No Dogs Allowed

File_05 : Fear-Factor.zip

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








- PART II -

_________________

CH2O

Formaldehyde.

Organic compound. Colorless, odorous, flammable gas. Used in preservation of antiseptics, medicines, cosmetics, and corpses.

_________________

Zoom out. Pan left. Turn a little. Zoom in. Adjust focus.

You see that kid over there? That scrawny, suited-up, short and miserable thing with more dye than a candy factory, right there. The one in black Brooks Brothers 1818 and hand-me-down Ferragamos—not his choice either, mind you. The one with the unlit cigarette and crooked tie that had either a wallet or a gun in his pocket—the answer is both. The one 10.5 million US dollars in debt, never doing the shit he's supposed to, who's the only Class III Stirling on the number one square racing team in the NCAA where said team is the exact place he's supposed to be, and yet, here he is instead? 

Yeah. That fucker.

That's me.

Looking pretty suave too, if I do say so myself. A suit and some shadows works well for me, don't you think? Equipped with the wire in my ear and the empty wallet but loaded 9mm in my pockets, hey.  The discord of my life has never looked so consolidated.

Mercy—no last name, as that was too personal for me to know—was the culprit. I suppose it wasn't enough to make me her getaway driver, her go-to body butcher, and her top punching bag for anything from poor nicknames to shitty wages, she had to drag my ass from one end of sweet home LA to the other to play party guard, too. What I could do as a guard without even breaching five feet, I didn't know. I figured I was there more as backup and secondary purpose. Mercy always had some sort of back-pocket agenda. It was likely what kept her from being part of anyone else's, and with it, put all of her gang, the Bengals, at the forefront instead. Fae were clever like that; it was why they didn't get along with the less-clever lycans. Point and case.

Why I was in the middle of a triple-story canine nightclub full of godless dogs and underworld ethanol is Mercy's doing, sure, but less her fault. That would rely more on me—I was particularly good at being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But the nightclub. Things get convoluted quickly in my particular position. We'll start off easier.

Fang Flower was a luxury nightclub that provided downtown-alley level filth of entertainment in the form of uptown-hill level quality of experience. There were three floors, one for the dancers and drinkers, one for that but scantily clad, and one for the private shows or parties. The unfaithful, the ungrateful, and the unabashed flocked in droves of lycans, gumihos, werewolves, and bulgae, every single night without fail. From the glasses in their hands to the soles of their shoes, if you were a canine with money, a half-decent alcohol tolerance, and a taste for white collar trouble, well, Fang Flower was the place for you.

So, you can see why it wasn't the place for me.

"Oh, my God," a bulgae gasped, the flames around her face pulsing amber. "Who brought a child in here? What is wrong with people?"

I blinked. So much for the suit and shadows theory. Her friend dragged her away in another second, whisked into the neon crowd.

Dominic Rossi said, "It's nice to look young. Treasure that."