Paws

by Stefan Petrucha

  With an energetic leap, I bound onto the automatic door pads, because I still get such a kick out of it when doors open by themselves. It’s magic! When they part, Pete’s lives up to its name: A potpourri of animal fecal odors assaults my nostrils. Barks, trills, and chirps tickle my eardrums—and that’s just from all the kids promising their parents they’ll take care of their new whatever, no matter how their room looks, oh please, please, please!

  “Can I have a dog, Dad?”

  One side, you’ve got your mega-wall of bubbling fish tanks. On the other: squawking birdies who really don’t give a crap that you think you know why caged birds sing. Farther up, all the mice and other rodents are busy fornicating in front of their offspring and yours. Next to them we have the predatory reptiles, eyeing the higher-maintenance mammals, like ferrets and sugar gliders, and wondering how long each would take to digest. To the right, my target: a whole lot of yipping puppies.

  There are lessons here for all of us. It’s here that our processed-food-fed young learn the cycle of life, here that the adults learn the cycle of commerce, and here that college grads learn the cycle of underemployment.

  But I know something they don’t—that beneath this seeming utopia of cages, wood chips, and readily available nutrition lies a potential time bomb. At any moment, Pete’s and all within it could be torn apart by a rampaging behemoth masquerading as a puffy pillow of love.

  Or not. Could just be a real Alsatian puppy.

  So what’s my move? Kip made the shift right in front of me, but that might’ve been a fluke. For all I know, the transformation could take place over days or weeks. But my list is long, and something tells me I’d better move fast to flush out the lurking horror before it quits lurking and gets all horrid. Not sure what the “something” is. Probably one of the voices in my head.

  Don’t you dare blame me.

  Or me.

  Hm. Kip changed right after a fall from a tall building. Maybe a sudden adrenaline rush triggers the change.

  I think that’s an informal logical fallacy there.

  Post hoc, ergo propter hoc. Just because something happens after something else, you can’t conclude it happened because of it.

  So all I have to do is create a little adrenaline rush, and see what comes of it.

  Katana are great when you don’t want attention. For this, I hop up on a seasonal display, slip out my Glock .45 GAP pistols, and start shooting.

  Ptaff! Ptaff! Tzing!

  Bits of cheap ceiling tile and plasterboard fall. Shoppers screech. Employees race for cover. Goldfish dive into faux castles, never to be seen again, and best of all, the freaking birds finally shut their beaks. Lest anyone misinterpret, I speak loudly and calmly:

  “Don’t worry, citizens! I’m a crack shot! No one will be hurt! I’m just trying to rattle a monster to get it to show itself!”

  Packeta-pack! Pwee!

  But do they listen? Do they notice I’m just making patterns in the wall? No. It’s all panic, panic, panic, run, run, run. Man, Sherlock Holmes shot whole words into his Baker Street wall, and Mrs. Hudson barely blinked. I don’t get no love.

  Tkak-pow!

  At least the manager keeps his head. He ducks his way up to me, swinging one of those aluminum thingies they use to grab stuff off the high shelves.

  “Stop! Stop!”

  He shakes it at me like it’s a bat. I could point out that even if it were a bat, it wouldn’t be particularly useful against two guns. Instead, I cast an admiring glance his way.

  “It takes balls to walk up to a masked guy shooting up a store, sir, and I respect that.”

  I keep firing, but with respect.

  Dakka-dakka-dak!

  “You maniac!”

  “Sir, the details are very hush-hush, but I’m afraid you and your patrons may be in danger.”

  He swings. “From you, you freaking lunatic!”

  His aluminum picker crumples against the display, and he gets all sad. Could’ve told him those things make crappy weapons, but he didn’t ask. To take his mind off his troubles, I keep him talking.

  “Sir? I’m looking for an Alsatian puppy that was shipped here two days ago, but—and this is a little embarrassing—I don’t know what an Alsatian looks like. Think you could describe one for me? It doesn’t have to be lengthy in terms of word count, but I will need you to try and be evocative.”

  Ptaff! Ptaff!

  He gets all red-faced. “An Alsatian?!”

  He tries to grab my feet, but the poor guy’s an inch too short, which explains why he was walking around with that picker in the first place.

  “No need to take a tone, sir. I’m doing the best I can.”

  Beads of sweat join the red on his face. “You’re shooting up a packed store for nothing!”

  “It might seem like nothing, but as Orwell said, ‘Those who abjure violence can do so only because others are committing violence on their behalf.’”

  Pwing! Takat!

  “You idiot! We just sold that puppy!”

  Packeta…

  “Oh.”

  The Glocks are empty, anyway. I point them at the ceiling and eject the magazines. Given my faux pas, the move doesn’t look as cool as I’d hoped. Plus, one of the mags bounces off the manager’s head and lands in a ferret cage.

  “Uh…how long ago?”

  “Like a minute before you came in! Look at this place! My God!

  My God!”

  Feeling a tad sheepish, I look around. There are holes in the walls and holes in a few pet-supply displays, but not so much as a crack in an aquarium. I want to say something about having to break a few eggs to make an omelet, but my ears prick up at a familiar sound: sirens.

  “Why, sir! Did you call the police?”

  The stalwart, height-challenged manager isn’t listening. He’s busy hustling the last few customers and employees out the back.

  I wave. “Godspeed to you, sir! Godspeed!”

  And I am alone, alone with my thoughts; alone with my failing memories, my imperfect perceptions—and a few hundred animals. Hey, that means I’m not alone at all, am I? But who are the real animals here? The helpless creatures we define as pets? The humans who, as if they were gods, buy and sell these lives? Or the crazy guy with the smoking Glocks?

  Guy with the Glocks.

  Definitely.

  There is much to consider. But now—with plasterboard dust and kitty litter settling all around like gray, mass-manufactured snow—I hear something else above the sirens, a plaintive cry that pierces the night:

  “Help! Help! Help!”

  Somewhere a soul is in distress—an innocent endangered, a monster being born.

  And I know in my heart I must answer.

  CHAPTER 5

  CAPTAIN AMERICA—Super-Soldier; hero of the Second World War; a man who, despite the intervening decades since his fateful encounter with the serum that gave him his great abilities, still remembers what it’s like to be weak, and so truly understands what it means to be strong.

  CAPTAIN AMERICA—the first Avenger, a man so entwined with the stars and stripes adorning his proud costume that even those closest to him are never quite sure where his lofty ideals end and the flesh-and-blood man begins.

  CAPTAIN AMERICA—Champion of Democracy, Sentinel of

  Liberty, Bodyguard of the Bill of Rights, a man out of time, a man trapped in a modern world that moves so quickly it sometimes seems to have outgrown the very principles that brought it so far so fast.

  CAPTAIN AMERICA…is NOT in this book.

  Fooled you. Being psychotic means never having to say I’m sorry. It’s all up for grabs, kiddies. Even that last sentence. But enough of that.

  Blood rushing, legs pumping, and _____________ (something faster than lightning) reflexes peaking, I head for the exit of the decimated pet store.

  That’s right. I destroyed a tenth of it, give or take.

  I’m poised for action, prepped to propel myself into whatever perilous pup
py-themed plight awaits. But you know what? In this hectic modern life of ours, it’s important to stop and smell the roses. So I pause to jump up and down on the black pad in front of the doors, making them open and close. I love how that works.

  Uh, monster?

  I’m on it. Once outside, I hear that panicked voice cry out again,

  “Help! Help! Help!”

  I look left, I look right, I look behind me. I look under my shoe. Nothing. Nothing I want to touch, anyway. Don’t blame me. Humans suck at audio-location. That’s why you only need one bass speaker, because most of us can’t tell what direction the low-frequency sound’s coming from.

  “Help! Help! Help!”

  Hm. Could it be a cry from within?

  Nope.

  Not here.

  Having exhausted all other options, I look in the only direction remaining: up. Whaddaya know? There’s my screamer! Hm. He’s not much to look at. Could be a dad who picked up an Alsatian puppy to surprise the kids, or a lonely businessman who wanted something to greet him when he came home at night. I could give you his hair color, age, height, or weight—or some clever evocative metaphor (face sour as a squeezed grapefruit)—but really, in the end, he’s boring. I’d much rather go back and describe all those S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. And his dialogue is totally lame:

  “Help, help, help!”

  No hint of character, or even any info to keep the plot moving. How about, “Eek! I’m being kidnapped!” Or, “My new puppy has transformed into something huge, and I have reason to believe it means me ill!” Or even, “Aiee! The world has been upended! What once I held in my arms now holds me!”

  On the other hand, the creature holding him way up there? Now that’s interesting. My, my, my! Someone get me my silk folding fan, the one with the black sequins, because I do believe I am feeling faint!

  Sporting much-better-than-Goom wings, it flaps along about twenty yards above Central Avenue, clutching the shrieking Mr. Dull in its…shall we call them hands? Overall, it looks like a big old gray stone building—but you gotta figure it’s not really a building, because buildings can’t fly, right? Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon? Nah. It isn’t T-Day, and why would anyone make a giant gray balloon?

  Heart all aflutter, I clamber onto a parked van for a better look. From the hewn-stone gray of its skin, craggy features emerge, rising like the tree-hidden faces of U.S. presidents on a diner placemat. And those wings? Oh, mama. These are vast, bat-like suckers. Stylish, too—their sharp bony tips are a perfect match for the big pointy ears rising on either side of its classic goblin face. You’d think something that looks like it was chopped out of granite wouldn’t need clothes, but it’s wearing shorts as gray and lumpy as its skin, covering up privates that probably don’t exist.

  Unlike Goom, this fellow looks just like one of those… whaddaya call the statues that sit on ledges to carry water away from the roof? St. Romanus fought one in the seventh century? There was a cartoon show? It’s on the tip of my tongue.

  “Now the world will feel the might of Gorgolla, the Living Gargoyle!”

  I snap my fingers. “Gargoyle, that’s it! Thanks! But Gorgolla? Dude, that sounds like some kind of cheese.”

  The monster either ignores me, or he’s too far up to hear. No problem. I am poetry in motion. An expert leap to a fire escape’s bottom rung, some quick climbing, another jump, a midair twist, a landing roll, and I’m on the roof of Pete’s running right alongside the wing-flapping beastie.

  “Help, help, help!” the helpless victim screams.

  Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll alert the press.

  I’m out of roof, so I leap to a multiplex next door. The place is still under construction—and what a mess, let me tell you. So much trash around, I’m wasting my time zigzagging around open crates, unused bits of ventilation shaft, and general detritus. In the first draft, I even stepped on a rake that slapped me in the face, but everyone agreed that would be ridiculous. There’s a chute leading down to a dumpster all set up, but do they bother to use it? No.

  With no small effort, I do manage to catch up with Gorbachevolla. I wave my arms at his flying enormousness.

  “Hey there, Gargy-boy! Can you hear me now?”

  He looks ahead, like I’m not even there. I chuck a brick at his nose, and he turns his eyes my way long enough to correct me: “I am Gorgolla! And I hunger!”

  What do you know? He was ignoring me. Guess I hurt his feelings. As long as he’s holding Yawn-Man, I can’t use the spray, so I cleverly poke at his weak points.

  “Hey, Gogo-ooh-lah-lah! Sensitive about the puny humans getting your name wrong, huh? You want to project strength. I get it. But if you really want the world to, as you say, feel your might, I gotta ask why a Living Gargoyle such as yourself would ever be caught dead carrying Mr. Monotonous in his big strong claws? What does it say about you? We are all, like it or not, judged by the victims we torment, aren’t we?”

  He raises the screamer and gives him a look. “Help! Help! Help!”

  I can tell from his disgusted gargoyle expression that he agrees.

  “If I were you, I’d trade up, go for someone more attention-grabbing, someone who’ll make the world sit up and take notice. Someone…” I puff out my chest, about to say, like me—but before I can finish the sentence, the plan works. He drops the screamer.

  Because you’re that good.

  And smart, too!

  I already said you could stay. You don’t have to brownnose me.

  Anyway, while Gouda the Poppadum flaps off to look for that special someone, I have to take my eyes off the prize and deal with the victim.

  And yes, he screams, “Help! Help! Help!” on the way down.

  Feh. I’m not some super zero who goes out of his way to catch every poor shmoe about to go boom on the cement, but he’d still be safely exclaiming in Gorgollapalooza’s clutches if I’d kept my mouth shut. It’s my bad, so I gotta do something.

  Since what I do best is aim and shoot, I pop some caps into the dumpster chute’s supports. A few snap, and the slide twists, catching Dull-Boy mid-“help” and saving his dull ass so he can live out the rest of his dull life in dull peace and relative safety.

  Because…wait for it…

  You’re that good!

  Got that right.

  It’s a perfect save. Not a hair on his…

  Well, maybe not. He hits the slide harder than I expected, and now he’s rolling down like a rag doll—or perhaps more accurately, a limp corpse. I think he’s okay, but it’s hard to tell since he’s no longer repeating, “Help!”

  Damn. Now I have to check on him.

  My mistake. No sooner do I get down into the dirty dumpster than he jumps up, wraps his arms around me, and buries his head in my shoulder. And what does he have to say for himself after this life-altering experience?

  “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

  Awkward.

  I pry his nondescript hands off the costume. “Really? That’s all you’ve got? Even your gratitude is boring! Just…get out of here! Go! And don’t you ever dare have an original thought, because it’d just make you see how utterly hollow you are if you did!”

  Hands up like it’s a bank robbery, he backs away. “Okay, okay, okay!”

  “Come on! I mean, you couldn’t even keep a hungry monster interested!”

  Speaking of which, the Brobdingnagian Gorgolla is taking my advice to heart while choosing his next target. Remember that racetrack? The one I said had nothing to do with the story last chapter? Turns out, it has plenty to do with this one.

  “Gorgolla hungers!”

  And when hunger calls, who am I to wait for the machine to pick up, hoping it will leave a message at the sound of the tone? Sure, maybe it’s just a solicitor, but how can I be sure? No, I say to you, sir and madam, when hunger calls, I do not sit on the couch; I go running, joyfully, toward the sound.

  Ahem. Yonkers Raceway, over a century old, is part of the fabulous World Casino—a name that sou
nds like it’s from a comic, which is appropriate, since it looks like a bit of Vegas that fell from the sky. Complete with rainbow lights a-flashing, the complex boasts full-service gambling, lush restaurants, and Manhattan-style comedy nights. But it’s the multicolor artsy-fartsy webbed canopy hanging over the entrance that attracts our attention-seeking gargoyle.

  The colored lights make for a nice contrast with His Grayness (wish you could see it!), but I hear him smacking his lips when he spots what’s beyond it. He’s over that canopy and headed for the half-mile oval track on the other side faster than the babysitter’s boyfriend when the parents’ car pulls up.

  What’s the draw? The first harness race of the evening, already in progress.

  Harness racing?

  That a Fifty Shades bondage thing?

  Can you get my mind out of the gutter for a second? Harness racing is like Ben Hur, only sitting down, with the jockeys riding two-wheeled race bikes called sulkies. To Gorgolla, it’s meals on wheels.

  Ignoring things like entrance fees and security guards, I make for the track. I’m in eyeshot just as eight gorgeous Standardbred trotters thunder around the last turn into the home stretch.

  And what a race it is! Two of the horses take turns nosing into the lead. One second, Bringing the Bacon pulls ahead! Then it’s Daddy’s Debt! Hold on—odds-favorite Tasty Cornballs is coming up from the inside. He’s neck-and-neck with Daddy’s Debt! The finish is seconds away, folks. Or is it?

  Can you believe it? Gorgolla the Living Gargoyle, A.K.A. Fifty Shades of Grey, swoops down behind the pack, his outstretched wings raising a major dust cloud. In a seamless partnership between man and beast, the jockeys and their animals look back and see Fifty Shades nipping at their shod heels!

  The lead horses pass the finish line and keep going. The race is on again!

  And the crowd goes wild! Not like you’d think, either. I expected them to run off because of, you know, the monster. Nope. They’re either one tough group, or they’re so used to special-effects extravaganzas they think this is part of the show.