The People's Alpha ✔

8: Toothbrushgate

We passed the power pole, freshly replaced. The skid marks on the road had long been worn away into dust by passing traffic, but the tyre marks in the grass verge were still visible.

The dappled sunlight was just beginning to seep through the dense tree cover overshadowing the road. As usual, the road was already crowded with bicycles and mopeds trying to dodge the numerous potholes.

At the bus stop on the roadside, a large group of schoolchildren stood, waiting for the bus. Some commuters stood next to them, briefcases in hand. They didn't give us so much as a second glance as we drove by.

Mike braked as the mopeds in front of us suddenly slowed down. It didn't take long to realise why.

Blaring sirens and flashing blue lights assaulted our senses as a convoy of black pickup trucks materialised ahead, private security guards crowding the beds, heading towards us at a cracking pace. Mike wound up the driver's side window in anticipation of the incoming wake of dust.

The clouds of dust left by the trucks revealed a semitrailer rumbling towards us, with a single lonely vehicle looking almost lost on its bed, covered under a tarp, with more black Ford Raptors bringing up the tail end of the motorcade.

"I believe that's Clayton's new McLaren," I said, eyeing the sleek outline of the car as the trailer rattled by.

"Who's Clayton?"

"Alpha of the Golden Fir pack."

"There are so many packs. I can never remember who's the Alpha of which."

"Well, now you know who the Shadow Bluff pack is led by." I pointed to myself.

"So who's this Clayton guy? He seems to have a nice taste in cars."

"You probably remember him from the time he got sloshed and proclaimed himself Alpha king."

"Oh. That guy. We were watching his coronation on TV, and then he woke up and started freaking out because he had no idea what the hell was going on. It was the only thing we talked about for about a month after."

Mike chuckled at the memory. "That might have been the least crazy part of the whole ceremony. Some of those costumes looked like they came straight out of a Disney movie."

She watched as the dust cloud faded in the passenger side mirror. "Why would he spend so much effort just to get it delivered? Why doesn't he just drive it home?"

I gestured at the road surface. "Just look at all the potholes."

"You should see this stretch when it rains," Mike added. "It's a quagmire."

"So why would he buy it if he can't even drive it around?"

"Good question. He doesn't. The lucky bastard's got a private racetrack on his pack territory."

"Why would he spend all that money for a racetrack for himself?"

"To his credit," I interjected, "it was built long before he was even a glint in his mother's eye. Back then there weren't even any roads. They had to drag the cars up here on sleds in the wintertime."

"But it must cost a fortune to maintain. Why doesn't he just fix the roads?"

"He? You mean the OPLU." I wound my window up a little. The wind noise was getting rather annoying as the truck sped up.

"Why don't they fix the roads?"

"When's the last time they built something they promised in Copenhagen Town?"

"The closest we've got is that time Wethermore visited six years ago."

I watched the scarred trunk of an oak tree flash past, a small bunch of flowers resting at its base. "Wethermore's not a bad guy. But he's pushing 80 and I'm not sure if he even knows what the hell is going on in his own organisation."