Guns And Dogs

Copyright ©2016 by T.A. Uner

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or an other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

Cover Art by Deranged Doctor Design

Formatting by Polgarus Studio

Editing by Amanda Horan

Learn more about T.A Uner at
http://www.leopardkingsaga.com/

Tucson, Arizona

Present Day

Bloodboy hated high school.

It wasn’t the acrimonious stares he endured in the hallways, nor the shoves in the back he received when he was trying to open his locker in the hallway, although those were definitely part of the problem. No. It was much more than that. It was the uphill battle he faced just to be accepted. He didn’t give a flying fart if his teachers liked him or not, they could all go to hell as far as he was concerned. It was the other kids who hated him. Just cause he was
different
.

His only friend was Frank Dooley, whom Bloodboy called by his hacker name “Diablo.” Diablo, like Bloodboy, dressed in black. They called themselves the “Black Brothers,” even though they weren’t related. But most of the kids, the jocks especially, called them the “Butt Brothers.” Bloodboy wished there weren’t so many of them, then, maybe, he could sucker punch one of them and exact his revenge, especially for the locker room beat-downs he’d endured after gym class.

Was it fair? Course not. His parents had drilled that into him since he could remember. But he and Diablo would get even. Yes. They would both show these high school pricks what pain was all about.

Diablo’s father kept a gun up in the attic, an old M1903 Sniper Rifle that his great-uncle had used during World War II. But it was just one gun. Between the two of them, there was only so much damage one gun could inflict.

One day, after school in a secluded corner of McDonalds, using various code words to mask their proposed transgression, they had discussed their plan to get even with their schoolmates. It was then that a strange man calling himself Grendis had approached them. Bloodboy whispered into Diablo’s ear, warning his friend to be on guard, that the newcomer could be a plainclothes cop who had overheard their conversation and was trying to entrap them. Despite their precautionary measures of speaking, it was possible they had been discovered. They ignored him at first but he stood there. Both boys told him to get lost but Grendis remained. He then placed a small briefcase on top of their table and told them to open it outside the restaurant. Grendis also placed a business card on the table, and told them to call him in case they needed anything else. At first, both boys scoffed at Grendis’ offer, but the man just stood there and smiled at them both. Grendis’ eyes looked confident but there was still something odd about him that he just couldn’t put his finger on. Diablo knew Blood would need more convincing, but he decided to take a chance.

It seemed too good to be true. But after Grendis had left they’d inspected the contents of the briefcase in Diablo’s car and found two TEC-9s and four hand grenades. Along with a tablet filled with notes and diagrams explaining how to inflict maximum damage in public places.

“You still think he’s a cop, Blood?” Diablo asked.

Bloodboy stared at the instruments of destruction Grendis had gifted them. He thought hard and pushed away his doubt before smirking. “No, But I
do
think he could help fix all our problems.”

The Next Day

7:43 AM

On a Saturday morning, Johnny Veto reluctantly awoke to the sound of the alarm clock.

He eyed the time, slammed the “off” button and sighed. Sitting up on his bed he faced yet another day, which strangely, felt like all other days before it.

After getting dressed he eyed the orange prescription drug containers for his medication on his nightstand and shook his head ruefully.

He was eighteen, and less than a month remained before graduation. He wasn’t excited about his future educational prospects. Johnny had applied to go to UCLA and received a big fat rejection letter. So it was either the local community college or some dead-end hourly job.

He ate breakfast and checked for any new messages on his phone. There were no messages from his girlfriend Maria, but his mother, who had already left for work, had texted him a long list of chores. He didn’t feel up to completing any, let alone starting them. And writing, once an enthusiastic passion, did not seem so appealing these days.

Yesterday’s mail was sitting on the kitchen counter. He cringed when he saw the self-addressed, stamped envelope with the New York postmark, already knowing what its intended message would be, he decided to open it anyway. It read:

Dear Mr. Veto,

We appreciate you contacting us and submitting your manuscript,
Burnt Spades
. However, after careful consideration, we regret to inform you that we will not be pursuing representation at this time.

Writing is subjective, and we wish you the best of luck in finding a home for
Burnt Spades.

Sincerely,

Darkwood Literary Agency

His latest rejection was nothing new, he’d amassed over fifty of them in the past year. But instead of accepting his fate and developing a thick skin like his parents had advised, he found himself wondering if he would ever find an agent to represent him. He had heard of self-publishing, but like most writers, wanted the massive exposure a traditional contract would get him. He knew
Burnt Spades
had bestseller potential written all over it. Who wouldn’t wanna read about the adventures of a shape-shifting teenager?

“Why doesn’t anything seem to work,” he grumbled, wishing for even one stroke of fortune to arrive at his doorstep.

Then there was the ultimate setback, the loss of his father, Scott Veto. This severed the last vestiges of confidence he’d had about the future. It had begun with his father’s disappearance while working for his government job. It continued with a strange phone call his mother had received late one night in which she had sobbed uncontrollably. And the fact that she had not revealed the details of the call to Johnny, except to tell him the man who had called was his father’s co-worker, offering his condolences. He found himself eating less, and sleep was hard to come by too, which took a toll on his writing time.

After an episode of indifference at school, combined with his nosediving grades, his mother had taken him to Dr. Fields, a specialist in young adult depression.

In all fairness to Dr. Fields, she was a decent shrink who was determined to help, but Johnny wasn’t buying into her spoon-fed positivity speeches. Neither she, nor the medication, was helping him shed the apathy that had taken hold of his life.

And then there was Maria. Gentle, beautiful Maria. His muse, his constant source of support. The only comfort in his dreary existence. He could’ve used her company right now.

They’d met during sophomore year. Johnny had never met a girl quite like her. She was understanding, and blessed with an abundance of empathy for his concerns. She’d been his savior when he’d almost given up on his writing, not allowing him to stay mired inside a self-inflicted dose of pity. In truth, she was a lot more useful than Fields had been, and the best part was she didn’t charge $300 per hour.

He checked his voicemail and saw that Maria had left a message for him last night at 11:45 PM. After pressing the voicemail button his ear was greeted by Maria’s Spanish-accented voice. As he listened to the message his brow furrowed and his heart dropped into his stomach. She was moving to Europe after graduation.

He’d been unceremoniously dumped over the phone.

Johnny got in his Jeep and drove to Saguaro National Park. He always went there when he was down, and lately he’d been down a lot. His father’s absence, faltering writing career, and now Maria leaving him had conspired to send him down a dark path.

The desert highway was flanked by Spanish Bayonets in bloom while a Jumping Cholla cactus stared at him under a clear, white sky. But even the scenery could not raise Johnny’s spirits. He entered the park and drove towards the parking lot. After leaving his Jeep behind, he trudged upon the Hugh Norris trail. It wasn’t even noon, yet the white sun beat down on Johnny’s forehead and within a matter of minutes his shirt was damp with sweat. He climbed the steps to Wasson Peak as Saguaro Cacti dotted the landscape.

He stopped and shielded his face from the sun before moving towards a large rock for the shade it offered. After taking refuge behind it, he drew a box cutter from his jeans pocket. He stared at the cutter before dispensing the blade. He lowered it towards a purple vein visible underneath the skin of his wrist and closed his eyes. For a second he thought of his Mother. Was he being selfish? If this act was successful, she’d be alone.

He heard a dog growl, then another.
What the hell?

“You really wanna cut your wrists in a place as beautiful as Saguaro Park?” a man’s voice said.

Johnny’s eyes fluttered open and he spun around to face the voice.

“Who the hell are you?” Johnny asked.

“Argos Better,” said the unexpected visitor, a black man with two large panting dogs flanking him. They were rust-colored and roughly resembled Doberman Pinschers. The man noticed Johnny staring at the imposing beasts and smiled. “I take it you’ve never seen a Red Doberman?” he said. “Well they’re special dogs. Meet Jessie and Studs.”

The dogs barked in unison at Johnny, who felt strange staring at the three newcomers with a box cutter in his hand. “Where did you come from?”

“Originally?” the man replied. “Baton Rouge, Louisiana.” He chuckled. “But that’s a story for another time. Let’s talk about you. What’cha plan on doing with that blade there Johnny?”

Johnny looked at the box cutter, then back at the man.
He knows my name. This is creepy,
Johnny thought
.
“Why do you care?”

The man sighed. “Well, you remind me somewhat of my brother, Ronny. You see he’s a painter; used to get into gloomy moods quite often. When he was younger, he used to isolate himself at times. I’d go find him and we’d chat a bit then afterwards he’d feel a lot better. So, if you want to talk about it, that's alright with me, chief.” He crossed his arms as he and the two dogs eyed Johnny meticulously.

“What makes you think I want to talk to you?” Johnny retracted the blade and slipped the box cutter into his front jean pocket. “I don’t even know you, man.” He took another close look at Argos and tried to recall him. For a brief moment he thought he’d seen him before. But where?

“You may not believe me, but I know a lot more about you than you think Johnny Veto.”

Is this guy a stalker or something?
Johnny wondered. He studied the man. He wore a tight short-sleeved T-shirt which displayed his muscular biceps. Two tattoos decorated each of his forearms. He also wore a strange device on his wrist, which Johnny suspected wasn’t a watch. “How so?” Johnny answered.

“I knew your father; we served in the Gulf War together.” The man extended his hand.

At the mention of his father, Johnny bristled. “Me and my Dad were really close, and he never mentioned
you
.”
Creep alert.
Johnny looked at the dogs, who returned his gaze incisively.
Creepy dogs alert.

Argos retracted his hand, a disappointed look tinting his face. “I don’t suppose he would have.”