[Mr. I]
I awoke to dogs barking.
It’s the middle of the day, and I can sleep off a typical lawn mowing or weed whacking; I work second shift.
But “dogs barking” was fairly a-typical ambient noise.
I wake on the couch, and LOBO is riveted by an infomercial broadcast from the channel I fell asleep watching. Fitness equipment. Scripted “Human Interest” stories, fully feted with testimonials.
What could be less interesting than a ‘Human Interest’ story?
It’s hot … late June. I stumble to my feet and walk to the screen door.
Two huge dogs, a gray one and a black one, are horse-playing free in the yard across the street.
The phone rings.
“You see this shit?” says Cobe.
“Yeah,” I says into the phone. I’m a little distracted; I can’t see the street from here, and I think I can distinctly hear a mournful howl.
“Man, I think the small one is a hundred-and-ten pounds!”
Cobe has two small kids.
“Call the Pound,” I says, intrigued by the howling. “I gotta go.”
I go up to the screen door, where the two dogs are still bounding and playing in plain view.
And I’m fascinated. It’s the kinda play that a human being can envy.
And then these two little antennae stick up in the center of the botCobe of the screen door.
And then the fuckin thing went MEOW.
Both dogs zeroed in on the sound like sharks, and came blazing for the door.
“You slick little asshole!” laughs LOBO as he inches the door open. The cat slinks in and BANG, a dog crashes against the screen door as it closes behind.
Safe inside, the fuckin cat just stood there an howled at us.
LOBO, inexplicably, decided on the spot to call it “Phil”.
“Phil’s kinda chubby”, I says.
Phil meowed again.
“And needy, ” says LOBO.
Bang! goes another dog on the door.
LOBO dutifully scoops Phil up so he can hurl it out the back door before it pisses all over my trailer. But something in Phil’s sCobeach moved, and it freaked out LOBO completely.
“Phil, you whore!” he says. “You’re pregnant!?”
‘Phil’ was giving birth.
Now.
LOBO was gathering towels and boiling water as Phil settled into the fireplace, several months unused. It was a curious choice of location, but it was somewhat dark, secluded and removed.
The phone rang.
It was Cobe again.
“Hey, it’s me,” he says.
“Hey buddy,” I says distractedly. “Did you call the Pound?”
“No,” he says. His cell phone is cutting in and out, and there’s a lot of noise on the line. Traffic, maybe.
There’s a long, inordinate pause.
“What do you want Cobe?” I finally ask. “I’m a little busy right now.”
“Well, I’ve been contracted to kill you,” he says coolly.
“Really?” I says, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Actually, contracted is a pretty piss-poor way to describe it. The Fat Man’s been blackmailing me since that whole cheerleader debacle … “
“Oh my fuckin God!” says LOBO. “Phil’s first baby is comin out!”
Ignoring LOBO, I focus on Cobe. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
“Well, I’m not killing you, am I?” says Cobe.
Suddenly there’s a loud crash.
“What the fuck was that?” asks Cobe.
“Nothing,” I says. “LOBO just fainted.”
“Oh.”
“So what exactly are you telling me, Cobe?”
“I’m telling you that you’re on the Fat Man’s shit list. Big time. He’s bad news since the divorce, and I can’t control him anymore.”
“So you’re running?”
Long pause.
“Well, it’s better than the alternative,” he says finally. I think for a minute. ‘From the hip’, I’m thinking Cobe is just a chicken-shit.
... But he really didn’t have to warn me either.
“Hey Cobe,” I says.
“What?”
“Thanks, man. Really. And good luck.”
“You too kid.”
I hung up and tossed the phone aside. With Phil pumpin out kitten number three, LOBO had fainted dead away, spilling towels and boiling water everywhere.
“Wake up!” I said, smacking him. There’s something about smacking LOBO that’s very therapeutic.
Pasty and pale, LOBO staggered to his feet.
“Phil’s gonna need cat food and kitty litter and all kinds of stuff, stat” I says, handing him my VISA.
LOBO, still woozy, looked a little relieved. “Okay. Kitty litter, food … “
We spent a few minutes going over a phony shopping list, and LOBO shot out to the car, narrowly avoiding the now-angry hounds. Hearing the car start, I bent down to the fireplace. ‘Phil’ was pushing out kitten number six.
And then there was a bright flash.
Like a camera flash going off, but physically hot.
I’m disoriented, and I back out of the fireplace. What the fuck was that?
I’m kinda blind. I stumble back against a counter, and work my way to my feet.
I feel sunburned.
Everything in my blinded, wayward path fell to the ground with hideous noise. Through a thick white haze, I find the front door. Fumbling with the doorknob, I throw the door wide only to find excruciating daylight. I cover my eyes completely, and follow the sounds of the car engine.
“LOBO!” I says.
No answer.
My right hand finds the hood of the car, and winds it’s way to the driver’s side door handle almost on autopilot. Forcing my eyes open briefly, I can see clear ashen silhouettes of two large dogs on the ground.
LOBO is a charred husk, staring up at me with blind, white eyes, flailing at the car’s interior.
And trying in vain to say something.
