder we become. To ourselves and to each other.
Russell looked at Pete’s querulous face through the glare of the passenger window and thought: He hates O’Brien, but he’s so much like him. Take the craziness out of the equation, and Mike, Pete, and Hector are the perfect trinity of friendship. O’Brien with his spontaneity, Hector with his confidence, and Pete with his smarts. I’m the weird one, with my "emotions" and "instincts." They call me a hippie and a pussy behind my back, the same way me and Pete make fun of Hector and O’Brien behind theirs. God, sometimes I want to scream at O’Brien, to tell him that his precious dog is really just a bastardized wolf, even though I don’t believe that to be completely true. And how I want to push Pete over a tree stump in the woods somewhere and while he’s lying on the ground get in his face and yell, "How‘s science gonna protect you from me now, bitch?" Sometimes I want to become Hector, to crawl inside his barren head and experience what it’s like to have people fear me. I want his mother in an impure way, and I want that piano of theirs—it really is the most beautiful thing in their house—even more. Oh Debbie, I feel so sorry for you. No way is Hector your son. I don’t care if he bears a rudimentary resemblance to you in the eyes and mouth. It can’t be true. Did your husband really skip out on you when Hector was six? Was he really a Mexican? I’ve heard things, Debbie, rumblings in the supermarket between gray-haired old ladies with nothing better to do as they await the grim reaper than to spread heady gossip about you. They say things about me, too. Not the ladies, but kids at school. Some call me a fag because of my hair and my utter contempt for their backward, redneck ways. I’ve had girlfriends—pretty girlfriends, far prettier than they’ll ever have—but they still call me names, Debbie. They call me a sissy and a pansy and a queer. Then they have the nerve to ask me to sign up for the school talent show in the spring. Some have even begged me to join their shitty garage bands that play nothing but CCR covers. And your son is a monster. I’m sorry, but he is. How can that be when you’re so clearly not? Tell me, Debbie, I need to know.
All of a sudden Pete was standing on the porch, digging in his pocket for his keys. Russell blinked, pulled away from his friend’s house, and drove the short distance to his. He parked under the crepe myrtle and killed the engine.
Behind twin panes of glass, two pairs of low eyes watched the vehicle come to a stop. When the humans got out, the dogs barked: a deep whoof from Apollo and a sentence of staccato grunts from Huey. The latter stood with his forepaws on the windowsill, panting heavily against the glass, fogging the sheet with his exhalations.
Mike was swinging the iron gate open when Russell approached from behind and clapped him on the back. "I told you Huey and Apollo would get along fine."
"Huey!" Mike yelled at the window.
Huey licked the glass with his wide, pink tongue. Behind and unseen, Diane Whitford shouted at the dogs to get away from the window.
Stepping inside, O’Brien rushed to Huey, and Huey to O’Brien. If Huey were a human female instead of a slobbering male bulldog, it would have been only slightly less corny, for Mike scooped down, picked the dog up, and hugged him the way some Romeo in a cheesy chick flick might. Huey’s legs kicked wildly at the air; his toenails snagged O’Brien’s shirt. It was awkward.
Russell watched the strange, saccharin display of sentimentality play out with nauseating resolve. He didn’t want to look, but at the same time, he couldn’t look away. Should I give them privacy? he thought. Should I say something to break them up?
Behind the kitchen island, Diane and Darrel stared peevishly at the blonde kid whispering secrets into his dog’s face. They also shot questioning glances at their son, who could
only shrug while tossing his keys in their general direction.
“Rusty," Darrel said, "I need to talk to you for a second. In private."
Russell followed his father through the living room and into the piano room. Russell closed the door behind him. "What’s up?"
"I don’t even know where to start," Darrel said, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.
Russell sat down on the piano bench. Uh oh, he thought. This can’t be good.
"I know what happened at Mike’s house," Darrel began as way of preamble. "Apparently the cops found a bunch of mutilated animals in his backyard, but I’m guessing you already knew that." Darrel paced the room now—for emphasis, Russell was sure. "That boy is disturbed. Were you aware that almost every serial killer ever caught tortured and killed animals as a teenager?"
"Yeah. I watch the same Court TV specials as you."
"Don’t get smart with me!" His face and neck turned blotchy, eyes wide—lots of white showing. "Don’t you dare get smart with me!" He lowered his voice, substituting volume for an index finger, which he pointed, then wagged.
Staring up with calm, hazel eyes, Russell leaned back and rested his elbows on the piano’s fallboard. He crossed his legs casually.
"You know, I just don’t get you," Darrel went on. "I mean, how could you invite that kid into my house knowing what he did?"
"Listen, Dad," Russell rebuffed, "Mike didn’t do it. I know how he is, and he’s not a killer. Besides, I heard it was a rabid animal—a dog, or something—that tore apart those rabbits and hares. It wouldn’t be the first rabies outbreak in this county, you know. Remember last year?"
"Last year was a rumor. Something killed an old lady’s cat. It could’ve been a coyote or any number of things."
"That’s what I mean! No one knows what happened at O’Brien’s house, including O’Brien. Give him the benefit of the doubt. Do you really think Mike has it in him to kill an animal, let alone a couple hundred?”
"Yes."
"Well, I don’t."
In the back of his mind, Russell wondered why he was even defending Mike at all. Was he just trying to piss off his dad, or was he genuinely trying to protect O’Brien?
Who says Mike didn’t kill those animals? Russell thought. It’s possible. Anything’s possible with that kid. But the dog, the wounds …What are you more afraid of, Rusty? O’Brien taking the rap or you telling the truth—the truth as you know it—and having the whole town thinking you’re just as loco as he is? No one’s going to believe a single dog did all of that. Not old Lola.
The gnawing urge to tell his dad what really happened, to just blurt it out and be done with it, rose in his gullet and struggled for expression. He suppressed it with a bitter swallow, making the tacit promise to himself that he would never tell anybody what he’d seen and done in Mike’s backyard. And while he could count on Michelle’s and Pete’s silence, he couldn’t necessarily count on O’Brien’s. But who would believe crazy Mike’s side of the story anyway? Who would believe his innocence?
There was also the matter of Lola’s collar to consider. After discovering whose dog he had killed, Russell had panicked and hacked through the rest of Lola’s neck, cleaving her head from her body. Then, scooping up the collar with the hoe blade, he had carried the bloody circle to the fence and flung it deep into the woods.
It’s gone, he remembered thinking, watching it disappear among the dark, broad leaves of countless shadowy plants. No one’s going to find it.
But now, sitting on the piano bench—his piano bench—he realized that the collar wasn’t as gone as he had previously thought. All O’Brien had to do was jump the fence and search for it on his hands and knees. It wouldn’t even be that hard to find. Then he could take it to Hector and explain what his good pal Rusty did to his dog. But would Hector believe O’Brien?
Russell was afraid that he might.
"And why not?" Darrel asked. "I think he’s fully capable of doing all sorts of crazy stuff. Don’t you?"
"Okay, so he’s a little weird—I’ll give you that. We went back to his street this morning and—"
"Wait. You went over there? And you didn’t turn him in?!"
"No, because they’d just try to blame him for everything. He’d crack under the pressure and admit to doing stuff he couldn’t possible do. Someone’s got to protect him, goddamnit!"
"Don’t swear."
"I’m sorry, but this whole conversation is pissing me off. No one cares what happens to Mike. His dad’s away, and he’s got nowhere to go. I thought the Christian thing to do would be to take him into our home."
"Don’t give me any of that Christian bullcrap. We don’t go to church. And he’s leaving. Pronto. Do you realize your mother and I have been cleaning up after his dog all day. Huey—or whatever his name is—crapped all over our dining room rug while you were gone, and your mother had to clean it up."
"What? You didn’t help?"
"Don’t get smart with me! Just so you know: dog shit doesn’t come out of wool."
"Listen, I’m sorry."
"What kind of person doesn’t house train his dog?"
"A poor person."
"It’s wasn’t like we could throw him outside. Not in this heat. Not a bulldog."
"I know, Dad. I’ll take care of it."
"I want him out. He can stay at Pete’s or Hector’s. I don’t care, just as long as him and that dog are gone."
There was a light double rap on the door and Diane entered. She closed the door behind her and whispered, "I can hear you two from the kitchen."
"Really?" Russell whispered back.
From there on, all three whispered, but since they whispered loudly, their voices took on the husky timbres of stage whispers and thus could be heard well outside the confines of the small room.
O’Brien, who still stood in the kitchen cradling Huey in his arms, tiptoed across the living room. He pressed his ear against the glossy surface of the closed door and flattened his hand over Huey’s mouth, in case the dog tried to speak.
"Shhhh…" he said into the bulldog’s stumpy ear. "Listen."
On the other side of the door, the lady said, "I want him out, Russell. And I don’t mean tomorrow; I mean right now!"
"Just let him stay for dinner. I’ll talk to him. Maybe he has relatives…a neighbor he can stay with. We can’t just throw him out on the streets, Mom. His house isn’t ready. Those people—the CDC or whatever—are still there."
"How do you know?" A man’s voice this time.
"I don’t, but they’re probably there with the cops waiting for somebody to show up. And if Mike goes there by himself, Child Services will take him away. Or the police will arrest him and charge him with cruelty to animals. Or something."
"Well, maybe it’s for the best."
"Do you even hear yourself, Dad? He didn’t do it. It was a rabid dog, or a bear…"
"How would you know that?" the lady asked.
"I was over there earlier today. I saw them carrying out a dead dog. It was big, so it was probably what killed those animals. That makes more sense than Mike singlehandedly trapping and disemboweling hundreds of rabbits or whatever."
"I heard the dog they carried out didn’t have a head."
"My God!" the lady gasped. "Where did you hear that?"
"Frank Nelson was over there gawking; he told me."
The man again: "Russell, he’s gone. Do you hear me? I don’t want him in my house any longer. What kind of kid cuts off a dog’s head? What kind of monster…"
"He didn’t do it,"—Russell this time—"Mike loves dogs. You’ve seen how he is with Huey."
The woman: "Yeah, I’ve seen just how much he loves that dog of his. After you two left me alone in the kitchen, he started kissing him on the face and singing to him. When Johnny Comes Marching Home. Can you believe that? He gives me the creeps. Just get rid of them both; I don’t care how you do it."
"But Mom, he has nowhere to go."
r /> "He can’t stay here."
"Why not?"
"Hmmm, let’s see. He’s dirty, his dog isn’t housetrained, he’s deranged, he’s wanted by the cops and the CDC. Are those reasons enough? How about this one: I’ll call Price if you don’t get him to leave. So if you really care about your friend, you’ll ask him to politely vamoose."
"I can’t believe you people. Such elitist snobs."
"Watch your mouth, kid!" the man said loudly, forgetting that he was supposed to whisper. "Remember who you’re talking to."
"Price is away for the weekend," Rusty said.
"Valerie said he’d be back by suppertime."
"Shhhhh, Mom. He’s probably on the other side of the door, listening in on us."
"No he’s not, because if he were, he’d have that stupid dog with him, and I’d be able to hear its ceaseless panting. I had to listen to it all day, so I know what it sounds like. I hope he’s aware that his dog is going to die soon."
"Jesus Christ—listen to you. Have some heart, for crying out loud. Let him stay one more night."
"No!!" they both cried out simultaneously.
Balancing on the balls of his feet, O’Brien backed slowly away from the door, keeping his eyes glued to the varnished white surface as he went. In his retreat, his footfalls sounded the quietest of taps on the hardwood floor. Once in the kitchen, he peered over the living room sofa, at the horizontal bar of light below the piano room door. A pair of shadows moved pendulously within the light. Disconnected voices emanated from the door’s surface.
O’Brien lowered Huey onto the tiles. The bulldog looked up with wide, brown eyes—eyes that said, What are we going to do? Where are we going to go? And Mike felt like collapsing and crying right there. Huey would lick his tears, he was sure of it, and when Mike decided he had cried enough, he would get back up and pretend as if nothing had happened. Russell and his parents would stare at him while he made a go of it, and they would question him afterward. But Mike would press his lips together and refuse to speak.
Was Rusty really going to kick him out? It sounded like he had to. His parents were meanies—poopy-heads, for sure. How he wished Huey would attack them and bite their stinking heads off. Huey would never do that, though, because Huey was a good dog, like Apollo, who Mike thought was the coolest dog ever (after Huey, that is; no dog is cooler than Huey).
A couple of nights ago, Mike had dreamt he had ridden Apollo like a horse. And how fast and far the Dane had taken him on his high, sturdy back! He knew it was only a dream, even while dreaming it, but it had felt so real at the time, and it had felt so real afterwards, that he didn’t care if it was only make believe. It was that good. Him wrapping his arms around Apollo’s neck, hugging his body tight with his legs, then the both of them traveling away together. He couldn’t remember where the Dane had carried him away to, though. It was somewhere far away and beautiful—that much he could recall. There were lots of bugs flying around, and the grass was tall and thick. Yet they plowed through it like it was nothing, the blades ferociously whipping their bodies, numbing their flesh, tickling them into shared ecstasy. And Apollo never once slowed or grew weary with him on his back. They were one, he and Apollo. There was music, too. Soft, tinkling piano music pouring from the clouds and hitting his face like rain. Mike could tell it was Rusty’s music, because no one else in the universe played like him. And it smelled so pretty there—like pie. He’d give anything to go back.
Russell opened the door and walked through the living room. O’Brien stared at him as he approached. Darrel and Diane stole up the staircase, giving their son the privacy he needed.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry Russell repeated in his head while keeping up the role of Concerned Friend that he had played so well in the piano room. His parents had bought the act, but that didn’t mean O’Brien would. I bet a million dollars he heard every word we said in there. And he’s about to cry, too. Look at him.
If O’Brien noticed any expression on Russell’s face other than that of obliging host and concerned friend, he would break into a medley of tears and wild, rambunctious fists. Russell knew this, so he focused every ounce of his energy into appearing neutral, as if the only thing discussed behind the closed door had been tonight’s dinner menu.
"Hey, Mike. What’s up?"
Not casual enough. He sees right through you, Rus.
The bulldog cocked his head and stared at Russell with dull, saturnine eyes.
O’Brien looked at his dog but spoke to Russell. "Huey thinks you’re going to kick us out." Mike knelt, grabbed hold of one of the dog’s skin flaps, and in a cooing, infantile voice, said, "Don’t he boy? He wunts to kick us out! The meanies wunt to kick us out."
"Mike, look at me. I said look at me! This wasn’t my idea. My parents—" Russell glanced over his shoulder, then took Mike’s elbow and led him and Huey out the back door.
Once they were all outside, he began his spiel. "My parents don’t want you here—shit, it’s hot! If it were up to me, I’d let you stay here forever. You could be my little brother."
You don’t want that at all. You’re just kissing his ass to save yours.
"Really?"
"No, not really, Mike. I talked them into letting you stay for dinner. After that, you’ll have to go to Sheriff Price’s house. He lives next door. He’s an alright guy, but you gotta—hold on a sec."
Russell hurried back to the door. Inside, Apollo had reared back and put his forepaws on the glass, which meant only one thing. When Russell opened the door, the Dane bolted across the patio and into the yard.
"As I was saying, none of this is your fault. Like I told you in the truck: shit happens. There probably was a rabid animal, but now it’s dead, so there’s nothing to worry about."
"Yeah, you killed Lola."
Oh, yeah, that stings.
"Lola was rabid, Mike. She was going to die anyway."
O’Brien took a deep breath. A grin crept across his face.
"Don’t you dare," Russell warned, "start singing that song again. I mean it."
"Up yours, Rusty," O’Brien said timidly, darting his gaze to Huey.
His business complete, Apollo ambled over to the patio and stood next to Russell. Like a quadruped sentry, the Great Dane peered down his long muzzle at the squat, dirty bulldog sitting on its left haunch ten feet away. Huey panted exorbitantly, his tongue dripping dark dots onto the scorching bricks that evaporated seconds after striking the surface. Watching the bulldog struggle to stand, Russell wondered if Apollo felt pity for Huey the same way he felt pity for O’Brien. Did his dog look down upon the maladapted creature with disdain? Was Apollo a snob?
Of course not. Apollo’s a dog. Dogs don’t think that way.
"Go ahead. Say ‘up yours’ to me all you want. It’s not going to change your situation any. Are you listening to me? Look at me."
O’Brien’s eyes met Russell’s.
Pushing down the ire that was beginning to rise, Russell spoke in a tone of goodwill. "Do you have a number you can reach your dad at?"
O’Brien scratched his head, stalling. Finally, he said, "No. He’s out taking a haul to Miami. After that, he’s going to Atlanta. Then to Charlotte. Then to—"
"When’s he getting back?"
"Probably Wednesday."
"Probably?"
"I don’t know." Mike began walking around the large patio. Huey got up and chased his heels.
Russell snapped his fingers. "I can’t believe I’m just now thinking of this! Sheriff Price can find a place for you to stay."
"I want to go home."
"You can’t go home. Your yard’s a biological contamination area."
"They could’ve cleaned it up by now." His voice brimmed with hope.
"But they’ll want to talk to you. They’ll want to interview you, Mike, and you can’t handle that. You barely look at people when they talk to you, and whenever they ask serious questions, you smirk. That looks bad; that always
looks bad. You’ll just end up breaking down and crying like a baby when they trick you into contradicting yourself. And you better believe me, they will trick you. They want to blame you for everything. That’s why you need Price. He can stick up for you, because I can talk to him."
"No. I want to go home!"
O’Brien turned, as if to walk away.
"They’re waiting for you. They’ll take you away from your dad. From Huey, too."
Why am I so cruel to him?
Mike turned to face Russell. His mouth hung wide open. "No they won’t. You’re lying."
"If you think I’m lying, then go. They’ve been inside your house. They should’ve gotten a search warrant, but you know the saying, ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures.’ They’ve seen what it’s like in there."
"Why are you so mean?"
A tear fell unhindered from Mike’s bloodshot, crusty left eye, and for a brief millisecond, Russell’s heart broke. It had been on the verge of breaking ever since Hector knocked the wind out of Pete two days earlier. It was a thermal thing, really. While playing his music, his heart would warm to the temperature of steam. Then, when harm fell upon one of his friends, it would cool to bitter ice. It had thumpa-thump-thumped with feverish intensity while he had chopped away at Lola’s neck. Then, seconds later, after realizing what he had done and to whose dog he had done it, it had frozen solid in his chest. A hairline fracture had split the myocardial tissue right down the middle upon seeing the dying stray in Ursula’s parking lot and choosing to walk away, to ignore it. Now it had finally broken—and was it any surprise? Yet somehow it kept beating.
"I’m so sorry," Russell blurted out, turning away. He didn’t want O’Brien seeing the tears forming in his own eyes. He paused to stare into his blurry backyard. When the lump in his throat shrunk enough to allow him to speak normally, he said, "You’ve got to see this from my perspective."
"You killed Lola, you MURDERER!"
Russell jumped at the sudden loudness; Apollo barked. When Russell looked back, O’Brien met his eyes and said smugly, "I’m going to tell Hector what you did, and then he’s going to kill you."
“No you’re not."
"I am."
Russell forgot about his damned broken heart. He hated the kid again. He had always hated the kid.
"After all I’ve done for you…" Russell whispered.
"Up yours, doodoo head!"
"Very mature, O’Brien."
"I hate you and your meanie parents." He darted his tongue at Russell then backed away, as if expecting Russell to lash out.
"Why don’t you grow up. I’m serious—be a man." Russell reached down and stroked Apollo’s fuzzy skull. "You’re seventeen, act like it. You know what? I’m through with your shit. Get the hell out of here. Go home, go to Hector’s—I don’t care which. I tried so hard to fight for you; I try so hard to fight for everyone, and all they ever do is shit on me. You’re no different than anybody else, even though you try to be, so just go and leave me alone.…Go!"
Russell shooed him away with his hands. Mike stood in place, eying Russell unbelievingly.
"Well, shoo! Go on. Get!"
"I—"
"I, what!? You’re done here. Get the hell off my property." Pointing at the bulldog: "And take that with you!"
Mike looked at Huey, then broke out in a sprint.
Shit, he’s attacking me!
Mike ran the dozen or so feet across the patio (Huey didn’t move an inch), his old Nikes falling and rising off the clay ochre bricks. Panting through clenched teeth, spittle seeped through the cracks of his incisors, glazing his pink, acne-ridden chin.
Without thinking, Russell ducked and covered his head, but at the last second, instead of jumping onto Russell’s back, O’Brien veered right and jumped onto Apollo’s back instead.
Mike threw his arms around the Dane’s neck, collapsing the dog and sending the pair tumbling into the grass, where they barrel-rolled twice before coming to a stop. Apollo kicked and barked like a banshee, writhing his body and arching his neck in terror.
O’Brien lifted Apollo to his feet, then dropped his weight on his back.
"GO ‘POLLO GO!!"
Apollo fell to his knees, then careened to port. As they were going down, O’Brien wrapped his legs around the Great Dane’s heaving trunk. Enraged, Apollo growled at his attacker.
"GO ‘POLLO!! RUN!!"
On his side now, Apollo kicked blindly at air and grass. Mike held on as the Dane reared his head and snarled a vicious, primal grin.
Russell yelled something (most likely a surprised blather or a curse word), and ran into the yard to pry Mike off his dog. He wasn’t gentle about it either, repeatedly punching Mike’s thigh in order to get him to relax his leg muscles. When that didn’t work, he pounded his ribs. That seemed to do the trick.
"YOU PSYCHO!! WHAT WAS THAT?! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?! If you hurt my dog, I swear to God I’ll rip your fuckin’ nuts outta your goddamn scrote, you…psycho!!"
Russell screamed all of this while punching the kid who had tackled his dog. He really wanted to sock the fucker in the face, but somehow he refrained. He just couldn’t do it. Not while the kid was lying on the ground, panting heavily and drooling like a toddler. But he wanted to. Oh boy, did he ever want to.
After getting Apollo back onto his feet, Russell glanced down at Mike, who lay curled up in the fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably. Disgusted, Russell turned his attention to Apollo, who ran wide circles around the yard, far away from where the scary human had caught him off guard.
He’s not limping; that’s good. But he sure is riled up.
Now Huey joined in on the excitement. He directed his grunts and growls at Russell, but the bulldog stayed on the patio. He was no real threat anyway: all bark and no bite.
Apollo ceased galloping. His ears perked, and when he saw Huey, he began to bark, which incited Huey to try to bark even louder. Soon, dogs from the neighborhood, as well as dogs from miles away, joined in on the ruckus.
"Get up and get out," Russell said, kicking O’Brien’s butt with the sole of his shoe. He kicked with enough force to show him who was boss, but not hard enough to regret it later.
Mike struggled to his knees. Huey waddled into the grass and nudged his master with his protruding bottom row of teeth. Get up, he seemed to say. You’re beat, kid. Get up so we can go away.
With one broad swipe of his forearm, Mike wiped most of the tears and dirt from his face. When he looked at Russell, his eyes burned with hatred.
Russell didn’t care.
Mike said nothing as he limped to the wrought iron gate and neither did Russell. Huey followed at his master’s ankles, and if the dog had had a tail instead of a stump, it would have hung low between his legs.
O’Brien opened the gate with a sweaty, grimy hand and let Huey exit first. After the heavy metal bars slammed shut behind him, Mike turned, looked Russell squarely in the eyes, squinted his own, and said, "I’m going to kill you."
"Go home, O’Brien. You’ve done enough damage here."
"I can’t."
"Yes you can. Be a man. And if I find out you hurt Apollo, I’m going to kill you."
"No you won’t. You’re just a big ‘ol scaredy cat, Whitford."
Before Russell could respond, O’Brien turned and tore down the driveway. Huey fought to keep pace, but his legs were too short and his body too fat.
Watching Mike jump over the wilting azalea bushes at the end of driveway, Russell had to admit: the kid was fast.
Then the kid was gone.