HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY to all our amazing American readers. With the incredible success of our anthology 4th in the 25th, I couldn’t pass up a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to celebrate this incredible nation’s 250th birthday. But what to say, what to write? What can my hot-rodding, hell-fighting wolves bring to the table. Well, let’s find out...

“Don’t tell me? Draft 11 already?”

General Adam Knox presumed he was deep in his fifth whiskey of the night when he started seeing his former superior come out of the shadows of his office. There the old goat of a wolf was; General Leonard Ford Godred. Blazing red jacket, white armband and button-up, black jeans and boots. Quite the contrast to the unkempt white shirt and blue jeans of his successor.

“Yeah,” the gray wolf grumbled, pitching the crumpled paper. “Looks like God pulled the emergency handle on this one tonight.”

“Do you realize,” the black-furred ghost began, “that once every hundred years—sometimes every 50—someone sat in that exact seat you are? That you had to sum up eons of history and what it stood for? You’re lucky. I got saddled with 650 in the year of our Lord 2426.”

Godred took a seat on the desk and started thumbing through the overwrought paragraphs. “And I was taking it about as well as you did—pass me whiskey, will ya?” Knox did so and the black-furred cowboy took a greedy gulp. “Trade this for some rum and Eric as a masseur and that’s about the way I looked.”

“Least you lived and breathed it,” Knox sighed. “I always feel like I’m catching up. Growing up in Haven always puts a spin on things you don’t notice till you’re outside.”

“That’s the problem with the American Dream,” Godred teased. “You ain’t the only one dreamin’ and everyone’s got their own twist on the concept. You probably remember this—otherwise I wouldn’t be able to tell you—but you know why I keep runnin’ around with the armband thing?”

The gray general nodded. “I remember something you said when you gifted me the jackets, yeah.”

“Way-way-back-when,” Godred began, “eons before you and me, there was a hound. A beautiful hound gifted beyond belief. A true artist, a sun in the world. When he grew up, got big as big could be, he started wearin’ jackets with armbands. Leather jackets, dress jackets, pinstripes; you name it, he got it. He was never on-the-level about why—always liked a mystery—but a lotta folks heard he wore it for as long as there were pups sufferin’ in the world. He was puttin’ his pesos into every cause under the blue-blessed sun, but man wasn’t God and he knew it. Did his damndest though.

“Now only a poor kid like that from an ol’ American steel-town could grow up to wrap his big arms around the world, helpin’ folks on that level. He’s a great big hunk of American dream, sweet as angel an’ worth rememberin’. Best part is he just about wrestled the symbol away from ol’ Dirtstache back in the 1940s. When I learned about him, I started wearin’ armbands and I said every time I was asked that I wouldn’t stop until we had done licked this evil pervadin’ our land.”

“Nice story,” Knox smiled, thumbing the page. “But I’m sure you put it in your speech and I don’t want to be reheating leftovers, now do I?”

“For fuck’s sakes man,” the black wolf barked, “ain’t that history in a nutshell!?”

The gray general shrank in his seat before straightening up and looking around at his drafts, littered with historical references aplenty. “Shit, never looked at it that way.”

“You think I ran around callin’ my gang of cowboy-cops after a Gaul warrior to be hip? Who the fuck do I gotta be hip for out here!?”

“No, General sir. No one, General sir.”

Even in his dreams, Knox respected rank.

“Exactly.” Godred continued. “You have at your disposal 700 years of symbolism, beauty, strength, resilience and bone-stick-stone-stupid pigheadedness. And I know it don’t look like much from the backside of the bomb. I know everything’s antiquity to us, but sit and think about that. 700 years…and she still looks good. She still worth fightin’ for, ain’t she? The flag, the Statue back east, all of it. Otherwise you wouldn’t be willin’ to ride out and rain hell on the enemy for her, now would you?”

“Right, sir.” Knox nodded.

“Now you’re the torch-bearer for the big seven-double-zero.” Godred smirked, patting Knox’s shoulder. “You got to leave a mark here that’s gonna be seen from now till day’s end. A mark they gonna see from space. ‘Cuz that’s what this is really about. Not you or me, but about the whole damn wolven race livin’ forever. From sea to shinin’ sea, from star to glimmerin’ star. We made it to the moon, motherfucker, and we’re stuck sittin’ our asses down here because of everyone’s brain’s meltin’ back in 2200.

“When we get our shit together, you best believe we’s goin’ back up there. The moon, Mars, the moons of Jupiter, and on into the night. We’re meant to live free, run fast, to learn and love like we never known anything else. It sounds batshit bananas comin’ from a military hound, but how you explain me and the Missus makin’ two beautiful pups who done grown up an’ served their country. I didn’t drill-instruct her into bed, now did I?”

Knox broke up laughing—he knew where Godred had said this before.

“No sir,” the gray general chortled.

“That’s what it’s all about, Adam.” Godred smiled. “Now make it fit.”

The moment they shook hands, the dream was gone, only the blank page left on his old wooden desk. With pen in hand, rolled between his gray-furred fingers, he took to the page with furious abandoned.

The title was golden, and the words flowed like water over a dam. And when they came pouring from his muzzle the next day before hundreds of soldiers and hundreds more of their family, they came sweet as honey from a hive.

“We are commemorating 700 years of what I like to call ‘The Immortal America.’ Strap in because she’s gonna take you from Plymouth Rock to the second star on the right and straight on till mornin’ comes!”

CATCH UP ON 365 INFANTRY!

WELCOME ONE & ALL. We’re back with one of our two monthly stories during this rather unique offseason. I’m taking this quarter off from our weekly RED LIGHT BYTES newsletters and stories to focus on other pursuits and to keep 365 INFANTRY from slipping off the backburner and into a real hiatus.

That said, we’ve seen a rise in paid subscribers recently (which I appreciate) and as such, I’ve previously promised two paid-exclusive short stories during this period. This is the first, with the second due at the start of September. I’m calling it “NEW BREED” to both separate it from the newsletter, and because I’m something of a different animal myself when it comes to this series nowadays. This rebrand of RED LIGHT BYTES stories will also stick around when I return to weekly offseason publication in October.

That said, don’t be surprised if I come back with some free QUICK BYTE micro-fiction throughout August. These little exploratory flash stories have proven more important to my process than even I gave them credit for, and I think need the exercise to keep the old writing muscles from atrophying. For now though, enjoy this latest from the world of 365 INFANTRY, and keep your eyes peeled for whatever comes next. Godspeed.

GET THE LATEST IN WOLVEN SCI-FI!

It’s a delicate thing to sell out. Any hound worth their salt knows it’s all a matter of balance. Phasing out the old sound, fazing in the new sound, throwing a few bones to the oldheads who were there for the first album.

Yeah, not many hounds are worth their salt, are they?

Fuck all them though, ‘cuz lucky for your ol’ pals in Metröpolis, “softening the sound” didn’t mean softening at all. When yours truly brought in our Injun wunderkind Brett into the fold, he gave me and the boys a first-class lesson in getting some of the cheddar floating around during that AOR revival in the 2460s.

Now everyone stay calm, alright? It was gonna be a one-time experiment. We even had a rock-your-ass-off album tucked in the ol’ vault to drop if the shit we came up with sounded off. Your friendly neighborhood Nic Ridgefield here ain’t an idiot, even when I’m three sheets to the wind.

Brett called the whole operation “making a play to the gallery,” a little turn of phrase he twisted from an interview with an old-time rocker, David-something-or-other he told me. Basically, he saw this as trying out the popular sound and seeing how it gelled.

Now for me, I’m pragmatic. People want their reverb-drenched desert dream fluff, let ‘em have it. Ours would be heavier by default, but I remember it was our favorite brown-furred bastard Harry who came in with the demands.

Lots of ‘em at that.

“Rule 1,” the indignant guitar god began, “We don’t change our soloing styles. Rule 2: We don’t change our lyric style. We sing about cool shit, not about how we’re sad ‘cuz our bitch dumped our ass. They would if we sang sourpuss crap like that. Rule 3: If I see the phrase ‘let your feelings show’ on the lyric sheet, I’ll blow this studio to kingdom-come.”

Brett nodded congenially while I and our white drummer Rory broke up in hysterics. We’d never seen our Harry as livid as he was at this very moment. And again, I got it. The mutt was a true-bluer. He grew up on bitchin’ little 45s his old man Rod and Missus Bette played around the house, real rockabilly shit. Doing anything this commercial was a bit of a piss-take to him. To our pleasant surprise though, Brett held his own fine with our leather-bedecked prima donna.

“The best cuts don’t got any of that.” the tan hound smiled. “We don’t wanna be fake about it, we just want to spice the style up.” The Navajo axe-slinger bellied up to his pedal board and tapped a few before playing a little arpeggio. One little phrase he kept looping, over and over. Sounded like desert winds as dusk, the light catching the specks as the breeze blew them around.

“How we liking it?” he quizzed.

My answer came in a nice, fluid bass line. Or at least it was gonna be before I realized I’d have to set the ol’ Rick done and go for a fretless. When I played the lick again, whole room went dead silent. Evidently I hadn’t been seen with a fretless since the late Cretaceous, but this momentous occasion was ruining the flow of Brett’s noodling.

“DON’T Y’ALL STOP FOR SHIT!” I bellowed.

Reflexively, Rory counted off on his hi-hat and gave us a steady midtempo beat, a good four-on-the-floor track with plenty of ride cymbal on top. Dude broke out some killer little fills too.

So there the three of us were, looping and looping, caught in our own trance, before we realized Harry hadn’t jumped in yet. Once Harry saw the three of us staring back at him, he knew it was nut-up time. He stared us all down like a bull, ready to gore all three matadors in the ring.

And then from outta nowhere, the kid rips a fucking banger. A big, heavy ol’ riff that just wrapped the whole track up for us in one neat little package. We found our groove, got the demo down, and before we knew it, Harry had us cooking up gang vocals and all sorts of other shit. I don’t know which muse sucked him off that day, but he was on the ball and had the song done by the end of the session. Like done-done, mix and all.

He called it “Get Out” after the big shouty chorus thing he came up with on the spot. He got deep in his bag on the lyric front too. You’d think it’d be about some love affair gone wrong, but the way he came on writing about spiders and twin moons in the sky, you’d think he was having an ayahuasca flashback. I asked him about it before we all hightailed it for home, but all he said was “sounded right for the time” before speeding off in his rat rod.

“Not a bad change of pace for him then.” I smiled before turning to Brett. “How’d you feel about it Mister A&R?”

“He’s the first wolf I ever saw shit a gold record.” he grinned.

I thought that woulda jinxed us, but lo and behold, here I sit with this stupid ol’ song still making the rounds on the radio and still going over gangbusters at shows. Not bad for a gallery play, now is it?

This was it. The other shoe had dropped, the call had gone out; it was time. The elder gray wolf, with white-tipped fur and ratty old boots, leapt out of his sedan and walked towards the metal door.

It was embedded at the base of the cliff, behind it the wolf-made cave which housed exactly what he needed in this desperate hour. Feebly he worked his hand upon the dial, twisting the knob back and forth an ear cocked and waiting to hear the lock click into place. He ran through it five times, trying to get it right, but at long last, his click came and the door opened.

“Heavy sumbitch,” the old hound grumbled as he swung the massive metal door open and walked through the threshold.

The tunnel grew dark as he descended below the earth, each footfall echoing louder and louder until, at last, there were the lights he left behind when he first discovered and established this hallowed hall. When he reached the sprawling bunker at the end, he knew just what to do.

“Hey Peggy, it’s Sean again. We still got Reels 3-6 of Kiss Me Deadly?”

The black-furred receptionist smiled her knowing smile and pointed him straight down the hall. Row upon row, shelf atop shelf, of nothing but silver film cans. Every motion picture ever etched upon celluloid (at least in the Southwestern United States), preserved in the near-hermetic privacy of a salt mine.

“Po’ thing burn up on ya again?” Peggy quizzed in her thick Cajun drawl.

Sean shot back with a wink. “Yaw-n-naw, sweetheart. Just old age. Folks love that flick too damn much is the problem. Done repeat screenings every week for three months, poor thing’s bound to conk out. How them dupes coming?”

“Sho’nuff got most of the F catalogue backed up again.” Peggy nodded. “How’s the screen itself up at the drive-in?”

“Pretty as a peach and twice as spotless.” Sean nodded, stuffing the film cans beneath his arms.

Peggy nodded, parting her long black locks as she grabbed the log book. “Thank God ‘Manda comin’ on the weekend though. Chilled enough down here to give ya a good old cold.”

“Hey naw,” Sean grinned. “Least we don’t keep ya here overnight.”

“You got DAT right!” she shot back playfully. “Mark ‘er for me.”

Sean scribbled all the details down on the page, from the serial number to the length of time they’d be withdrawn: “UTB.”

When Peggy saw the marking, she broke out into snorting laughter.

“What’s funny?” the old gray snapped. “I thought that’s the best way to put it. ‘Until They Break.’” When Peggy leaned in and whispered one of its alternate (and rather crude) meanings, the projectionist stopped mid-pen-stroke.

“Christ, that’s nasty.” he guffawed. “Saved me from a real fuck-up, huh honey?”

“Just doin’ my job, handsome.”

With that, he turned the T to an I, gave his favorite desk jockey a kiss on the cheek and soldiered back up the tunnel and towards his car.

“Keep ‘er warm for me, beautiful. Just not too warm, eh?”

The black-furred clerk grinned “Yessir.”

With that, the old gray closed the vault door and drove back to his paying public.

“Well, the real throne’s down the hall and to the left if you need it.”

With his jet-black fur finally attaining that salt-and-pepper sheen that came with age, Leonard Ford Godred still looked as regal as the cowboy could in the setting sun. Flanked on his right as always was Eric, the red-furred mechanic kicked back with his work-boots on the rail of the porch. Sat on the table between them were two steins big enough to swim in, though they were so seldom touched between the long treatises on everything from rattling off specs to philosophy to war stories.

Between the time he took the battalion over the top on the earliest of Haven’s hovertanks and his tenth sip, Godred looked up to the horizon and froze. The black wolf stood silent and statuesque as he gazed out into the distance. Eric knew his old friend could get rather stoic from time to time, but this was different. Something had caught his eye.

“Hey Leo, whatcha thinking?”

Nothing. His eyes dashed across the horizon, looking for something. All that was there were the dark, distant mountains, wisps of desert dust dancing in the evening’s breeze, and the setting sun painting the sky in all manner of reds, oranges, purples and yellows.

“I mean it’s a good sunset, but I didn’t think it’d wrap you ‘round her finger.”

“Nah, not that.” Godred grumbled before taking a long swig of his amber ale. “Just running numbers. Way you convert inches to miles on a map. Gotta keep the brain sharp at this age.”

Eric nodded, swinging his boots off the rail. “Whatcha figuring?”

“Anything.” he grinned. “Gas mileage on Betsy, that old stratagem from 2425 that really fucked ‘em one in the eye. Right back to good ol’ arithmetic they taught in school. Musta looked like a bot for a sec didn’t I?”

The red wolf snickered. “Shit, man, you almost had me.”

“Only one I never do that in front of is Gwen.” Godred added. “Poor gal thinks I’m liable to have a stroke when I go into one of them trances. I ain’t at the mushy peas part of old age yet. And fuck me, I ain’t ever gonna get there.”

He leaned back against the wall of the house, and felt the gentle touch of a kiss upon his head. It was Gwen, leaned out the living room window.

“And the way you keeping up with the routine,” his tender wife smiled, bouffant draping over her man’s snout. “I think we can keep you on the road yet.”

“Watch it honeybear,” he grinned, kissing her chin. “I might putcha to the test if I get a second wind tonight.”

“We’ll see.” she winked before handing over two more cans of beer. “Just in case you boys need to top off.”

“Thanks darling.” Godred smiled and passed the second can to Eric. Gwen disappeared back into the house and left the old friends to their conversation.

“Jesus, she really does wait on you hand and paw.” the red mechanic grinned.

“Brother-man.” the old black wolf began nobly, “I done fought a good many decades for a proper democratic republic to be brought back to this here land. But I’m not gonna lie: it feels good to be king of this. Nice house, one hot queen, a whole brood to our name. Shit man, I think you and Adam got it right on keeping me off-base. Didn’t realize I had so much to savor until right now.”

“Least the crowns come cheap.” Eric nodded, cocking his head to the beer can.

“Fuck the crowns, we rock felts round here.”

From beneath his seat came his curved, broad-brimmed white hat from the lawman days. The second he chucked it on his head, sat up straight and took a mighty swig from his stein, he looked like a young man all over again.

“Hail to the King,” Eric nodded and matched him drink for drink for the next hour. An hour filled with more tales of the good old days, more about the business of the war, more about the bullshit they loved. And by the end of their hanging out, one thing became crystal clear: both would wind up on the throne before the night was over.

“Y’know, they used to do it for real.”

Reg Ashbury strolled down the street, guitar slung on his back. The lanky white wolf, clad in his black jacket and jeans, looked back to the bright marble door he shut behind himself before continuing down the cracked sidewalk.

“I mean for real man, they used really GO for it.” the hound shot back over the phone. “You hit that chorus and everyone just goes through the fucking roof. You let it build and build and then they get the floor jumping.”

The voice at the other end was incredulous. Reg’s snout scrunched in frustration.

“I MEAN IT! This music shit wasn’t a two-for-a-nickel striptease. Hounds would get turnt, bob their heads to the beat, get with a chick and just have a REAL good time. Here, I even got an old club photo I can send ya.”

Reg whipped through the cell phone’s gallery and found the shot. It was an old black-and-white still from a punk club. A three-piece on stage going ape on their gear while a black wolf surfed the crowd in nothing but his leather slacks and white sneakers. Even in a freeze-frame, you could see the crowd headbanging.

The text he got back wasn’t encouraging:

Welcome outta the stone age kid. We listen to shit differently.

Reg was close to pitching his phone across the alleyway, but opted to make one more go of convincing him.

“Y’know what? Fuck it, let’s show you what’s happening in there. Tell me what’s more alive. That…or THIS?”

The next photo was taken just before he left the club.

In it, 16 wolves sat at desks, black headsets wrapped around their eyes. They all sat slumped back in their office chairs, wires running down their arms like needles to the vein. All the screens said was “session in progress.”

Reg shoved the phone to his ear after hitting send. “They’re fucking dead, man. They’re fucking DEAD. You know what’s worse, no one is coming to get them. I called up the local police station, they say it’s just ‘part of the leisure program.’ The FUCK is a leisure program? It’s a club. Your ass is supposed to be on the floor, banging to the fucking beat.”

His friend paused before choosing his next words. “Look at the photo again.”

Reg raised an eyebrow but did so. What he noticed sent a shiver up his spine.

“Their heads are still bobbing.”

Sure enough, he was right; the camera’s exposure captured the rapid jittering of each hound’s head as they sat in their stupetifying simulation.

“If they’re still bobbing, why didn’t I feel a pulse when I checked their wrists?”

Reg’s friend had no answer. The white wolf himself could only look back at the marble-colored door and shudder.

He flicked the match with his thumb and sat there listening to the crackle of his own cigarette. The flame got halfway to his finger before he blew it out. With that, Nic Ridgefield crushed the charred stick under his cowboy boot and started strumming. He hadn’t played acoustic guitar in ages, and it felt good. Felt almost as good as the two soft gray hands rubbing his bare black shoulders.

“What’s got you bluesin’ babe?” Lita whispered, the hippie-punk nuzzling against his neck.

“I just don’t know anymore.” Nic sighed, still strumming.

“Bout what? Bout leaving Hell Patrol, bout joining us over on the Force?”

“Nah, that shit’s easy.” the black wolf chuckled. “Boys and me still play in the band fine and the Commissioner ain’t one to fuck with that Knox cat. I just don’t know, y’know? Like you want to put your finger on it but you just can’t for shit.”

Lita smiled, leaning in as strands of mohawk brushed against her lover’s snout. “Well, you know my city-slickin’ thoughts on that.” She cut herself off as she kissed him. “Once you know, sort it out and move on. Don’t sweat the stuff you can’t pin down.”

Nic nodded and kept on strumming. “I think it might be this.” he pondered. “Maybe it’s a song I forgot to write. People have killed themselves for forgetting a good idea.”

“Alrighty, I’ll go get the tape deck. Don’t want to clean that kinda mess up.”

“Nah, when I know it, I’ll run for it.”

Lita slumped back on the bed and shook her head.

“Why you always get into THESE kinds of funks?” the punk grumbled. “Can’t run off and make some, you always gotta have one.”

The strumming stopped and Nic slowly turned towards her. His eyes narrowed and the light of the moon cast her lover’s shadow over her.

Then he started jamming on the low E and his eyes widened.

“Ight, get me the tape deck.”

Lita leapt up, bolted down the hall, grabbed the tape deck and hit record the second she stepped back in the room. She held it to the guitar, and Nic jammed out the bass lick. It was a wicked little groove that got the hippie-punk’s head a-bobbing. When he finished, she hit stop, ran it back and the two listened to the lick. Nic’s boot got to tapping as he took another puff of his cigarette.

“Did we get it?”

“The lick, yes.” Nic nodded. “What’s halfway up my craw, no.”

Before Lita could slump to the floor, Nic set the guitar down, set the tape deck aside and yanked her onto the bed.

“I didn’t say we couldn’t have fun while I’m in my funk.” he growled playfully, nipping at her neck. “Just that I’m having one’s all.”

Lita grinned. “That’s all I wanted to hear, big guy.”

The two spent the rest of the night playing nothing but passion on each other. By the night’s end, the lovemaking hadn’t pinned Nic’s unknowable down, but he knew every hour he spent with his favorite bitch was the kind of medicine he needed to clear the block.

“Maybe it was just wanting to right a funky song.” the dark cowboy chuckled, cozying up to his woman.

“Helps if you write what you know.” Lita teased between nips. “Maybe you just didn’t get enough lovin’ in ya to write it.”

Nic thumbed the tufts of the punk’s cheeks. “Well, how ‘bout another crash course then?”

It was one she gave gladly. Always.

“For God’s sake, save it for the ‘and 2,’ not the 2 dead-on. It’s called syncopation for a reason!”

Slowly but surely, Agent Roger Steele had begun to regret recon work. Not for loss of faith in the cause, but because every time he came back from a mission, the band, “The Roger Steele Trio,” was sloppier than he left them. His drummer Bobby Bixby—a black-furred lieutenant from Moto Corp—could have pitched his sticks at the gray agent. Instead, he took a shot of bourbon and played the measure in question. Steele looked down his glasses with a smile.

“Knew you were still in there.”

The third member of the trio was Rick Talbot, a stout gray civilian who could play a mean upright bass. At least, he usually could.

“Talbot, I know it’s chromatic, but tune the fucking thing.” Steele shot down. “We don’t play quarter-tone jazz around here, they’ll string us up for that and I gotta be back in Haven in two months’ time.”

For this, Steele took a crack on the head from the bassist’s seldom-used bow.

“How about this,” Talbot shot back in a sharp tenor. “Would it kill you to play like a fucking musician and not a goddamn drill sergeant!? Y’all may got superiors, but I’m a fucking free hound, and I ain’t exactly on a good enough retainer to put up with your hapless ass. You’re the fucking trio, and yet you got no feel and you’re sloppy as shit going from the Rhodes to the upright piano.”

Steele looked down at the two keyboards as if it were his first time, he looked at the sheets before him and when he started playing, his ears cocked back and he finally saw the robotic dance of his hands across the keyboards.

“Shit, guess I’ll take that one on the chin.” he grumbled, fumbling through the measure over and over until he got his fingers moving in his more natural playing style. “Guess being with that many bots rubs off on a hound.”

“Anything you’d like to say to the rest of us?” Talbot pressed.

“Anything you’d like to tell me for flying off the handle that way?” Steele shot back. “Rick, you don’t act like this on even a bad day. I know I’m curt, but Jesus Christ, if you got something, spit it out.”

The gray bassist sighed, slumping down onto his stool. “Just been a long fucking week, man. Myra’s only back on her feet after the crash, it’s been two weeks of hell before you came back. Don’t know why this got caught in the craw, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what to do for dinner when I get back. Dumbest thing to get hung up on but…Jesus I’m just stressing about everything, that’s all.”

Roger got up, straightened his tie and patted the bassist on the back. “Alright, that’s double my bad for coming in like I’d never left. I might be the trio, but I ain’t exactly three hounds cloned. Sorry if I came off too hot.”

Talbot gave a courteous nod. “Just not able to throw and dish the same time right now.”

“Tell ya what,” Steele replied. “We’ll break for lunch, chop it up, and crack on after. Think a drink would help?”

Talbot scoffed. “Didn’t even think to ask.”

“You never gotta with me, pally.” Bixby chuckled. The black wolf rolled out from behind the drum kit on a stool and handed the bottle over. What followed the meanest swig both hounds had ever seen the stout gray player take.

“A’ight, let’s roll.” he winked.

Bixby chuckled. “Keeps me loose, and oughta keep you freed right up.”

“At this rate,” Steele chimed in, “We’ll have to slap a ‘Produced by Sam Houston’ on the record. Let’s blow the stand.”

With that, the trio got up, straightened their black ties and jackets, and strolled out of the rehearsal room. One good meal later, they were back and playing like a real trio. Steele found his soul, Bixby his rhythm, and Talbot his cool head.

Helped along by a few more swigs of the strong stuff, of course.

They clung to the Lincoln’s tail, hands all but fused to the bumper and fender. Jovian kept his electric eye on them in the rearview. The young gray fighter had gotten cleared to drive his Lincoln around Haven. Fortunately for the wolves of Haven, he wasn’t trying to smite pedestrians. Rather, he was just going for his usual joyride around town. He’d gone a couple of nights without incident, but tonight was going to break the run.

Clung to his trunk and bumper where a gaggle of hoverboarders, three-inches off the ground and flowing with his every turn. Two whites and black, decked out in black leather lined with eye-popping neon-green. They had a hunger in their eyes for the kind of thrill Jovian was supplying them.

Even when he slapped the throttle down and took his prized Colosseum ride up to speed, there they clung, hitting 80 right on his 6, and all still on balance. It was easier than skateboarding, and safer with a ground car, but the electric rush Even without the friction of the pavement, it was still a wire act to keep yourself from flipping off and splitting your head on the pavement.

For now, the only thing split was Jovian’s snout, the cyborg cracking a devious grin as he dug his sandaled paw in, thick black hair billowing in the wind. The ears of the trio of boarder were all flat-back with the wind.

The needle quivered to 95 before the town car swung a hard turn. The boarders held tight to their piece of the Lincoln as it smoothed out and roared on. By this point, Jovian was sure nothing could shake them.

That was until they hit traffic.

“Ayo, BREAK OFF!” Jovian hollered.

The slim white wolf and the black slip let go of the fenders and veered off into opposite alleyways. The remaining boarder leaned back on the board and bolted back down the road. Just in time for Jovian to slam the brakes. He pulled into the alley on his right, the black wolf off his board and leaning against the brick wall. His eyes narrowed as Jovian stepped out.

All six feet of the gladiator, from his flared jeans to his colorful button-up, sauntered up to leather-clad hound. The still night air whipped about the two, Jovian’s long hair dancing in the headlights. The decidedly shorter-and-thinner black wolf braced the back wall, but had nowhere to go. When Jovian reached him, he raised his fist, same as he did before every death-blow in the arena. And by the time it reached the skater, it was no longer a fist.

The two dabbed each other up, and Jovian cackled with glee. “Yo C. Rock, that shit was rad!”

“Couldn’t have done it without ya, Herc,” he teased. “Lemme page the pack and we can all load up. You lucked out on five miles of clear road.”

“Shame Comm/Ent.’s packed tonight.” Jovian sighed, “But I’ll take the five anytime. I know a stretch in the 300s we can hit up tomorrow.”

“Bet.” C. Rock grinned. “And it looks like our wild cards are back in the deck.”

The friends heard the steady whir of the two remaining boarders and they all piled into town car. With a stomp on the gas and wild chorus of howls between them, the posse vanished into the mist of Haven, ready to do it all again tomorrow night.

FOR NEWCOMERS: Red Light Bytes is also the name of our weekly flash fiction series. Our first story of the month is always FREE to all readers, and the remainder available to paying subscribers. Here we take you into the world of Haven and the Wastelands in pure anthology form, from familiar faces to one-off encounters. A “living” body of worldbuilding. Today’s tale is from the seedy streets of Haven’s underground. Do enjoy. If you dare...

That’s rough stuff right there. And I mean bludgeon-your-brains-out rough. Kinda shit hounds always pay good money to see.

Of course they don’t think it’s real. Hell, how could it be for all those cushy bastards? She keeps the streets “oh so noice and toidy! No riff-raff, no muggas, none of the bad stuff, hun!” Bitch keeps the big five districts good clean and Christian and everyone thinks she’s swept the streets solid. Pre-crime, post-crime, the big C itself. And yet, what’s a hound to do with all this evidence?

Every stick-up, every hit-and-run, every cold-blooded stabbing. I got a server full of dead wolves and nothing doing for ‘em. You tell the cops and they say you’re fibbing, wipe the tapes, and lock your ass up. You hack the Comm/Ent. line and you’re lucky to get five seconds on air. A.C.E.S. pulls an Uno reverse, hacks your terminal, and boom! Cops come on like Johnny-on-the-Spot just the same as before. I was smart enough to fry the chip in my neck, but there’s nothing stopping dear ol’ Mother Acc in all her fiber-optic glory from cruising up to my console’s hindquarter.

So what’s a hound to do with all this stuff?

Moviemaking. What other chance I got?

All I gotta do is make nice pretty pictures for all the fine folks on the net to watch. It ain’t even snuff. How can it be snuff if it ain’t “real?” These crimes never happened, these wolves never existed. It’d be bad publicity if they did. I ain’t got the stomach to make ‘em for the yank-n-crank crowd, so I just cook ‘em up like regular horrors. Scare pictures for the modern age. Always with that little tagline at the tail. “It could happen to you! Or you! Or YOU!”

They all come up to about an hour a piece, post ‘em on my site, watch the hits and coins roll in, keep ‘em fed for another week. I’m sure some watch it just ‘cuz they’re curious. Some watch it ‘cuz they like being scared. They like the tension before the knife goes in, the anticipation just before hound’s head goes under the wheel. They get an electric buzz because they know it’s terrible, they know it’s an awful thing to do, but they know it ain’t them on the chopping block.

And yeah, some get their rocks off to it. You can’t fix all the freaks, they keep the shit we call this city seasoned. I’m sure I got someone’s felonious demo reel. One of these bastard’s a serial killer, and I’m secretly he or she’s great admirer for having shot their “greatest hits.”

It’s all enough to make you throw yourself off the top of the fucking building if you ask me.

Then why do I keep doing it? Easy slick: remember that line. “It could happen to you.” I sign off with that every single goddamn time because I want that drilled into every fucker’s skull. I want them to know there’s real danger out there. I want them to see what’s really happening. Even if I gotta dress it up as fiction, even if I gotta make ‘em believe it’s all just a pageant of crime. I got ‘em in a four-walled playoff, watching reality as close as I can take ‘em. Maybe it breaks through to one of ‘em out there. One spreads it to another, and another, and another, until I got folks all over the city standing up for themselves. A mugger gets his shit pushed in. A bad driver gets dragged out his ride and scorched by his own hovercraft. Justice finally finds its way back on the streets where she’s needed the most.

Why don’t I just kill the bastards myself? As a matter of fact, I do. I got a big beautiful .357 for the job. And if I’m not mistaken, you’re next on my list. And you’re quite the piece of work with all this blood on your hands.

Smile for the camera, they’re gonna love ya in this next one.

COMING SOON TO KICKSTARTER

An ocean of light poured through the window frames, coloring each wolf’s face as they sat cross-legged and bare-pawed on the dojo’s mats. Boss Kusanagi indulged a slight chuckle at the sight of his students in black and blue. He had led meditations before, but this one was different. This one was something special.

There was a slight mist in the air—a dash humidity amid a dry spell—and the incense he had chosen was almost nonexistent, the scent of fresh linens drying in the wind. The middle-aged gray hadn’t deliberately orchestrated the room in this way; he chose only the colors and sensations that felt right in the moment. No plans, no designs, just on-the-fly thinking.

“Acknowledge the thoughts as they flow through you,” Boss nodded, voice reverberant. “But let them pass.”

All closed their eyes, and began their quiet mantras. When Boss began his, the descent was instant, and the results...peculiar.

Down and down he dove, swimming through the liquid thoughts and sensations. Passing him by came visions of his son Junji, his wife Kimiko, a soft purple aura framing them like a portrait on a desk. Then came shafts of red, pulsing with the clash of combat. Every sweep of the leg, every fist thrown, sharp and precise, yet flowing through effortless motion.

More and more he descended, the colors giving way to pure white light, then shuffling back into view, colliding and coalescing before falling away again. This was all to be expected. In his sessions, there was never an end, only a slow waking back to reality, the weight of worlds off his and his pupils’ shoulders.

He felt his paws hit a cold tile floor, and before him stood all his pupils. All of their various timbres of fur, various builds from musclebound to lithe. Every wolf in his midst, down at the depths of his own meditation. The thought that came next: “How could this be?”

He walked towards the visages of his students, and felt their hands upon his. The pads of their hands were warm to the touch, and soon he found himself walking with every wolf in the dojo, towards the center of this bright white light. Not the tunnel through which the End comes, but a column towering above all in its presence. It felt like the only thing to do, the only place to be, and yet they felt not like the moths who flit towards the electric lamp. They felt a warm embrace.

He turned to the tan pupil to his right, Jade, but didn’t see her. He saw the face of his old flame from years ago, Evelyn Blanc. That rowdy, speckled-brown scrapper who now fought in the distant wars for the freedom of all within the desert. To his left, the towering build of David, the black wolf built like a Renaissance sculpture. His face, too, wasn’t his own; it was the eyes and sharp mouth of his old partner-in-crime Guy Straker.

Together, the memories and underlings walked hand-in-hand with their teacher towards the monument to all that seemed good in the world. Every sunrise, every kiss, every resplendent hour of peace. Closer and closer they came until, one by one, each climbed up and into the shaft of light, and vanished from view. The last to leave was Boss himself, but before he did, he turned down to notice something on the floor of the building. He saw his silver Aviator shades, and his worn-out suede sandals. He slipped into both, and climbed through.

Only then, did all wake from their rumination. And when Boss looked upon each face among his class, all returned the same stunned expression as their master. It had been a serene vision shared.

“How very…”

Boss trailed off, the elder gray fighter searching for the right word. In the end, he settled for a simple “enlightening,” and ended his lessons for the day.

GREETINGS! Welcome back to the flash fiction side of RED LIGHT BYTES. Forgot to mention this for the newcomers, but every week, we release a short story on Friday. Tales that, much like the main magazine, run the gamut of genres and scenarios. From slice-of-life tales like today’s to white-hot shots of action. First of the month is always FREE, while the rest are for our paying subscribers. More on that in the Monday newsletter. For now, please enjoy the first of our many offseason escapades!

No sooner had Junior learned the value of catching all forty winks did a two-month-old Laci take up the mantle of a midnight fire alarm. The ever-popular ritual of tending to the screaming tot was shared between Buck and Jane.

Or rather it would, had the gray-furred father not found the lifehack of a lifetime for rocking their speckled-brown babe to sleep.

Every night for a solid month, the couple’s ears would flick in the nursery’s direction, and like clockwork, they turned to each other in bed, only for Buck to nuzzle his woman’s nose. “My turn.”

“You always say that,” she sleepily giggled. “Ever think she might be hungry?”

“Not the way you make supper for her.” he teased in kind.

“Alright,” Jane sighed. “She’s all yours.”

She spun round to the nightstand and plopped the keys in his hand. Buck parted her long messy locks and kissed her again. “We won’t be long.”

He threw on his khaki shorts, buckled up his thin-strapped sandals, and strolled off to the nursery. He snatched up the wailing onesie and held her close with both arms.

“You know what’s coming next,” Buck chuckled. “I bet you do this now because you know what’s coming.”

He was saying it more to himself than to Laci, but sure enough, the pup already began to pipe down, safe in her papa’s big arms.

“Well of all the cheek!” he scoffed with feigned indignity. “We ain’t even to the garage yet.” He thought about turning back around and plopping her back in the crib, but one look into the pup’s eyes was all it took. “Nah, we’re still going. I ain’t letting you down.”

They made their way to the garage, and B-lined right for Jane’s Super Beetle. The short convertible already had the backwards car seat riding shotgun, and Buck got Laci all buckled up. He shot the driver’s seat back and turned the key, the engine jolting to life.

“All set?” he quizzed, peering into the infant’s seat. Laci giggled, speckle-furred face peering out from a soft blanket. He thumbed her tiny cheek, put the car in gear, and pulled out into the night.

He drove gently at first, partly his protectiveness, and partly the grog. To him, a midnight ride was something to be enjoyed and relished in. All the little sensations, from the engine’s rumble, the crisp night air, the light touch of the worn-in leather beneath his paws. When his hand wasn’t on the gearshift, it was thumbing Laci’s cheek, the onesie graduating from wailing to giggling.

It was only when the giggling stopped, and a shaft of light shot from behind that Buck began to worry.

“Guess Pop’s gonna have to run our little critter out flat.” he said calmly. “Hang tight, darling.”

He slammed the pedal down and the Bug rumbled forward. His daughter fired up that squealing laughter which took some of the edge off Buck’s nerves. All the same, the lights drew nearer, and even as he whipped through the gears, he couldn’t shake the ride coming up the rear. He was about ready to brake check the Bug, bracing the car seat with his broad palm, before the lights leapt past him and saddled alongside.

It was Jane, behind the wheel of Buck’s boxy yellow Jeep Cherokee, with one-year old Junior sitting shotgun in his own backwards car seat. Buck began howling with mad laughter. “Good grief babe, you had me shaking like a leaf!”

“Well, someone felt left out, and Mama don’t mind driving an automatic.” She scritched beneath her eldest’s chin.

“Alrighty, race you to the lights then.”

Jane cocked an eyebrow. “What lights?”

“When theirs’ go out.” he grinned, leaning down to nuzzle Laci.

Jane shook her head, and rammed the throttle down. The couple carried on for a solid hour before both tikes drifted away into their high-octane dreamland. Once they did, the parents relieved, they got home, tucked them away, and flopped into bed. It was another long night in the bag.

Just in time for their 5 AM alarm.

MERRY CHRISTMAS! Welcome to what will be our final stories for 2024. It does feel like an odd chaser, especially this soon after our 11th issue. Beyond the pragmatism of making up two paid-sub stories, I’ve genuinely never thought about Christmas in the setting before, so I figured it’s time to take a bite out of this bit of untapped potential.

Speaking of our 11th issue, it is OUT NOW! I’ll save our Salute The Troops post for tomorrow, but if you have any gift card money to burn, $5 will get you the latest in pulp action and surreal cyberpunk! We are still waiting on the eBook, and will notify our subscribers of when it finally arrives.

GET THE BEST IN WOLVEN SCI-FI TODAY!

But enough of that. Thank you one and all for your support this year, and for helping to make 365 INFANTRY such an incredible part of my life. I wish you all the very Merriest of Christmases, the happiest of all other assorted holidays, and I hope you enjoy this little present.

OPERATION TINPLATE & OTHER MUSINGS

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to lay this rail line from here…all the way to here. The Great Transcontinental as it once was. We’re running the most dang important express and goods service known to wolfkind. We’re counting on you, steel-drivers, to make it possible.”

So went the briefing from Chief of Engineering Nic Ridgefield to a gaggle of eager young pups with an enormous tub of three-rail track, an inch and a quarter wide. The Points A and B laid out by the towering black-furred officer were all built around the massive, deep green Christmas tree on the auditorium stage where the Force’s gatherings were held. He had inherited the tradition from General Leonard Ford Godred himself, one he had been a part of as a young pup all those years ago.

Watching on from the seats was the new General himself, Adam Knox, and sat beside him, his dear wife Angel. He looked out to the cadre of kids who took to their rail gang work with feverish abandon. He was struck not only by the downright furious pace they worked, but by something he never in a million years expected from a hard-ass Hell Patrolman: being great with kids.

“You think he and Lita will ever tie the knot and have one?” the General’s white wife asked, tying her hair back.

“They’re for-the-causers,” Knox replied, the dark gray wolf tapping out his cigarette. “Once the war’s up, I’m sure they’ll get to it. That or get married now and worry about things later.”

“Bit like us?” she asked, gently.

Knox turned to her and sighed. “Yeah. Bit like us babe.”

Angel nodded solemnly before leaning in and lightening the mood. She whipped out a strand of pine garland and wrapped it around her lover’s neck. “There!” she giggled. “We got all the rest of the red and green décor in place, chefs are off getting the buffets in order, and now the leader of the pack’s looking nice-n-jolly.”

His eyes went ice-blue as he slowly turned towards his wife with a venomous scowl upon his sharp muzzle. A scowl that lasted all of five seconds before he burst into a roar of laughter, a contagious guffaw that filled the room and spread to all the kids who looked up, and to Nic who was sorting out the engines, coaches, and freight cars they were going to run around the tree.

“Guard these with your life,” the black officer said, pointing to the table. “I gotta investigate this up close.”

“Sir yes sir!” saluted the six-year old gray.

Ridgefield leapt off the stage, crossed the bustling old gymnasium, and arrived at the General’s table. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted.”

“I didn’t realize the Missus always brought the toys out in public.”

Angel batted her eyes, snickering as she leaned in for a kiss, only to get a taste of Knox’s festive boa in her mouth. Which again, sent everyone off.

“Well that one’s my own dumb fault.” she chortled, only to get pulled onto her man’s lap and take one right on the lips.

“I take the mistletoe’s tucked in there somewhere.” Ridgefield guffawed in that deep voice of his.

“Somewhere.” Knox grinned, looking back to the swift progress the pups were making. They were on to their own decoration, with snow-roofed houses, and dusted white trees. When one kid accidentally knocked some of the setting over, in came another to fix it. “How in the devil did you get so good with lil’ nippers like them? Ain’t no one crying or pouting or feeling left out. Must be music to their parents’ ears over there.”

Ridgefield looked over his shoulder. “I’ll give ya two reasons. One, my old buddy Buck Sterling. Met him during the Hell Patrol days. Dude’s a natural with kids. In fact, the dude’s your Santa this year. And the second: kids love trains. Even my crazy ass was a kiddo once. Ma and Pop, God rest ‘em, always took me to the Force’s big Christmas bash, and I was always there in the chain-gang, getting Leo’s set together. Speaking of, where’s the old devil with the transformer?”

Knox sat up, puzzled. “You mean you don’t have it?”

“Well I do have one.” Ridgefield replied. “But our favorite old fossil’s got one he uses for both lines. Mine can only power one loop.

“Call me a fossil again, and I’ll have you tied to the tracks!”

In stepped the Hound in Black, though that color only accounted for his fur and his jeans. His boots and cowboy hat were a striking cream, his leather jacket red, and an emerald bolo tied. He strolled in with his wife Gwen, still rocking her big head of hair, and their Hell Patrol daughter May, at long last off-duty.

“Merry Christmas.” Nic saluted. “As for that threat, sir, it appears the new regime is also a fan of tying things down.”

He pointed to the tryst-like tableau of Knox and Angel, her hand awkwardly resting on the garland’s ends as she sat in his lap.

The black elder raised an eyebrow before leaning down and whispering. “It ain’t nothing me and Gwen ain’t done before.”

Even at his age, the wife wasn’t shy about smacking him one for the remark, and in kind, the retired soldier wheeled around and popped a kiss square on her petite nose. “Just keeping it light, darling.”

“Yeah. Light.” Gwen retorted. “You’re lucky there’s kids around.”

“And you’re lucky you’re cute when you’re feisty.” Leo smiled. “And as for your transformer, you young devil, I got ‘er right here. Is No. 5 all ready?”

Ridgefield snapped to attention and saluted. “Sir yes sir!”

“At ease you maniac.” Godred chortled. “If ol’ Charlie’s set, I’m set. Let’s get up there and get them wheels turning.”

The black-furred cowboys left the scene and hurried up to the stage. To everyone’s surprise, Godred could still make his flying hop up on the platform, just in time to get mobbed by pups, who all cheered as he got to setting up the controls and powering up the track.

“Charlie’s a cute name for a train.” Angel mused. “Where’d he pull it from?”

“My brother.” May smiled. “One thing Daddy always missed about him around this time of year was running the trains with him. Named Charlie’s favorite loco after him. 2-4-0 tender engine from Baldwin.”

Once “Charlie” made his way from the box to the tracks, with a full rake of coaches in tow, Godred pushed the lever on the transformer, and sent the engine puffing away. Once he completed his Herculean journey around the stage, the old general declared “Operation: Tinplate” a success; the perfect sign of a wonderful night yet to come.

CAR-SKATING

‘Twas time again for the seasons to change. The weather across the city of Haven, conjured from out the Tower Network and its countless spires across the metropolitan sprawl, changed from its warm autumn leaves and misty rains to a soft blanket of white overnight. When all woke up, the effect remained extraordinary. It was chilly, but never frigid. Enough for all the fun that came with the stuff, but never enough to inconvenience most folks.

Some of the wolves enjoyed the simple charms. Seeing their kids in the courtyard having the snowball fight of their lives, the contrast of glistening fluff against city streetlights and skyscrapers. Others still found themselves perplexed by season. Many of the modules were jammed with inquiries about icicles, this business about shoveling, and other odd questions.

For Haven’s underground, the rag-tag world of streetwise vigilantes, hard-ass racers, and tough streetfighters…it was a special kind of playground.

It was lone-wolf Lita who pioneered the underground sport of “car-skating.” A long empty stretch of iced-over street where the goal was to see how long you could keep your ride spinning free in a full-360. The dark gray hippie-punk and her blood-red Beetle were natural champs at the sport; quick on the gas, quick on the handbrake. They once managed 50 revolutions in a single stretch, and all it cost Lita was her lunch afterwards.

The “Haven League of Car-Skaters” consisted of Lita, her white-furred pal Ashley Damier, and a few of the local east side street-racers. They had to find a wide enough road to give each cars a proper berth to spin through, and it was good old 630 Brewster that did just that. An alleyway parking which opened into a long stretch behind buildings eternally due for demolition, yet never were.

Here was where car after car launched from their standing starts, ripped their handbrakes, and spun like mad. There had only ever been one rollover in the entire sport’s history: Lita’s first attempt. After that learning curve, however, it was easily the safest car sport in the city. Worst that could happen is someone’s ride hitting the side of a building and the driver catching serious whiplash.

Ash’s bronze sedan was almost as adept at the top-like spin of her friend’s bubble-shaped beast. In fact, she had to be, for her handbrake had gone yesterday, meaning it was the gentle massaging of her sneakers on the brake. And in doing so, she finally managed to beat Lita’s score…by a single revolution.

It was to both girls’ surprise, however, that yet another racer would manage to even crack that. A six-foot-five giant named Lance Cameron rolled up in a top-down Fiat 500. Normally, most wolves would laugh a stock city car like Lance’s off the tarmac, its round headlights and small body downright precious. In this sport, however, that lightness meant business, and Lita knew it. What followed was a perfect, straight-down-the-center spin along the entire straightaway and almost into oncoming traffic.

Almost, for Lance nailed the final spin on dried tarmac and bolted back down the alleyway. This was followed by yet another spin down the same length. Lita’s face raced from shock, fury (over being dethroned), shock again, to roaring laughter. When the beige blur left the alley mouth, everyone leapt clear as it slammed into their burlap crash pile, bags sent flying everywhere.

When Lance pulled out of the heap, stone-faced, he held up his meter. Lita had one to each car to count the revolutions, the clock stopping when the car stopped. When she read it, she broke into a cackling guffaw.

It read 200, even, stopping at that hard swing away from the street. If she wanted to be charitable and count the spin back down the alley, it came to nearly 400 for the entire run.

“Ayo, how you even ALIVE!?” Lita hollered, the gang crowding round.

Lance looked up, tapped on the wheel of his manic little machine and came up with his final answer. “I became one with the car.”

For a bunch of stoned 20-somethings, it was deepest shit they heard all day.

For Lance Cameron, he just meant the G-force had locked him into his seat.

Either way, Lita handed over the crown (a bottle of whiskey), for now sat a new king of the season’s most absurd sport.

A “SEASIDE” CHRISTMAS

That’s what Bette Garret liked to call it, anyway. Obviously, they were nowhere near the ocean. However, the atmosphere she kept around the watering hole, not to mention her eternally tropical wares, brought the feeling of the coast right to the Garret home. It was a feeling too good to not share, and so she did.

While she and little Harry, now an agile two years-old, would be visiting Papa Rod on Base, she was determined to have a Christmas party of her own come hell or high water. She took on of her long drives to deliver invitations, her little brown pup acting the part of slave-driver. Each giggle of “fasta” opened her tough yellow truck Avalon up wider and wider.

“Least we know you’re our pup the way you wanna drive.” she giggled.

The RSVPs came flooding back through the phone, which meant there was a lot of food to synth up, a lot of tables she’d need. Fortunately, the perks of being the only beach in town meant she could recruit those poolside amenities for the occasion. The problems came when the synthesizer started malfunctioning.

Meals weren’t coming out right, orders were being fulfilled in the wrong order, it was a mess. Kicking it in frustration also didn’t help matters, especially in sandals. One come-to-Jesus moment later, however, and she managed to get some friends over to help jury-rig hers and recruit theirs as well. All the while came the fretting, that ever-present fretting about the millions of things that could go wrong.

There was an eternal shadow cast over country folks like her when trying to throw these shindigs. Kids crying, families fighting, turkeys coming out burnt. A rich lineage of radio gags, sitcom episodes, and motion pictures regaling viewers with such tragic tales.

All of this to say she watched too much fiction and too little nonfiction in learning how to throw a Christmas party. She quieted her mind through another long drive, or in ringing up one of the daycare clique she kept in touch with, but most successful remedy came in the form of little Harry.

At the end of a long drive, she’d pick the brown pup up, sit him in her lap, kick her paws up on the wheel, and watch the wind shuffle the waves across the watering hole. That did the trick, every time.

When the big day came, and the rat-rods and sidecar-bikes arrived, the final acid test proved a resounding success. The food was fine, the company amicable. She didn’t plan for a present exchange, but many of families she invited decided to just have the whole Christmas shebang there. Kids opened gifts, parents chopped things up. And in the end, after all the cleanup and the last of the rides trundled into the desert dust, Bette picked Harry back up, and curled up with him in Avalon, parked right where all the fun had been had. As the kiddo curled into her, tiny arms tickling her neck, she had only one thought.

“Wait until your Poppa hears about this,” for he was the only thing missing from a damn-near perfect Christmas.

The ruse: a civilian engineer inspecting joint works orchestrated by the White Coat Crew’s Public Development Firm.

The goal: a pinch of reconnaissance.

His associate for the task: “Professor Jonathan Smith.”

For both the sharp-cut gray Roger Steele and his tall, white-furred Avenger’s Creed companion, in lieu of their respective ensembles came navy blue suits to match the gaggle of touring technicians being led through the blindly white show floor. The compound’s hard-cut angles and steel furnishings gave it the air and aroma of a hospital, but instead of turquoise beds lined with patients, the bespectacled White Coat representative toured her dozens through table upon brass table of electric confections. From advancements in holograms that grew increasingly lifelike to children’s games doubling as security devices, it seemed to be a festival of lateral innovation than upward invention.

Steele, under the moniker of “Dr. L.M. Trevanian,” faked a fine North district accent as he traded thoughts with Professor Smith. “Ratio of wolf-to-computer input?” he postulated to the towering Englishman beside him.

“70-30,” Smith nodded, glancing back at the children’s toy table. “That’s the odd duck of it. She’s everywhere, but she can’t be everything at once. Hence why we’re here. Hence why my labs stay in commission.”

“Devil of it, though.” Steele continued, thumbing his gray snout between written notes. “Go through two centuries of post-scarcity to wind right back here.”

The white wolven gentleman scoffed. “M’dear Trev, ‘tis but our nature. So goes the Comm/Ent. line. After all, without real work, real money, what better way to while the hours away, hmm? Besides, it’s merely the afterbirth of true invention. Invention kept between WCC and Ace, bless ‘er. Hence a P.D.F. to begin with.”

Steele nodded, his cold, ice-blue eyes analyzing every line he had taken down. He would have brought his pocket-camera, but the programs handed out itemized every solitary creation shown, with full-color photographs to match. And even if they hadn’t, the five security checkpoints would surely have found it during scans. He couldn’t even have a ballpoint pen in the facility, having to make his notes with a wispy, brush-like marker.

The Professor tapped the agent’s chin as though he were a child, drawing his gaze towards the major announcement he wanted him to see.

“I believe the boys at your firm will be very pleased with this one.”

Guarded by two, towering Caza-6 androids, the robotic wolves well-known to Steele and the Force back east, was a massive, spherical sculpture, with 16 telescreens wrapping its center. Topped and tailed with bronze, and a Latin inscription across its base: In Inventione Speramus.

“In Invention We Trust,” muttered Steele.

“Or alternatively, Trev,” Smith interjected. “We Hope For A Discovery.”

The fair-furred, female White Coat at the procession’s head gestured to the grand display as the rest of Smith and Steele’s “fellows” gasped.

“No, it’s not a Comm/Ent. pop-up.” she politely clarified, “We’ve plenty of those for all our many districts. This is the Carmino Memorial Mood Booster. Taken from designs by the late, great Vincent Carmino, father to the A.C.E.S. of today. Right until the end, Carmino was a man of peerless vision, one blessedly continued by his son Thomas. Among the late technician’s designs was this addition to the Health Center. Operating on the same Atom Bath technology, you take one of the eight seats, lower the four-pad headset, and in 15 minutes time, all manner of stress and anxiousness is syphoned from the mind, and displayed upon the cloud-tank. The pains and worries of the day made into brilliant abstract art. Those who partake feel instant improvements to their mood, and those passing by are treated to a brilliant display of color.”

She was diving into the specifics of the technology when the black screens flooded with a single color: red. Bright red clouds coursed from both ends, the civilian scientists mesmerized by the display. The White Coat stammered for a moment before bowing and gesturing to the brilliant array of color. She stepped past the android guards and around to the back of the machine. While most couldn’t see anything, Steele leaned over the velvet rail long enough to see the short light-gray lady hunched over someone seated, taking their pulse with a feverish hands. She spoke softly into the watch on her wrist, and quietly sauntered back around, her smile as broad as ever.

“One of our technicians was performing a brief test on the machine, hence the surprise display. Staff will be here shortly to help him analyze results, so it’s best to move on for now. Come this way.”

Thinking nothing of it, the scientists soldiered on, with plenty of electronic trinkets and peculiar creations to keep their minds occupied. With one backward glance, however, the spare gray spy and his tall white companion noted the stretcher being brought to the back of the machine.

“Truly,” Smith nodded, his grin now forced, “a trusty-worthy gadget.”

“And it appears,” ventured Steele, “a great deal discovered too.”

Call it the spirit of the season, in both the Happy Thanksgiving I hope all my American readers enjoyed yesterday, but in the Christmas and holiday seasons we’re now all embarking on, I couldn’t find a place to break this one for a paywall. Sometimes, there’s just a slice of life that has to be shared with one and all. I’m making the executive decision of releasing this for FREE, and will sort out an Emergency Ration next month for our wonderful paid subscribers.

In lieu of that traditional monetization, I encourage readers new to the series, or those wishing to support us, to check out the Black Friday/Cyber Monday Based Book Sale, in which all our eBooks are $0.99 each. While new and touched-up editions are still racing down the pike, your purchase of our current range helps us reinvest into making the best books, audio shows, comics and more possible at true-blue pulp prices. Ctrl+F is your friend this year, because has jam-packed this bazaar of independent literary entertainment to numbers I haven’t seen in ages. Look for us with that search function, and don’t forget to support some of the many friends of the Force also on sale. Thanks again for all your support, and please enjoy a slightly belated Thanksgiving special.

“Coulda been worse” was Jane Sterling’s consensus about the first, full Thanksgiving with Buck, both kids, and the cavalcade of family that came over. It was more the stress that all meal prep and production than anything said that day. The entourage of rust-bucket pickups and dusted sedans all hid two families, one red and one gray, dressed in the finest denim and leather they owned. Jane’s pack, the red-furred Swansons and Buck’s, the gray Sterlings.

The Swansons were your average desert family, with all the usual quirks and conversation-starters. Her two sisters, Harriet and Mel, were in from their clerking work, and delighted in Jane being part of the married fold. She was always puzzled as to why now was when it all clicked, until Mel chimed in.

“‘Cuz it’s the whole package, silly!” she grinned. “A good man, at least two pups, you got it all!”

“But why two?”

Harriet chimed in with the morbid answer. “‘Cuz we’re back in the old-days where the brood’s gotta be big so if a kid dies, it ain’t the end.”

A chill rushed down Jane’s spine, one Mel was quick to soothe. “That’s just nature, sweetie, ain’t nothin’ happening now. Not the way you been protectin’.”

The siblings helped her refocus and tended to setting the table.

Meanwhile, the living room was a convention floor. In one corner, all the brother-in-laws were chopping it up. To Mel’s black-furred beau Randy and Harriet’s red cowboy William, Buck was a particularly fascinating specimen. They couldn’t believe half the wild stories he told, let alone the fact he dressed like a wave-pool surfer for half of them. And yet, with each earnest-eyed account, they grew more and more entranced, and began sharing their own escapades.

In the circle of love seats, sofas, and reclining chairs, the patriarchs and matriarchs of both families entertained the kids.

Jane’s father and stepmother were at complete ease, happy all had worked out with the muscle-bound stranger, and to add two more pups to their ever-growing family tree. It had taken at least two Thanksgivings and three Christmases before the stout Poppa Don Swanson got over “the mutts they all made,” a phrase Jane’s slim stepmother quipped “sounded like a cheap soap opera.”

The Sterlings, however, were just too much. Katie and Mark Sterling were a short gray couple, gentle and growing thin with age; the complete opposite of their Herculean son. And yet, every child in the house was wrapped around their fingers, as the couple spun manic tales of mountain-climbing, gang-fighting, and law-bringing.

Buck was always coy about his folks with Jane. “Just cool characters who brought me up right.” he’d always say. What he never elaborated on, and what Jane had to learn from swatches of conversations, was that old Mark Sterling was an original Ascensore. The Sterling name was revered among the league of rough-riding lawmen founded by the great General L.F. Godred himself. He never made it out like he was the Hound in Black’s right-hand man, and he hadn’t followed him into the war effort, but the adventures he and Godred experienced were already more than a lifetime’s worth. And better yet, it become crystal clear who Buck had learned his storytelling abilities from.

“Me an’ ol’ Leo were right on their hides, winding that mountain road with one bad turn fixing to kill us all, a good mile-long drop right on the shotgun side! You think we worried? Hell naw! I was out there, shooting hand dangling over the edge, while that tough captain kept his paw flat on the throttle. When that ol’ goat put his boot to the floor, his Fleetline wouldn’t take no guff she couldn’t give. She’s the only machine in all the desert who could ford the River Styx, swear to God, Jesus and the rest of ‘em!” And so he went, the gaggle of multi-colored pups hanging on his every word.

“Why didn’t you tell me!?” Jane guffawed in the kitchen, whipping a hand-towel at her husband’s rear.

“Because I was worried you’d try to run off with him insteada me.” he chuckled, nipping at his red lady’s neck. “Daddy also has a way with ladies. Just ask Momma sometime how they met. Makes us look downright arranged.”

Unfortunately, all the merriment gained through the Sterling Adventure Hour cost them another half. The food sat waiting, ready to be shoveled into dozens of muzzles, only for all to sit agape in the living room. Mark was ripping into an automotive cattle drive, desperately trying to save the kidnapped family in one of the trailers, when Jane finally broke out the oldest trick in the book: the ringing of an old-fashioned triangle.

“We can reconvene after, buckaroos.” Mark smiled, snapping his suspenders.

“Thank God for hot-plates,” grumbled Don as the exodus from living room to dinner table commenced. They brought in every table in from across the house, three in all, to sit their army of pups, couples, and grandparents. In a matter of moments, all fell silent. Not from an awkward mishap, nor an overextended saying of grace, but from the surprise savoring of every wolf, young and old, down the mile-long table. Even Jane was surprised by her own cooking. The only one who didn’t eat yet, was Buck.

“Damn you called it Bucky,” she said obliviously, relishing her own artful “I thought synthing everything would just been fine, but going ingredients-first then doing the rest by hand is fantastic!”

When she looked, she saw that dumb smile on her man’s face; he had been staring at her the whole time. “Anything wrong?” his little red lady asked.

The stocky gray wolf leaned in for a kiss, then a nuzzle. “Just wanted to letcha know how beautiful you look right now…cause after I get done eatin’, I’m gonna be dead to the whole world, fat-n-happy.”

It got a good rise out of the table, especially Buck’s folks. Jane playfully nipped at her man, and nuzzled him back to his plate. Whatever conversation did arise afterwards was little more than the usual “how’s this doing?” and “whaddya think of that on the radio?” And sure enough, after all the turkey was gone, after the pies were doled out and devoured, Buck was out like a light on the couch, both sandaled paws kicked up, with his two brown-furred pups, Junior and Laci, wrapped right around him. The merriment carried on around him, but when Jane walked into the living, a “dumb” grin of her own split her slender snout.

“I didn’t realize he really meant it.” she giggled. “Seen the kids out like a light like that, but ain’t ever dropped him with my cooking.”

“That’s his one weakness, darling,” Katie Sterling grinned. “A real home-cooked meal.” And like any good parent, she had the wallet photos to prove it. A pint-sized Buck, before all the adventures and with a tiny cowboy hat, resting in the lap of old man Mark when he was still young, and still fighting for his ol’ pal Leo.

Not letting a good moment go to waste, the gray grandmother pulled out a pocket polaroid, and snapped a quick shot her son. Once the picture was developed, she wrote on the back: “Full Circle 1. Here’s to many more.”

When Katie handed it to Jane, she did so with one last word of advice: “Black coffee in the morning. He always act like it’s a hangover.” Puzzled at first, she followed through the next day and couldn’t stop laughing when she saw the “miracle cure” in action. From groggy-eyed gray to upright adventurer, all in one sip. That was the moment Thanksgiving became a permanent fixture in the young Sterling household, if for nothing else, than for the laughs that came after.

“Alright crew, gather ‘round!”

It sounded less like a business and more like a summer camp the way Doc spoke. Nothing new for the scruffy voiced proprietor, for he had always conducted his inspections like this. He had every regular tenant lounging in the booths, his sharp-eyed grownup son Jericho and wife Belle standing by.

“Just the usual thing,” the old street-racer smiled, fixing his spectacles. “Like the old-time health-n-safety guys with the nice white suit and clipboard. Whole pack’s here too right? Kimberly, Alcott, Peter, aaaaand Sue! There, perfect.”

They first started with Kim, the “last of the good-time gals.” He had seen plenty ladies of the night check in and out over the years. Son Jericho had been on him about “cleaning the joint up,” but much to the boy’s surprise, that seemed to sort itself naturally. Some, like the fair Sabina, found love. Some got bored and found other lines of work.

But not Kimberly.

The slender white wolf stood out like a Vegas showgirl in Death Valley. From her platform sandals to her cropped tops to her faux-feral tail, she dressed the part, kept rent down to the nanocredit, and couldn’t have been pried from the line of work with a boat anchor hooked to a ‘69 Dodge. She was in it for all that the gig entailed.

“All yours, chief,” she winked, and opened the door. There was nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. The desk was where she kept track of everything, the carpet was soft as ever. It was only upon inspecting the bed that they saw a manic mural of posters festooning the bedside corner. If it were just band posters (of which plenty were), it wouldn’t have been anything to write home about, but behind the posters were two massive eyes. Two, massive, photoreal eyes staring out into the room.

“Alrighty,” Doc began, thumbing the bridge of his snout. “So this isn’t a fire hazard, the gloss finish still has its retardant intact, but I gotta know: why the eyes?”

“Lots of peeping toms.” Kimberly said with a smoky chuckle.

“Peepholes?” Jericho asked.

“No, not that.” the call girl replied, clucking her tongue. “Guys who like to BE watched. Been getting a lotta fellas like that.”

Thoroughly bemused glances were exchanged between Doc, his dear wife Belle, and their son. They could only nod, check her off and move on.

Next came Peter and Sue, a couple who had moved into the Central region for work. The short Indian couple were helping build settlements a few miles away, but always struck out when it came to room and board. The speckled husband and wife were mirrors of the old gray goat and his missus, minus a few inches off the top.

Their room seemed perfect at first. Jericho ambled around, eyeing up the desk and the bed, and found nothing astray. “Hey, digging the serape you guys got.” the 30-something grinned. “She antique?”

“Couple hundred years old,” Peter replied. “Found it among some ruins on our travels. We’ve been trying to figure out whether it was a chief’s or not.”

Doc strolled it in, snakeskins clacking along the wooden floor to inspect. “I’d say she’s a replica no doubt, but maybe of a third-phase? All the plus signs point that way. Could also be—”

“Hang it a minute!” Jericho barked, “the hell’s that on the wall?”

A long piece of plastered duct-tape hung on the wall, sagging down its center. Jericho furiously clambered up on the bed, right over the earth-toned blanket, and he peeled it off, revealing one mighty crack. He looked down with scorching eyes at the tenants, the mousy muzzle of Sue wide with shock. “We didn’t even know that was there!”

“Well of all the—”

“SON!” Doc barked. “You seem to be only on Layer Two.”

When the piercing gray snapped his head back up to the crack, he saw the serrated edge of more tape. Upon its peeling back…the wall was perfectly fine.

The angry young hound dropped all ire on a dime. “Well that’s egg on my face, ain’t it?” He apologized and clambered down, swiftly fixing the upset bedding and serape.

“That goes double for whoever pulled the prank,” Doc scowled. “Alright, which one of ya wants to challenge me to a duel for besmirching your honor?”

Peter knew the trick well. “Tell you what, you help me tune the ‘55 up, and we can run laps for the hell of it later. Any excuse’ll do, right?”

“That obvious, huh?” the gray street-racer cackled. Two rooms down, one left.

The black wolf Alcott was about the same height as Peter, but with a few more pounds packed on. His white button-up was stressed along its center by the weight gain, but held together well enough.

“Fair warnin’,” he said in a thick Texan drawl, “It ain’t as bad as it looks.”

Jericho’s eyes went wide, but he didn’t say a thing, not while his mother was there with a hand on his shoulder. “Easy buddy,” Belle soothed. “Give him a chance before you light into ‘em.”

When Alcott opened the door, the room was black. Not black as in without light, but that the walls, floor, and ceiling were a dark abyss, with only the light of a window cutting through and revealing that a floor was there at all.

“You got one way of hiding the damage, Charlie.” Doc sighed through his teeth. “Alright, make ‘er ‘urt.”

In the bespectacled, stout tenant’s hand was a remote, and with a click of a button, the black dissolved into the room as he had rented it. It was completely spotless, without so much as a sliver of hair or a crumb of dust. The only item astray was a black bowl of glass sat in the center on the hardwood floor.

“That’s the naked room itself,” Alcott smiled. “Look ‘er over and then I’ll show you what the little machine can do.”

Jericho did just that, and his roving eyes couldn’t find a thing wrong. “Alright, shoot.” the young wolf nodded.

“No fancy proprietary term for this one, I call her digital paint. Projects all variety of patterns and decorations. You can swap from something a lil’ more rustic, a lil’ more psychedelic, a lil’ more like the bougie shit in Haven. Possibilities are damn near endless.”

He flicked through the various themes he had uploaded to the machine, and the entire family of grays stood completely dumbfounded. “You’ll make a mint, Charlie.” Doc smiled. “How much power it syphon?”

Alcott dove into his desk and pulled out his reports, and his landlord looked them over. “Shucks, she’s a lean little thing too. Got a manufacturer in mind?”

“Notta clue,” the black inventor shrugged. “Got names?”

“Only if you promise me first-run.” Doc beamed. The two shook on it gleefully

Jericho was skeptical. “What does it add though? It’s a neat trick but—”

“SON!” the old gray goat barked again. “A little somethin’ called atmosphere. Remember how you kept your room all Firedaled-up when you was a boy? That’s atmosphere, and these here folks are paying for damn fine rooms, and they oughta be able customize ‘em however they like. And to put your numerical mind at ease…think of all the loose tape and nail holes this could save us from.”

Doc’s denim-clad son nodded. “And that’s why you still own the joint, Dad.”

“You’ll pick it up soon kiddo,” he grinned. “Charlie, you’s clean as a whistle. Let’s get you in my office, and get you some names.”

Whether hooker, day-laborer, or inventor, the rental hall of Doc’s Oasis was never less than a clean set of rooms for whatever a passerby needed, and in many cases, they paid dividends for the owner.

So long as customer service remained amicable.

SURPRISE! We’re bringing back the flash anthology format for something I have been thinking about all year. We have quite a few couples running around Base (and at-large), and I felt it would be fun to look into the days that these unbreakable bonds began.

The Twist: We’re looking into their courtship thru the soundtracks of their lives. Each story is titled after a song, and that song plays a role within the story, whether big or small. And while print collections will lose this last dimension, the beauty of web fiction is that I can LINK the songs in the story titles. Hope you enjoy this romantic bout of experimentation.

A1. ALL NIGHT LONG

Open nights at the Oasis were the kinds of musical carnivals that could do just about anything for anyone. Make a career or break a career. Pack the tables or send aurally terrorized patrons shrieking into the hills. To any act in Central, getting a slot at Doc’s was a rite of passage. And for the teenaged five-piece stepping on stage, it wasn’t just publicity on the line tonight. For a young Harry Garret, it was a mission of paramount importance.

Before joining Hell Patrol, before even knowing the two maniac metalheads in his future, the brown-furred delinquent rocked a cover band named “WEYL” (“Whatever You Like”). It was after the modest embarrassment and surprising success of a gig at the local watering hole (run by Harry’s mom Bette) that he spotted a quite the catch. She was a white wolf, about his age, dressed in a red one-piece bathing suit. There was something in her eyes every time he looked her way. It took the nudge of his black bassist Deak for him to realize “oh shit, she digs ME.”

Wherever the band played, the young lady was there. No matter the time, no matter the place, there she was. Third time was the charm when Harry finally came offstage to meet her after a gig.

“Right then,” the cowboy mutt smiled. “What’s your name and what’s up?”

“Name’s Scarlet. Scarlet Jones.” she replied. “And I think you’re cool.”

He wanted to play it cool, to pretend he wasn’t that interested for the sake of some tension, but the showmanship only lasted the show’s length.

“You look pretty cute from where I stand.” he smiled. “Wanna hang out some time? Swim the Hole, get somethin’ at Doc’s. Maybe have you there when we play on Friday.”

“Only if you sing.” she teased.

“Whaddya—”

“I mean, I want you live-n-on the mic.” the petit white wolf pressed. “I wanna hear ya really go for it.”

For most of WEYL’s existence, Harry was a backing vocalist, content in his riffage and baroque noodling. The fact anyone wanted him to sing upfront was enough to make him blush or hurl. Fortunately, he was in control of himself long enough to not blow chunks at point blank range. When a chick this good looking asked, he couldn’t say no.

“Alright,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “ya got me. One song. You better be there for it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she beamed. He leaned in for a kiss, only to get passed clean by as she sauntered over to her slick red coupé.

“You can come collect if the song’s good.” she winked before peeling out.

And so, for the first time, Harry Garret took to the stage, and marched right to the center mic. In front of a packed house. In Doc’s Oasis.

The fact he managed to not piss himself felt like the monumental achievement. The short brown guitarist fumbled his cream-colored Strat over his head, tightened his strap, picked off each string to make sure she was tuned, and took the mother of all deep breaths.

“Right then.” he spoke plainly, popping the collar on his leather jacket. “This is Whatever You Like, Greg’s gonna be screaming for ya the rest of the night, but me and the boys got a little business to take care of. And if we do it right, shit’s gonna ring your ears.”

Their stout gray drummer counted off, and the rest was a marathon.

It wasn’t a matter of coordination, nor of screaming over his own amps. If he could have seen the whole venue, he would’ve been met with a thousand jaws flat on the floor. He was a belter. He sang like a gale-force wind powered by a V12. He sang like a tornado in heat. It was rockabilly, heavy metal, howling blues. Even some of his bandmates hadn’t seen him lay it on like this.

When he finally did look down during his blistering solo, he saw her. Scarlet was there, and her face was just as jam-packed with astonishment as the rest. And when the smile crept across her face, he felt it wrap around his hands and send his guitar singing. Furiously he shredded, building and building into that final verse where he was on top of the world.

He made the mistake of looking at her during some of the more vulgar lyrics, and immediately looked away. He kept going, but a knot began tying in his stomach. Then his voice cracked on a high note, saved by a raspy shriek. And then, by the grace of God, it was over. To the audience it was a well-earned bow he took, but it was the stress of the final run that doubled the guitarist over. When he came back up for air, and saw the reaction, he smiled, and brought the band in for their bow as well.

He whispered to the real lead singer, Greg, if he could take on one of the four-piece tracks, and the towering white wolf obliged. When Harry looked up, Scarlet wasn’t there, but when he came backstage to rest, there the cute bitch was, still dressed in that crimson one-piece, sandals tied tight. And before he could say anything, the kiss she planted on him said it all. The next four minutes of unvarnished make-out recharged the mutt’s mental batteries. He leapt back onto the stage in time to finish the set, and gave nothing less than 110%.

For every show after, and for every band after, he counted on his Scarlet to be there in the back, waiting for his one time to shine. And no matter the knots tied in his gut, the sweat pouring from the pads of his hands and paws, it was all worth it to see his girl smile the whole night long.

B2. EXCITER

“AH! There’s the sonofabitch!”

For the speckled, earth-toned soldier Evelyn Blanc, it was a face she’d been trying to find all day. The scruffy tomboy hound knew he was a biker, but every time she asked for his description, it was always the wrong guy. It was only a chance glance through the Sickbay window that she finally spotted him. He wasn’t laid out flat, at least not anymore as the nurses helped the tan hellion into his leathers. He was young, though not much younger than Evelyn, both still in their 20s. His muzzle was a lighter shade than his head, and the tips of his ears hung forwards a bit.

Those pointed ears heard the exclamation, and with it came a sigh. “No sir, I won’t do it again sir. Apologies sir for the inconvenience and—”

“Hollup!” Evelyn shot back in her sharp, smoky tones, “I ain’a superior, just got a few things to chat with you ‘bout.”

The tan soldier nodded, and beckoned her on.

“First, what’s your name?”

“Gibson,” he said.

“Second, you a newbie, right?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Just enlisted a coupla months ago.”

“Then how the FUCK do you pull that shit on a U1 on a bike?”

He couldn’t tell if Evelyn’s tone was one of admonishment like a superior officer, or one genuinely impressed with the maneuvers.

“You mean tactics or just in general?” Gibson shrugged.

“I mean you gliding on air, nailing turret rings left and right.” The young woman paused, trying to find the right words to say, before all the bravado dropped. “And saving my ass from being turned into Swiss cheese—”

“Wait,” Gibson interjected. “Black and bronze AMC…Rebel Machine—yeah, that’s the one—flanked right, cargun jam.”

She nodded with clenched teeth, not particularly fond of the last detail.

“Well I—”

“Lemme guess,” she cutoff, “‘happens to lots of people your age,’ hmph?”

The tan-furred biker blinked before erupting into a snort of laughter. “Wasn’t gonna put it that way, but alright! Fair enough!”

“Two drink minimum, tough guy,” she smiled, patting his shoulder.

“And hey,” he recovered, “Not for nothing, but you did rebound just in time to save the whole unit’s green-ass. Didn’t know the fuck those guys were thinking boxing me in with a live turret still on the ground.”

“It was nothing,” came Evelyn’s proud reply. “Eye for an eye and all that good shit, right? Shoulder came out fine?”

Gibson winked playfully. “She’ll buff out. Taken worse dives back in the digital bitch’s fun factory.”

“Shit, you from Haven?”

The conversation’s jocular tone dropped on a dime. “Yeah. I was.” he sighed, looking off into the middle distance of medical equipment and empty beds.

For all her brashness, Evelyn could still read a room. “No worries, not gonna ask. What I did wanna ask you is what song you was blasting before we got called out? I could hear it from over in the Auto Corp unit.”

“Oh, shit, yeah!” Gibson perked up. “Named my hog after it too. ‘Exciter’s’ the name. Been digging the hell outta it since one of roommates shared it with me. Shit, the tape better be on me!”

He fumbled through his jacket, careful not to draw his twin Colt revolvers. With a heaving sigh of relief, he pulled the tape out. “There,” he grinned. “Ain’t cracked, tape ain’t unspooled, and my Walkman’s still built to kill.”

“Got a coupla tapes like these in my hot rod,” Evelyn smiled. “If you down for a listening party, I’m down.”

“Just one request,” he answered, coming in close. “Can you keep it a secret?”

Evelyn came in close. “Lay it on me.”

“Edge of the driving range, after dinner, ready for anything.”

The bandanna-wearing bitch was speechless. “How’d you know that—”

“Chick with a car I been wanting to drive since I was five comes waltzing into my hospital room, you bet your ass I’m gonna ask for a go-round.”

The grin that split Gibson’s snout said it all.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything more than just a little time at the wheel?” quizzed Evelyn.

“Like you said,” Gibson smiled. “Whatever you’re down for, I’m down for.”

She snapped him to her lips like a bear trap, and she was met with leather-clad arms wrapped tight around her. For someone who took a swan dive mid-battle, there wasn’t a muscle on him that wasn’t fine-tuned for peak performance.

“This how they always thank each other out here?” the tan biker interjected.

The speckled brown hot-rodder nipped at his neck one last time. “I’m sure there’s some ol’ Chinese proverb about being forever in one’s debt for saving the other guy’s hide.”

“Guess we got a lot of dues to pay,” he winked. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

They left Sickbay arm in arm, with a pair of earbuds split between them, and a thunderous slab of speed metal ringing in their ears. A little pregaming for the mother of all “listening parties” that night.

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C3. THIS BIG HUSH

She had been fretting all morning, fretting all afternoon, and fretting right up until ol’ Doc entered her room. Sabina had become a giant ball of anxiousness, spilling out into the hall. When the grizzled gray proprietor walked in, he saw a most despondent tenant. And when he sat down on the bed, and asked in his old smoky tones “what’s wrong Sab?” she melted right into him.

Everything came pouring out, from worries about where she was in life, to wanting to do something new, but then worrying she wasn’t skilled enough, all of which cycled into one another. Doc held her tight and did his best to calm her down. He looked into her eyes and smiled gently. “What you need is a break.”

When she went to start up again, he shushed her.

“I’m serious,” Doc soothed. “I remember when you started you were all happy as a clam, ‘bout lovemaking being your profession. But if you’s unhappy about it, you got every right to try something new. Matt next door’s got a thing for electrical work, a small press sent a writer down here to get some local color. Don’t forget that I ain’t your pimp, sweetheart, I’m just the landlord. And if you need time to get things sorted, you can have all the time in the world. But what you need right now is a whole-ass night off. Drinks on me. Mill around, have some fun. If you wanna be with someone, and I mean REALLY, go right ahead. Don’t worry ‘bout billin’ and all that bullshit. Just do what you want.”

“Gracias,” she sniffled.

“De nada,” he smiled in kind.

She got changed out of her gypsy rags, and into something a little more sleek. Her dark blue jeans, cropped leather coat, and black leather sandals. She traded all the costume jewelry for the few things she enjoyed. A bracelet here, a toe ring there. When she stepped out into the diner's bustling main floor, there at the ready was a vodka martini, brought to the empty table she took a seat at. A strange, breathy song was playing over the speakers, the jukebox a haze of neon and glistening synths as she sat, sipping the striking beverage. It had been ages since she savored the drink the way she was, the music mingling with the flush of warmth. And no sooner had she her tall glass and her comfy booth, that a stranger walked in.

He was a red wolf like her, though built taller. He was a true-blue weekender, dressed for a day at the beach. Red Hawaiian shirt, suede sandals, stonewashed jeans. He crossed the room, spotted Sabina’s booth as the last of the free seats, and asked “mind if I pop a squat?” His voice was smooth as silk, and when Sabina looked up from her drink and was met by that gentle face, she cocked her head and slid over.

“Joint sure is jumpin’,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Miracle I was even let in. Say, what’s your name? I’m Marcus. No sur-nonsense, just plain ol’ Marcus.”

Sabina hesitated, petrified at the thought of her reputation preceding her. With a wink from Doc behind the bar, however, she went ahead. “Sabina,” she smiled, flipping the curly black hair from her eyes. “Jus’ plain ol’ Sabina.”

“Nice to meet you Señorita,” he nodded. “Come here often?”

“Well, work anyway,” she sighed. “Tonight’s a night off.”

“Hey, an’ a Friday too!” he perked up before leaning back in the seat. “Always the best day for a night out.”

“You off the clock too?”

Marcus shook his head, crossed his legs, and balanced the heel of one paw on the toes of the other. “Never am. Don’t need to. House is all squared away, folks left me plenty to barter and pay into the town. I’m free as a man gets out here short of crime.”

The red-furred lady’s eyes shot up. “Really?”

“Mhm!” he saluted. “No pirates, no robber-barons, just folks keeping a good stock of resources, peeled off the whole kit-and-caboodle, and helped me find a nice pad to live. Leaves me time to dig into all the cool stuff I want to learn.”

What followed was a mini-dissertation on everything from his native ancestry, dating back to the Navajo and Comanche, to the love he lavished upon the car outside (“this real honey of a rod from 1960”) to a peculiar set of hobbies that included skeet shooting, fine cuisine, and beadwork. He pointed to the two-strand choker about his neck, made from long tubes of light-colored hair pipe with black, brown, and silver beads.

All the while, Sabina felt her head slip into her bejeweled hand, not from boredom or tiredness, but pure fascination. She looked into his eyes as he spoke, and saw within a rainbow of excitement. Whatever he spoke of, he was absolutely enamored by it, and her in kind. She thought of all the idle talk with her Johns, all the cheap “God, you’re goods,” and before her was the antithesis of the whole thing. Whatever he ordered, she ordered one as well, and in kind, the strangers shared another vodka martini. Upon his first sip, he was drumming on his chest to a Tarzanian beat, the sight of which sent Sabina into hysterics.

“Whoof,” came a dazed Marcus. “You a tough nut sister if that goes down smooth.”

When he turned to face her, he found that the mirth become something quite different. Her eyes softened, the snout-splitting smile drew back to a gentle grin. Her dark curly hair curtained part of her face. She wasn’t trying to be pretty or cute in the gin-joint’s hazy lights; she just was.

“Well,” continued the tall red wolf. “Seeing as I just waltzed into a date, how ‘bout you and me go for a ride? And if you ain’t scared by my driving, maybe you and I can keep the pow-wow goin’ at my pad?”

The grin vanished, and worry again sat in. When she looked over to the bar, Doc wasn’t there. The next decision was all hers to make. Sheepishly, Sabina turned away, parting the hair from her eyes. With a gulp and a deep, deep breath, she spun round and said “by all means.”

Marcus paid for his meal (and almost paid for Sabina until she explained the employee perks), and escorted the lithe red lady out the ride he had gushed about. The 1960 in question was a DeSoto Adventurer. Long and low, with Space-Age fins, four wide-eyed headlights, and a thick smiling bumper. Marcus counted “three, two, one” under his breath in anticipation of a response he knew to a T.

“OH MY GOSH!” Sabina gasped. “You’re a cutie, aren’t you!?” She crouched down and looked the metal beast right in those sweet electric eyes. She knew full well the car wasn’t alive, but the sheer quantity of character it possessed at captured her imagination to the fullest.

Marcus crouched down beside her, beaming. “I did just the same when I found her, and my folks thought I had went loco.”

“¡Está muy bonita!” she playfully growled. “You’re lucky to have such a car.”

“Where’s yours?” Marcus asked. Sabina’s face dropped a little.

“I don’t have one,” the little red lady sighed. “I don’t actually drive. Never had to.”

For a moment, nothing but abject perplexion filled Marcus’s face. The thought of anyone in the desert not driving at all had never occurred to him. His inquiring mind wanted to ask why, but when he caught the sullenness in those Latina eyes, he knew just what to say.

“Would you like to?” asked the red-furred gentleman. “I can help fill ya in if you need refreshers.”

She felt the pull of that miserable spiral from earlier, only to be yanked free of it by that simple question. She looked over to him, and threw herself upon him, both hitting the ground with a thud.

“I’ll take that as a…” was all he got out before he dove headlong into those misty brown eyes, and she into his piercing blues. He wrapped his arms around her, and shared a tender kiss. He didn’t savor it, he didn’t beg for more, he simply shared it.

Marcus helped her up to the driver’s seat, but got in first. “Seat’s a bit of a devil, so I might have to hit the pedals for ya.”

Sabina took her place between his long, denim-clad legs. “Are you sure that’s as far as the seat will go?” she asked.

“Scooch over and lemme see.” he sighed as he jimmied the handle, finally getting the seat slid forward more. They swapped seats again, and Sabina was ready for her first drive.

“My Lady’s a bit special,” Marcus smiled. “She don’t got a stick at all. Get them paws on the brake, turn the key.” Sabina did so, the engine rumbling up her leg and upon her spine. Marcus then pressed a thick red thumb on the button panel next to her. “There, she’s in reverse,” he smiled. “Back ‘er and let’s go.”

She dipped her sandaled paw onto the pedal like it was a ice-cold pool of water. Gently, the Adventurer slid from her spot and was turned around.

“Hey, least you remember the important bits.” Marcus teased. “Press that ‘1’ button, and lay a patch for me.”

She wanted to. She really did, but there was still that hesitation. Marcus saw it, and pulled her head towards his. “Lemme help ya on this one,” he smiled, thumbing the tufts of her cheeks.

He switched the radio on, the same silky song from the bar flooding the car stereo. The broad-shouldered red slid beneath his slender date, but kept her at the wheel. He kicked her feet off the brakes, pressed his down, and stamped his thumb on the button for first-gear. He felt her shivering against him, and gently ran his hands from the tops of Sabina’s shoulders down to her jeweled red hands on the wheel. “There ain’t nothing to be scared about,” he soothed. “You’s just about to feel alive for the first time in a while.”

She slammed her paw down on the throttle, the car jolted, but it didn’t move. She felt tensed as she heard the tires scream, but relaxed when she saw the culprit: Marcus’s big flat paw was still hard on the brake.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, nipping at her neck. He snapped the Birks off the wide black pedal, and the Adventurer leapt into the night, needle rocketing through the numbers. He put her into “Drive” proper, and kept those broad red palms around her petit fists.

Within her, every sensation came upon her. Fear and worry, freedom and bliss. But above all else, was the feeling the red hound’s hands, and the warmth of his body behind her. She waited for the other shoe to drop, for him to start getting hot under that Aloha collar, for the sweat to pour from the black pads of his hands and paws, for the chattering breath and vulgar seductions made in heat.

Instead, he whispered with a smile. “You’re doing good, keep going.”

And hers came roaring back upon her muzzle. Come what may, she couldn’t worry, for when with this peculiar red hound, there was not a damn thing left in the world to worry about. As they lay in bed together, she had but one thing on her mind: the future. Hers, his, the whole lot. And she couldn’t have seen one any brighter than in those playful, piercing blue eyes.

D4. SHARPSHOOTER

There were coincidences, Coincidences, and God himself telegraphing fate from Heaven for all to see. Two dark figures chasing two vomitus criminals towards one another was merely a coincidence. The exact same song rattling their stereos, loud enough for each other to hear, was God laying it on thicker than a cement foundation.

For the hippie-punk Lita, sandal-wrapped paws still buried in her blood-red Bug’s footwell, it was a score to settle with a mad bomber. Normally she wasn’t that fussed about arsonists and pyromaniacs, but the death of a few street-fighting friends incensed the vigilante’s ire. Hell hath no fury, etc. etc.

Meanwhile, Nic Ridgefield was giving chase to a serial rapist. A perfectly unsavory target, blessed with perfectly unhinged pursuer. He wasn’t so much a wolf as he was a six-foot slab of black anger driving a fat-tired blue pickup, boot on the floor, ready to crush the crook the second he slipped up.

The desert lawman and Haven vigilante broke out of their respective arenas to make the catch, Lita blasting through the weakened chain-link border, and Nic chasing the thug right off into the Ivory Coast. The desolate cliffs, still haunted by A.C.E.S. and her reign of terror at the century’s turn, were especially overcast as the chaos came careening in from both directions.

Nic’s rapist, a scrawny, bug-eyed white wolf, swung himself over the cliffs and scrambled away towards the city. Lita’s mad bomber, a short, fat tan wolf with his chaos agent toolkit slung over his back, did likewise.

When both drivers skidded to a stop, they looked to each other, then down to the unwitting swap they were about to make.

“FREEZE FUCKFACE!” Lita hollered, whipping out her Wildey and firing streaks of green into the canyon.

The arsonist whipped out a full-on bomb and set it feverishly.

“You can’t take me alive, cu—”

SPLAT!

He never finished his insult for Nic shot clean through his head. With no one left to shoot other than the rapist, Lita sent the scraggly white desert-dweller river-dancing. The borderline pantomime display ended in a single trip, for the bastard fell face first on the bomb, and evaporated on sight.

The air was still for a moment, and in that stillness, Lita could hear the same thunderous bass across the canyon that was coming from the Red Devil. In kind, Nic dialed his Hilux’s stereo down, cocked an ear, and heard the same from across the way.

“NICE MUSIC!” he hollered. “I PLAY THAT FOR A LIVING, Y’KNOW!”

“NO SHIT!” the dark gray punk roared back. “GET THE FUCK OVER HERE!”

Nic drove his pickup down the narrow road, and crossed the canyon base. He ran over both wolves’ bodies (or at least what remained of both bodies) for good measure before his trucked climbed back up the other side. One hairy left-hand turn later, and there he was, looking at his surprise deputy for the day.

“Name’s Nic!” bellowed the black-furred cowboy. “Nic Ridgefield. Hell Patrolman for Desert Central, and full-time rocker.”

Lita gave her name and a playful salute of her half-gloved hand. “Didn’t realize you dug the same tunes. You a DJ?”

Nic shook his head, and pulled from out the back seat a bright white bass guitar with the Ace of Spades branded on its rear. The punk gasped. “You crazy bastard, that’s grave robbery!”

“Nope,” he grinned. “Just a one-for-one replica. Real thing would be a couple hundred years old anyhow, pickups would be shot to shit.”

She gawked at the piece of recreated history some more before he cut in. “Mine was a sex maniac? Who was yours?”

“Mad bomber,” the punk scoffed in her husky tones. “I ain’t a pig though. Just a little pinch of justice when we need some.”

“Think I’m a pig?” Nic quizzed, pulling his wraparound shades down.

Lita looked up and grinned. “You’re too tough to be a pig. The pen back here’s made-a more spam than ham.”

“Shouldn’t they have shot you down by now?” pressed the black wolf. “Thought it was more protective about these sorts of things.”

“Eh,” Lita shrugged. “She ain’t worried about ya leaving if you’re on the books as a thug. I don’t think my wrap sheet’s big enough.”

“There ain’t a whole lotta you that’s big enough.” the cowboy teased. “I do see two things though.”

To anyone, the punk would’ve growled like a feral dog and clubbed them to death. To the mystery man who bumped a killer off for her, dug and played the music she did, and dressed like the freest hound on Planet Earth, six-pack set akimbo by a stonewashed denim vest, being told she had nice tits was about the best she could ask for.

“So, whatchu do when ain’t fighting crime?” she asked, sauntering up to the leaning tower of hound.

“Play at a local pub with two cool cats. Playing the same kinda stuff you and I like. I don’t know if I can drag you outta the ol’ prison block though.”

Lita sighed. “Nah…I gotta give cats the good news and get on to the next thing.”

“And I’m probably gonna have to tell Commish the shitbag’s done for.” Nic nodded in kind.

For a moment, they stood there, trying to find a way to keep in touch. The winds whistled, the music grew faint, and only the distant crackle of Haven’s electric infrastructure pierced their pensive silence.

Then an idea came to them.

“Shit, might as well do it now while we can.” Nic smiled.

“Y’know, great minds DO think alike sometimes.” Lita beamed before the two leapt in to the Hilux’s bed and went to town. The truck rocked, the wolves howled, and the bands played on from both pickup and Beetle alike.

When Nic rolled off, the duo winded from the sprint, he looked over to Lita with a big shit-eating grin.

“Alright, NOW we gotta finda way to keep in touch.” he panted. “You guys get cell reception outsida Haven?”

Lita shook her head, digging around for her phone and a joint. “Nah, the damn Tower Network only works in-house. Blocks all reception from outside.”

“Ight,” Nic resolved, digging out a tool kit from beneath his head. “Gimme da phone.” The gray punk did so, and as quick as he could, Nic probed and prodded the flip-phone, trawled through its operating system, and made a few changes on both ends. He found the number and dialed it on his own cell phone. When Lita’s rang, the lovers cackled with mad glee.

“There ya go,” sighed the black-furred cowboy. “Don’t break it anytime soon. It ain’t just fees you’ll be paying to get that thing all hooked up again.”

“I oughta kill you.” Lita snorted.

“The hell you mean by THAT!?”

“For taking care of me like that.” she grinned, cozying up. “You’re the only bastard I ain’t ever pumped-n-dumped.”

“Well, you did me a solid with that Rube Goldberg shit back there. And I think you’re kind cute, even with all them spikes you keep on that head.”

Before they could continue, there came the crash of static, and a news bulletin.

“CALLING ALL CARS. CALLING ALL CARS. CHASE IN PROGRESS! J.G.Z., AGE 43, HEADING SOUTH!”

“That’s my cue.” Nic grumbled, plucking up his cowboy hat. “And don’t you forget to gimme a ring when you can.”

“You’re gonna hear plenty,” growled Lita playfully. When he looked down at those hungry red eyes, and then to his Hilux’s cab, he dropped back into the bed, and went down for seconds, “just to make sure she was real.”

And indeed, she was.

GET YOUR NEW 365 QUARTERLY TODAY!

Bit early for this, innit? For those not in the know, I have a few backup formats here on Substack. Whenever I get a jolt of inspiration, I whip up a QUICK BYTE, micro-fiction meant to burn the idea off. When I’ve loused up the schedule, I whip up an EMERGENCY RATION to make up for lost time.

This one’s a louse-up, but with good reason.

There’s a certain item I want to run FREE on Friday 11/15, but I owe those lovely patrons of the Force at least 3 paid-sub stories this month. So today’s the paywalled story, and tomorrow the surprise. Hope you dig both!

The house rocked as they rolled on the floor, bodies held tight. From the outside, it sounded like screaming blue murder. From the inside, it was merely the tall, muscled body of Rory Armstrong bedding a groupie. The white-furred biker cackled like a witch as the short, shaggy haired gray wrapped around him like an upturned cat on a branch. He always dug these kinds of catches, provided they didn’t come prepacked with a stiletto switchblade and manifesto.

Fortunately, all she dug was his drumming.

They could’ve gone until the house was off its foundations, but once the two-hound triathlon was over, it was over. Rory helped her off the floor, onto the couch, and back into her clothes, the 20-something fan playful as ever.

“Watchup to tomorrow?” she smiled, slipping back into her leather jacket.

“Work unfortunately,” he sighed. “Ain’t nothing like wasting shitbags for the man.” He slipped back into his tall black boots and dropped his black pant legs over top. “Probably stuck hunting a raider pack.”

The gray gal went dead silent, and her eyes grew fearful.

“No, I ain’t coming for you!” he sighed. “In, yes. For, no.” She snorted a laugh, head still on his chiseled white chest, his hand still rubbing her side.

“That’s just y’all’s crew name anyhow.” the biker smiled. “If I had to arrest every band and girl gang named ‘Raider This, Raider That, Raider X,’ I wouldn’t have a fan left in the stands. Or a killer like you with a mean glass-bottle hand. Besides, think of all the fun you’d be missing out on.”

The tall white hound stole another kiss from before dropping one last bomb on her. “Alright, you talked me into it. One ride, back of the bike, your ass strapped to mine. That bad bitch of a hog can tear your face off itchu ain’t ready.”

The metalhead wolves flew out the one-story shack and dove onto Rory’s chopped Harley. The sun rose faintly into the desert sky, red light glistening across the chopped Harley’s silverish steel.

“Damn, didn’t realize we’d been at it that long.” the gray chick sighed, wrapping the back strap around her.

“Hey, time flies and all that good shit,” snickered Rory, bucking the strap around his waist. “Hell, flew so fast I didn’t catch your name.”

“Roxie.” she smiled.

Rory shook his head. “Original.”

He kicked the starter pedal down, fired up the twin-Vs beneath him and cruised right off into the sunrise. No helmet, no gloves, just a leather strap keeping his date from sliding off, not that he worried with how close she clung to him.

“First time biking!?” he hollered over the throbbing engine.

“YEAH!” Roxie smiled.

“Nervous!?”

“YEAH!” The yell was a bit more exasperated, Rory already shifting and revving his metallic beast into the upper double digits.

“GOOD!” the white biker grinned, “THAT’S WHERE THE FUN’S AT!”

He opened his silver steed wide, the monstrous bike launching back on its rear wheels, engine bellowing its high-octane cry. He felt the heels of Roxie’s work boots dig into his sides as all fours were wrapped tight around him.

“Keep them booties tight,” he teased. “She got more where that came from.”

He let his Harley down but kept the pace. His eyes darted about, making sure the coast was clear before slapping the handlebars’ sides and rocketing ahead, pushing 200. He could feel his lemur of a date still clinging to him, claws beginning to pierce the skin beneath his fur. Not that he gave a shit; the “pain” inflicted by Roxie’s fear melted into a pleasured growl from her man as he kept pushing the Harley. Higher and higher the needle climbed, faster and faster the wheels spun, and the engine hammered. He was beginning to regret not wearing his shades, but the adrenaline high was immense. He let out a deep, sonorous howl and cocked his head towards his girl.

“You got shit in their God gave ya, now use it, bitch!”

For the short, shaggy gray, black hair dancing in the wind, it started as a feral growl before erupting into a shrill shriek of a howl. Rory laughed heartily at the display before easing on the brakes and slowing to a stop.

He kicked the Harley’s stand down, arms folded over the handle bars like a poster he once posed for, and waited. The sun hadn’t climbed much higher, and the winds were unusually calm. Roxie was never answered when she asked “what’s up,” the white biker remained locked on the horizon, staring in all directions. When she asked for the umpteenth time, Rory sighed.

“I was waiting for a fucker to kill.” he growled. “And there ain’a bastard in sight.”

She began to shrink behind him, a sinking feeling in the groupie’s gut that there might be a few more screws loose in her rock god than she realized. He pulled out both long Colt’s Dragoons and fired into the hills, hoping to shake someone out of their boots or into a real gone duel. Again, no one showed. When he felt the chick shiver against his bare back, he holstered the mighty revolvers and flashed a knowing smile.

“But I’m glad I get a morning off from this horseshit.” he winked. “Where you live?”

“Pad’s over in Glenmore,” she grinned, before melting back behind him. “Me and the girls hang out there working on stuff…I’m outta my depth, though, ain’t I?”

“Hey, just cuz you gotta nice pussy don’t mean you are one.” he teased. “You got brass balls coming on a hog like this one. Your pretty little face should melted after we hit 300.” He nipped at her some more. “Least you kept that muzzle on tight for me.”

“How the fuck you do this for a livin’ is beyond me.” Roxie sighed, both arms wrapped tight around the biker.

“Hey now,” Rory grinned. “Freewheelin’ for the law ain’t that bad. Diff between it and gangs is there ain’t a lotta friendly fire. Diff between it and riding lone-star is she ain’t as lonely. Only thing better than it is having a babe like you in the back.”

“Guess I oughta take in the last ride then, huh?” she sighed, gray snout resting on his shoulder.

Before firing the engine back up, Rory spun round and looked her dead in the eyes. It was a crazy glower that melted into her own. “You think I’m dumb enough to let a gal like you slip through these fat fingers!? You bet your pert ass it ain’t the last time! Tighten my cap for me, and let’s boogie out.”

She sat stunned for a second, as if the thought of any real relationship hadn’t crossed her mind. Once the shock dissipated, Roxie bit a strip of Rory’s maroon bandanna cap and tugged at it. Once the knot was tightened, she gave it a kiss of approval. “And that’s why!” Rory chuckled. “You’s a freewheeler yaself and ya didn’t even know it ‘til tonight.”

He kicked the starter down, and opened the Harley up, silver steed howling on into the new day. She liked being called a freewheeler by Rory, even when she finally realized it was slang for psycho. But then again, her newfound lover was a bit off the rocker. And as for herself, Roxie still had a mean glass-bottle hand, and managed quite few mosh-pit doozies at the shows she attended. But all the blood and chaos was worth it, when over the thunderous guitars, roaring bass, and Gatling-gun percussion, came the banshee cry of “THERE’S MY BITCH” by a certain white-furred biker killing his kit on stage.

“Welcome, ladies and germs, to the most important and least relevant job…in the woooorld.” Bantham Woolcroft was a hell of a name for anyone in management to have, and was also a hell of a salesman when it came to pitching Comm/Ent. Standing before the smartly-dressed, marble-furred wolf was a young team of eager grays, either oblivious or uncaring about the station in life in which they had placed themselves.

“Obvious question,” Woolcroft continued, his tall frame hunched over a keyboard. “The hell are you all here for? Doesn’t dear ol’ Ace make the movies and cut the newsreels herself? Don’t the programmers and White Coats keep the circuits in tip-top shape, the billboard screens sparkling outside?”

Every pupil nodded.

“Astute observations” came the bob of his head, “but there are some things a wolf can do that a computer cannot.” As he dashed his half-gray-half-white digits across the buttons, Woolcroft pulled up a screen with a library of video files.

“Long time ago,” he said with a smile, “You used to run out with a camera, shoot some stuff, get the film developed, cut it at a bench, and voila, a movie is born. Then we went digital in and around the 21st century, and when the A.C.E.S. wanted to start making flicks of her own, she pulled on everything in her data banks. Thusly, the Amalgam Picture was born.”

The swooning “oohs” and “ahs” of the workers-to-be got a chuckle out of ol’ Bantham before he continued. “But you see, the problem dear ol’ Ace now has is that she’s gone a little too far in the speed department. The neurohancers, which transferred the full chemical profile of these items alongside the video and audio data, has faltered just a teensy bit. It turns out people actually enjoy a full 90 minute fiction feature. The news stuff can stay rapid-fire, thank God.”

Woolcroft pulled up a new window, this one flooded with even more tiles of video files, title cards, and audio elements.

“What we’re about to teach you today, is how to make a feature film. Have any of you seen one? I mean a proper full-length on the telescreen at home?”

Half the class raised their hands enthusiastically.

“And how many at least understand the principles?”

The half that hadn’t raised their hands before did so now. Woolcroft raised an eyebrow before continuing. “Right then…so what we’re going to do here today, as a bit of an exercise, is pull up a film and watch it. Use the units on your desks to snatch shots and ideas you like from it. The big screen will be playing in real-time, while you have full control over playback on your desktops.”

Their first film of the day was one of those old hardboiled flicks from a half-millennium ago. Hounds in striped suits and sharp hats, cigarettes clenched between fangs as they rattled glass windows with Tommy guns. Woolcroft smiled gently as he looked up to see some of his craftsman and women yet-to-be feverishly snapping shots and playing back frames. Next film was a romance a few decades later. Lovingly filmed soft-focus photography, wolven lovers drifting through a hazy dream world. Fewer frames were snapped, if only because all eyes were locked on the big screen.

Having got them hooked, Woolcroft leapt forward a few centuries and introduced them to what he called “Escheresque cinema.” He had seen triptychs, he had seen early attempts at interactive, surround sight-and-sound art, but here, the gray-furred recruits gasped as a dozen tiles played out before them, characters stepping from one frame into the other, from all angles, with plots in parallel before their very eyes.

“You can even pick which shot you want to focus on,” Woolcroft winked. He selected one of the tableaus, two lovers plotting the death of the black wolf in the bottom right hand shot.

“TURN IT BACK!” the class cried, and their merle-furred boss did so gladly. The idea of all this action tandem had clearly captured their imagination.

He had spent the whole day filling their brains with ideas and by its end, he saw before his pensive hazel eyes were the germs of great talent. He sent each hound home with their digital editing kit and their desks’ hard drive. As the “class” was dismissed, he closed up shop and stepped out into the hall, met by a White Coat sent from HQ.

“You think they’ll shake out?” the short, clean-cut scientist asked.

Woolcroft beamed. “Oh better than that, good sir, they’re about to bring us the renaissance!”

“But that wasn’t what we asked.” he retorted, bordering on a moan. “They’re supposed to go back into the databanks.”

Again, Woolcroft beamed. “You don’t think I’ll let them SIGN any of their work, do you? They know the score, they just happen to love the craft. And I feel Ace will reward them handsomely for their offerings.”

To the White Coat’s chagrin, he agreed, and gave the unit carte blanche. And to Mater Acc’s delight, the computer network was rewarded with a full festival roster in two month’s time. Dazzling colors, peculiar narratives, captivating icons for the denizens’ desires and fears. Attendance was in record numbers, every cinema plex in the glittering glow of Comm/Ent sat fat and happy, loaded with Havenites from all across the city. And to all the workers’ shock, their signatures, a mere back-end verification of completion, were left on the final reels of each unique concoction. When she held conference with Woolcroft and WCC Chief Vincent Carmino the next day about the new Comm/Ent. initiative, the response A.C.E.S. gave was shocking:

“As of today, I am putting the complete production of fiction media in the hands of Woolcroft’s C/E Unit. I have developed a full application process to expand staff and have rerouted select nano-resources for the expansion of facilities.”

When Carmino pressed her on the matter, perplexed at the abandoning of her wholly automated pipeline, the answer said everything.

“I think they are fun. The data sets they pull from are a great deal more precise, and yield sufficient satisfaction from the public. If this the most efficient manner of satisfying the public’s desire for entertainments, then this is the way it shall be.”

The logic was anything but cold. It was the product of her sentience, one that had developed a notably refined palette, and it was this realization that brought a broad smile to the marble-furred artist. “I am pleased to find you are a producer of incredible taste, Ace.” Woolcroft beamed. “We look forward to making more of these pictures.”

He shook hands with Carmino, the tan-furred scientist, and kissed the monitor through which A.C.E.S. had spoken. Before exiting the meeting hall, Woolcroft did a double-take of Carmino and his pinstriped jacket and shirt.

“Come down to Comm/Ent. 832, Vinnie,” Woolcroft winked. “I think you’ll look good in the cats’ next gangster flick.”

The scientist stood equal parts baffled and flattered before catching himself in the mirror-glass window, and realizing he might be right. He held on himself for a little while before playfully spinning round with a finger-gun in hand, and clicking his tongue in time with his thumb. With a playful salute from Woolcroft, and a final round of reviews, the Haven renaissance had indeed arrived.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! Couldn’t let the day pass without sharing something delightfully ghoulish for the occasion. In lieu of checking up on old Jon Aegel trapped in the world of cyberspace, I elected to grab a few old favorites and dropped them into a peculiar encounter that even I myself wasn’t sure about until the very end. Do enjoy, boys and ghouls!

For the first time in a long time, Lita was terrified. Bone-stick-stone cold, locked in absolute fright. For all the chutzpah and gumption in that fiendish mind of hers, for all the blood spilled on the streets of Haven, the dark gray punk had never before seen such a wretched sight.

She had made another pilgrimage to the desert, to see her beloved Nicky and fall in love all over again with the black-furred cowboy she so dearly cherished. It was while searching for a drink that she saw the terrible sight through the window. Shambling from out the midnight dust, a wolf glowing green with light marched itself slowly towards Ridgefield’s trailer home. From out that sandy cloud came more and more, with gaunt faces and molting fur. None bore eyes in their glowing green heads, just sockets of black, as if the vomitus glowing fur wrapped only the wolves’ bones.

The scruffy punk stood, jaw slacked with shell shock, unable to pull herself away from the macabre funeral march. It was only upon the grizzly sound they made, the grotesque cackle of a shredded throat, that she wheeled around and shook Nic down like he owed her money. After a half-dozen “c’mons” and a couple of supplications to God, she went hellbent for leather on him.

“BABE! WAKE THE HELL UP!” she bellowed feverishly, shaking him ever more frantically. For a moment, it looked like he was deep in sleep, the kind she knew only a nuke would wake him from. But after a few more wild rolls, and the realization his girl wasn’t acting like her usual self, Nic leapt up and wrapped her in his arms.

“Whoa-whoa-whoawhoawhoa.” he started, “The hell’s wrong, baby? The hell’s going on?” When the frightened city girl pointed to the window, a mix of grim amusement and genuine concern fell upon the black cowboy’s face. “Well,” the tall wolf curtly sighed, “that’s a new one.”

“Ah new WHAT!?” Lita exclaimed.

“A new stage of addiction,” Nic answered. “Remember all the jive I told you ‘bout radium? The desert’s new flavor of glowing-green crack-rock?” His lover nodded. “We’d only ever fought the worst of these junkies during the day.”

She thought back to the one guy she had splattered with him, and it all clicked. “Good God, they looked like they shot straight outta atomic Hell.” the punk gasped. “The hell we supposed to do?”

“When they’re this far gone?” Nic nodded. “Same thing you did to Deere, and the same thing I do to these scum-buckets every other week. Get your things on.”

She did so without hesitation while Nic got his cowboy garb on him. The duo now dressed, they bolted for Nic’s scrappy little pickup. Lita took to the driver’s seat while Nic queued up the radio to pickup someone at the Central Region HQ for Hell Patrol. With a fire lit in her blood-red eyes, the mohawked punk slapped her sandaled paw on the gas and bolted for the borderline sea of neon green she and her lover were about to wage war on. She didn’t waver an inch from the ghastly sight, braced for the usual mess she made of anyone fool enough to go under her wheels. In a macabre way, she actually welcomed the action, her stay having been such a comparatively peaceful (i.e. boring) one.

And in the end, she got her wish.

The Hilux bucketed along, fat tires pounding the desert sand, thirsting for addicts’ destruction, the towering hound beside her having finally reached someone on the signal. But with a final feral cry, and a final stomp on the throttle, Lita rammed the truck into the first bastard she saw.

He didn’t evaporate against the grill, nor snap to pieces beneath the pickup’s mighty wheels. The irradiated hound shot into the air…and vanished into the nothing. One by one, more vanished in that same single bound. For every one Lita hit, a dozen shot into the air, gone with the evening’s wind, nowhere to be found. And each one she struck, sounded off like a stick of dynamite, echoing into the hills. When she slammed the brakes down, and brought the truck to a stop, Nic and Lita got their bearings. And without the world blurring past them, both the black-furred cowboy and his tenacious gray hippie-punk realized that there was no one there.

They did a double-take before Nic called off his request, thanking them regardless. For a moment, there was only silence. After all, what the hell else could you say? But in his playful, smoky baritone, Nic laughed and pulled his punk close. “Only us loonies could have a shared sight like that, huh?”

At first Lita didn’t know what to say. The sight’s terror still shook her, but the preposterousness of it all seemed like some cruel practical joke played by someone with a hell of a hologram set. Still shivering, she was pulled in tighter still, and sat upon Nic’s lap. His weather-beaten black hands lifted her muzzle towards his as the two shared a few nipping kisses. It was the only way Nic could think of to calm her down. “I’m sure we can figure out what the hell all this was in the morning.” he smiled. “Let’s get on back to bed.”

Nic swapped seats and drove them back to his trailer. It wasn’t long before a little more lovemaking took Lita’s mind off the affair, and she drifted away into a deep sleep. In the morning, while they were having their usual coffee clutch, teasing each other and nipping at each other’s necks, a radio message played out from the local station.

“And for those living in the trailers near Blackmore Hills, you will be surprised and fascinated to hear that historians have confirmed your patch of land as one of the Hallowed Valleys. This is the Southwestern Heritage Association’s designation for all sights impacted by the Big Day back in 2200, when all that fire and fury was raining down all over the world. The sight will be marked with a special blue plaque noting certain monuments and fixtures of the area during the Old World days. Death toll estimates are still being debated, though likely sit within the 100K range. One thing’s for certain though, it was one of the locations impacted by the nuclear warheads.”

For a solid minute, mid-nip and mid-sip, the two wolves stared blankly at the radio, Nic now joining his lover in shell-shocked astonishment.

GET YOUR NEW 365 QUARTERLY TODAY!

He screamed through the smoke and flame, the deep red motorcycle bolting through the wrecked surplus depot. Commander “M.A.D. Dog” Douglas lit into anyone who moved that wasn’t behind him and his gang. The wild-eyed gray had his shoot-to-kill orders from Knox, and chose to savor them for once.

His Garand rocked on the crimson bike’s handlebars as it dumped heaps of electric lead into the raiders’ assault. The turf being fought over was a small resource station, a black cabin being hit with all the raiders had. What weapons and munitions hadn’t detonated were being loaded into trucks and trunks as fast as the leather-clad wolves could manage.

“PUT THE FIRE OUT!” Commander Douglas barked to the two soldiers riding behind him. “REST OF YOU, LIGHT ‘EM UP!”

The duo of white-furred bikers did what they could for the fire while the rest followed the M.A.D. Dog’s orders. The mangy mutts who weren’t blown up by the gas in their tanks were given a 21-gun salute straight thru the gut. All except one who managed peel off in ratty old Ford Granada, the rust-yellow metal box lurching with each turn.

One twist of the handlebars and the M.A.D. Dog was right on its 6. He could hear the black driver swearing up a storm when he caught the gray’s muzzle-splitting smile in the rearview.

“Guess you don’t like losing,” he chuckled to himself. While it would’ve been fun to play cat-and-mouse with the beige beast, the Commander’s idea of “savoring” didn’t involve toying with food. The lean gray biker pulled up to the driver’s side and kept his cocksure smile. The last thing the enraged black wolf saw was the business end of his Garand.

“Lights out, Pal.” he winked and blasted a hole clear through the thief’s head.

Unfortunately, the dead man hung a left. Commander Douglas clung to his crimson bike as it slammed against a rock wall, the Granada pinning him against it as they drove. He felt the scrape of the stone against his leather jacket, grating the skin beneath his fur through sheer force. When he saw the base of a sandy butte, the towering flat-top formation growing in the distance, he knew he’d have to risk braking his bike or breaking his bones. He shut his eyes, prayed to God, and snapped down hard on his handlebars.

The Indian’s wheels locked, grated the rock wall, and ground to a stop. He felt the relief of 3000 pounds at 90 miles an hour peeling away, all of 30 seconds before it smashed into the hill and erupted into a blistering ball of fire. The M.A.D. Dog Commander was bloodied and bruised, but alive. Alive to see a twisted smile rise from the smoke and flame of the wrecked car. At first, he met the strange sight with a puzzled glower. It wasn’t until he saw a bit of his own twisted smirk in the black plumes that he let out a sigh of relief.

“Least you took it in stride.” the Commander scoffed before returning to the station’s scorched earth, his remarked answered by the last of the stolen munitions and their deafening blast.