No Dogs Allowed

Square-Faced and Greedy

(EDITED)
(Note to readers: Some chapters ahead may not be fixed to be in line with the new edits)

Let's not be on different pages. We're not animals.

Well, technically we're all animals, what with the science of it. But we're not feral animals, that's to say. Lycans makes us sound like something that turns rabid at midnight—that's a werewolf, by the way, and an entirely different thing altogether—when really that gene died out centuries ago around the same time all of your human jaws stopped being the same size as your egg-shaped foreheads.

Depending on the bloodline, some could still shift all the way and go frolic in the fields as their naked, furry selves, howl at the moon or scratch their ears with their feet or what have you. But those were mostly packs in Europe and Middle Asia who were more concerned with the shifting tradition. The Americas had tried to become progressive over the last few centuries which meant shifting was pretty much a no-go.

In the world of lycans, it was whatever those pretty three lines said on your secondary profile that made you something. 

The top bun of the shit sandwich that was the hierarchy were the Drachmann, who were an originally Danish bunch that eventually spread into France before deciding they were to be a global empire and stretched over to North America. They created gaming systems, owned hydrocarbon and energy companies, controlled international shipping docks and manufacturing, ran hotel chains throughout the Americas, and dominated the top of the racing industry with iron claws.

Then there was the bottom that got purposefully squashed beneath the weight of the six other packs on top of it, which were the Stirling, who hailed from the damp desolation of Britain before scurrying off to the US. They owned third-rate fast food chains, created indie record labels, operated east and west coast metro systems, owned a few fast fashion companies, and were consistently, without fail, dead last in all levels of the racing industry for centuries going.

Good news for me, you see.

I like to keep the expectations low.

You're bored of my talking, but guess what, you'll thank me for it later when you're not conjuring explanations mid-way through someone getting their teeth knocked out going eighty miles per hour. 128 kilometers, for you international folks.

You'll hear racing, but the right term is square racing, as the entire thing requires a special square track to be played. Square racing to lycans was as football was to a Catholic Republican all-boys, Florida-based household: you did it at some point whether you liked it or not, and you never escaped its sounds unless you happened to move to Argentina.

And if you did like it, you'd be stupid not to make some money out of it.

Sports betting was fairly illegal in the US, but square bets were the only ones allowed as it was the entire basis of the game. Every game, aside from little leagues and juvenile recreational teams, was towards a cash prize of some number. From betting your lunch money all the way to your life savings, square racing was really just a gambling den. It was, at its core, a rich kid's sport and a poor kid's demise.

You learn that the hard way.

"All right, listen up and listen good. You're gonna go in there with this paper, you're gonna say my name, you're gonna go in there with the bike I—what the hell are you drinking?"