Pretend all the good things for you

[shifting]

WHO: Sam Merlotte, OPEN
WHERE: De Chima & other places
WHEN: Throughout the month
WHAT: February catch-all with open starters for his bar. Action or prose welcome!
WARNINGS: TBA


Morning
[given the recent whirlwind of blackout and bullshit (the least of which involved a guard dog role he got more grief than reward for, and the most a body to hide), Sam's downright ecstatic to lose himself in work for a few days. Even with the week's worth of lost revenue, Merlotte's is doing well. Word travels fast in De Chima, and at least for now the good food and imPort novelty has meant steady business.

Sam tends to reserve the mornings for interviews he may have scheduled, happy to chat with a potential hire in a booth or in his office, whichever they prefer. Each applicant gets a handshake, a grin, and the offer of a cup of coffee on the house. This early in the restaurant's life (and with a long memory for the high-turnover troubles at his place in Bon Temps), Sam hardly turns anyone away before he's had the chance to chat with them first. He's got his fingers crossed for more imPort hires in particular, but the ads he's placed online are careful not to mention that. He wouldn't want to look discriminatory.]

Afternoon
[De Chima's a place of businessmen and tech innovators, which means a swarm of quick customers for the lunch hour. So Sam already has both hands full when a weasel-eyed journalist for some sensational periodical strolls in to try and goad the shifter into an impromptu interview. Every time Sam crosses within earshot, here's this little asshole flashing a slick smile and the ugliest gator-skin loafers Sam's ever seen in his life, tossing out boisterous questions: How's Sam's love life? Anybody warming the sheets lately? The papers know he gets around. Guess he's giving the word 'dog' a new meaning, right? And hey, since he let the cat out of the bag - excuse the pun - on that shapeshifting thing, does he mind going into detail on that? Give the people a little taste? And is that a health concern, a guy who turns into animals working in a restaurant? Why hide it for so long in the first place? Or himself, for that matter? Good-looking guy hoping to run his own business, poster boy for a vineyard, and then that run for Ambassador even, and he's never reached out to a single media branch. Does Sam have any answer for people thinking that's kind've weird? You know, they say it's the quiet ones for a reason; they say they're the folks with something to hide. Those are the sorts of rumors people start, he wouldn't believe the shit that gets published these days, and if he'd just sit for a quick interview, they could jump in front of them...

Sam ignores the bastard until the exact moment he can't anymore. He whirls around in the middle of the restaurant to step into the other man's space, barely-leashed anger cording up his forearms and into the set of plaid-dressed shoulders.]

You want some words for your article? Huh? You really want some goddamn words from me?

[the journalist's unperturbed, shit-eating smirk suggests maybe that's exactly what he wants.]

Evening
[the closer the restaurant gets to closing time, the less hustle and bustle left to slog through. Tonight's seen mercifully smooth dinner service, guests coming and going in easy streams. Sam splits his time between his little back-office and the bar, mixing cocktails to get away from inventory orders and sales numbers.]

Get you somethin' cold? [is the little greeting he chooses for the next body to sidle up to a stool, offering a beverage napkin and a friendly smile.]

Or hot, if that's more to your tastes. No judgement. I mix a pretty damn good hot toddy.

Comments

afternoon

[blackhat]

[ Near the entrance, a new arrival is making small talk with the hostess on duty. Grey hair, dark attire -- a robust canvas coat and black gloves to keep his hands from the cold. Standard fare for the afternoon hour.

It isn’t until he turns at the sound of Sam’s raised voice that the gun at his hip stands out in sharp relief.

That and the badge gleaming silver at his breast -- the block of a radio clipped over his shoulder.

The man in black approaches from behind the journalist’s shoulder with his hat in hand, closing in like an eclipse between restaurant seating and easy escape. His insignia marks him as part of the De Chima Police Department. The look in his eye marks him as the man Sam squared off with in Chilton’s house in Maurtia Falls, bright and sharp as broken glass in the bar’s warm light. ]

There a problem here, gentlemen?

[shifting]

[people are staring. Conversations still or fall to a hush not half as quiet as the participants think they are. Distracted eyes rest on Sam, poised as he is like a dog testing the weight limit on a chain-link fence, ready to bust through and tear the journalist a new one. Said journalist (Edward T. Fresco to his publication, Eddie to his friends) watches too, still smirking, inviting the follow-through of Sam's temper because from this distance he sees the price tag attached.

Sam couldn't give less than two shits about any of it. That mild, inquiring voice just swept the anger out from under him like some verbal trapdoor. Goddamn surreal, that's what it feels like to see Wyatt outside that midnight kitchen, all those once-shadowed features now innocently lit by glowing bulbs and the sunlight streaming through his windows. Chilton's own Sundance Not-Quite-A-Kid, standing like he belongs anywhere near here. At one o' fucking clock in the afternoon.

In a cop's uniform.

What the flying fuck.

At least half of which must be written across Sam's face, because Eddie adopts a penitent's guise before he even turns around to spy Wyatt's badge. There's a quickness of response which speaks to a man with a glove compartment's worth of unpaid parking tickets.

'No, sir, no problem. Just a disagreement, and I might have upset Mr. Merlotte here. Easily solved, easily solved. I can head out the way I came.'

Words Sam only barely registers, utterly fixed on Wyatt. He's thawing past the stutter-step of his shock; the emotional whiplash will take a moment. Behind them, several eyes return to their meals.]

What - ? [Another block of glacial thought breaks free to remind Sam of his journalistic audience. He pauses, then carefully confirms:] We're fine. Is - there somethin' I can help you with?

...Officer.

[blackhat]

Fine idea, citizen. [ Dalton, by the name patch sewn into his jacket, looks down Fresco’s pant leg to his crocodile slippers and back up again, suspicion narrowed in fine around his eyes. A get the fuck outta here is silent in the half step he opens up for the reporter to turn tail in, free hand at his hip. ]

Drive safe.

[ The reporter’s nearly to the door before Officer Friendly turns back to size Sam up good and proper, hat passed from right hand to left. ]

‘Sergeant,’ actually.

[ He gestures to the stripes emblazoned yellow at his shoulder, and then to the bar, deeply smug in not even half a grin. C’mon, bartender. This isn’t just a social visit. ]

Should I expect to find you on the cusp of front page news every time we cross paths?

[shifting]

[Sergeant. Of course. Sam's eyes linger not on those stripes, but on Wyatt's shiny new name tag, meaning to remember it for later. Chances are good any pictures he pulls up won't feature the man in black's smiling mug, but there's value in knowing for sure.

Especially when Wyatt may have stolen more than an identity from one of De Chima's finest. If that's the case, Sam hopes his gear is all poor Sergeant Dalton's missing.]

I'm not sure I've got an answer for you. [his gaze drags down again, this time noting the jut of the gun from the older man's hip. He thinks briefly of his own pistol, stored in the back office, then offers Wyatt a dry-humored grimace.] Considerin' I didn't think we'd be crossin' paths again.

[at least not like this, and certainly not this soon.

If Sam's annoyed by that (and of course he is), he manages to keep his mood contained to the set of his jaw as he goes behind the bar.]

You here for a drink? Doesn't seem real responsible, seein' as you're on-duty.

[blackhat]

I was in the neighborhood. [ Wyatt’s not an especially big fella, at close range -- 5’9” max, maybe 10” in his boots, wired lean and hard as mesquite under his layers. Disproportionately comfortable in hostile territory for his size, and age bracket.

The gun probably helps, even if this one is standard issue -- six shots to the cylinder, belt heavy with all the gear you’d expect. Cuffs, nightstick, a heavier radio, all the time in the world for Merlotte to commit his name patch to memory. ] Thought I’d stop by, [ he says. ] See how business was doing.

[ Not too shabby, from the look of things. He sweeps a glance past Sam, smooth around the seating area and back again, speculative before he leans to follow.

He pushes his hat down firm over his brow as he goes. ]

I’m on break. [ And if he deigns to give a shit about the legal or ethical implications along the way, he’ll be sure to let Sam know, if the slit of his eyes beneath the brim is any indication. ] Whiskey, straight up.

[ evening ]

[ididntsaybanana]

There's a deck of cards being expertly shuffled in Kaito's hands as he looks up from them to eye Sam up. He stops shuffling them and sets them down neatly on the table before crossing his arms.

"I don't know what a hot toddy is but I probably can't have it, so water is fine."

In fact, water's the only thing he can drink seeing as human food does nothing for him anymore. He doesn't look it, but he's not human and can no longer imbibe or get any nutritional value via the things probably served at this restaurant.

Does he regret it? Yes. No. Maybe. It's not something he'll ever admit to.

[shifting]

Sam quirks a brow, giving Kaito a quick once-over. Coming from Bon Temps, his first instinct is to assume 'I can't drink that' means someone is a vampire and trying to be a mysterious jackass about it. There's a distinct lack of pallid skin and the smell of blood-rot, however. Being a bartender, Sam's second guess is -

"You not old enough?"

He's admittedly not the best judge of age at first glance, which has also admittedly gotten him into trouble a time or two. He'll have to remember to ID a little more consistently now, come to think of it. ImPorts and ages are tricky enough as it is, and the last thing he needs is to lose his liquor license.

"'Cause I could offer you a virgin version, but then you'd really just be drinkin' flavored hot water."

[ididntsaybanana]

If he was the type, he'd laugh at that but really all he does is raise an eyebrow at that. Does he look that young? Or was it just a guess? He picks up the deck of cards from the table, shuffling through them again while answering in a short tone, "I'm legal to both gamble and drink, actually."

And then he pauses-- really, Sam hasn't done anything to him so it's probably best not to be short with him. It's something he would've done easily in the past, but as things are now he's started to change the way he does things. So he sets the cards back down again because it's rude to do that while Sam is talking to him before he looks back at him with a sigh.

"I can't eat human food anymore, just a synthetic version of the only fruit I can ingest. It's the same with drinks too, that's why water's the only thing I can drink if I'm thirsty."

He says it straight up, at least, because he's not the type not to be straightforward and to the point. Especially since there's really no need to hide that he's not human anymore. So he'll leave it up to Sam as to how to take that.

[shifting]

"...Can't say I've heard of only bein' able to synthetic fruit. That's a new one. Which should mean somethin' comin' from a guy whose world has vampires in it."

Synthetic blood, now that was a stipulation Sam knew, but fruit? Why even bother? And if water was the only thing the guy could drink - why come to a bar in the first place?

Sam glances down at the shuffling cards.

"Well if you're legal to gamble and drink but you can't drink - should I take it you're here to gamble then?"

He's not sure whether he should have an opinion on that, as a bar owner. Certainly he has some on a person sure not to spend any money while they're here, but as for playing cards in his restaurant? ...Well, as long as no one feels cheated and starts a ruckus, he supposes. There are worse things.

Morning

[maevelous]

[ Many of these porter given jobs are ridiculous, but Maeve finds hers to be more absurd than most. She showed up for a grand total of one whole day before she left and never went back since. And that was all fine and good, but the monthly stipend of $200 wasn't really cutting it.

So she needed a job. Nonah was a boring place to work, but a quiet place to live. And given that all the other cities were only a single step through the porter, it made sense to look elsewhere.

Sam's place is a stepping stone. Something she knows until she can learn something better or obtain something of her own. So once one potential applicant leaves, Maeve takes their place with an air of confidence. ]

Let's cut straight to the chase, darling. It'll be a mistake if you let me walk away without hiring me. Because this place certainly could use a bit of sprucing up, if I do say so myself.

[ Teasing. Saucy. Maeve isn't going to pander to him just because he's the boss. And with any luck, that's something he respects. ]

[shifting]

[now there's an entrance to wake a man up. Sam lifts both brows and straightens in his seat, taking Maeve in like a shot of espresso. Good morning. Between the almost-cold war and nationalist sentiments of this America, diverse accents aren't common. ImPort? he guesses. Could be. They do tend to stand out, and Maeve is nothing if not eye-catching.]

Is that right? [Sam taps his pen against his clipboard thoughtfully, leaning back against the wood of the booth. He might be insulted if he weren't so intrigued.] And what is it you think needs sprucin' up?

[he can feel his lips twitch, wanting to turn up into something amused, but he keeps them schooled for now. He doesn't want her to think he's amused by her, necessarily. It's more the amount of swagger and confidence she's packing in that slim body. You'd never expect it at a glance.]

Might also want to tell me why it is you think you've got the expertise to do that. And - while I appreciate you tryin' to get right down to brass tacks - I could also do with your name. Call it a Southern thing.

[he extends a hand.]

Mine's Sam. Sam Merlotte.

[maevelous]

[ One leg swiftly crosses over the next and she folds her hands on the table before her. After his inquiry about what needs sprucing up, Maeve offers him a mysterious smile and lets it go without comment for now. She'll circle around to it later. ]

Most men are only interested in the assets and nothing else. So I suppose that gives you some points, sweetheart. The name's Maeve Millay. It's a pleasure to meet you, Sam.

[ Her attention drifts toward the row of alcohol at the bar, sizing up the bottles on display. It's a healthy stock, but it could always stand to have more. ]

I worked in a bar back home. Or a saloon, more like. [ Her eyes flicker back to Sam. ] I may be a bit old-fashioned compared to this modern world, but I know a thing or several about men and their thirst. And let's face it. I've seen your staff, Mr. Merlotte. Quite a few pretty young girls on board. And I can't shame you for it. They bring in business. But are you well equipped to take care of those pretty girls? This might not be a brothel, but they are no less immune to the wandering drunken hands of men.

I was a madame back home and a damn good one, might I add. I know about business, but I also know how to protect my girls. I can keep out a watchful eye, diffuse a situation before it detonates like a bomb, and not even miss a beat when it comes to serving up a drink to another customer. I'd say my whole presence here would be the spruce up your place needs, but modesty has never been one of my higher traits.

[shifting]

Pleasure to meet you too, Miss Millay. Always happy to earn what points I can.

[A saloon. There this world goes again, proving that imPorts really can come from anywhere and everywhere. Sam has to admit he has a soft spot for Western themes, the old cowboy movies being a favorite from his childhood (and one of the only types of action movies his church-compliant foster parents let him rent). There's a charm to them and to Maeve that even his recent run-in with a certain black-garbed man can't sour.

She has his interest, that much should be apparent.]

Well, you're right that this ain't a brothel. I think that should be made clear. I'll hire male servin' staff same as women if they want the job, and tryin' to lure people in with shapely thighs ain't the focus of my business.

[although she wasn't wrong in pointing out Sam's well-proven hiring trends.]

Merlotte's is more about usin' food and atmosphere to foster community. That's the focus. That bein' said - I think those skills you just listed could be useful for that. This is a job for someone who know how to work with people, which you seem to, and I can always appreciate someone who looks out for their own.

Tell me more 'bout the business side of things and your skills there. Paperwork, management, knowin' how to make people feel welcome - whatever you think you're strongest at.

[evening]

[carbonfrozen]

[It's been a long day. Long few days. Whatever. Han's been getting his feet under him for a while, pulled as he was from that great big wide awake nothing that had been the carbonite, and scoping out the major cities while he's at it. Pays to be a taxi driver now, apparently.

He's just at Merlotte's now because he wants a drink. Information on top of that would be nice, but in truth that's not what he's looking for at the moment. So when the bartender offers a napkin and a smile, Han takes the napkin and gives his own smile. It'd look friendlier if it didn't have that wary little edge to it.]

Never heard of a hot toddy before, but why not? I'll have that. [It cannot be any worse than the swill some of the rebels would drink in their downtime, honestly.]

[shifting]

[coming into Merlotte's for a drink is absolutely the right reason to be in Merlotte's. It's just in Han's rare favor that he'll be getting some top notch human interaction on top of that. The lucky devil.

Sam's grin widens, forever pleased to have someone take his advice. It happens less often than you'd think.]

You got it. [which sets the shifter off on a little drink-mixing montage. Thankfully, Sam tends to have a good sense for people, which means he keeps any theatrics out of the process as he squeezes lemon and honey into a mug, adds a shot of bourbon, and pinches in some earthy spices before topping the whole thing off with a liberal pour of steaming water and a cinnamon stick.

Unless Han's not a favor of brown liquor, it's sure to beat out the swill.]

One hot toddy. [Sam folds his arms and leans against the copper bar-top, awaiting Han's verdict.] As a bonus, they're also a remedy for the common cold. I didn't even charge you extra for that.

[carbonfrozen]

Good to know. Next time I get a cold I guess I know who I'm calling first.

[The first sip is—not that bad, actually. It's far and away much better than some of the Rebellion's more, ah, exotic brews, that's for certain, with a little kick to top it off. He relaxes visibly, tension going out of his shoulders, and leans a little on the countertop.]

Not bad. It's a lot better than some of what I used to drink. [And it's warm, true to its name. Han's fingers curl around the mug, and he doesn't think about the freezing cold of the carbonite. Helps that the bartender's not as prickly and suspicious as some other bartenders Han's met in seedy little cantinas all throughout the galaxy.] You willing to share the recipe? In case I come down with a cold.

[shifting]

[Sam gives a little laugh. It's too bright in here for any glowing tattoos to be visible, but he's starting to get the sense that he's chatting with an imPort; he's coming to recognize the signs.]

Sure. Really not much to it. Just bourbon, hot water, lemon, cinnamon, and honey. I add a few other spices to mine, but those are the basics. [there's a playful, roguish wink.] The real secret's the bourbon, though. That's the magic part.

I'm Sam, by the way. [he extends a hand.] You new in town?

["new in this world" just sounds cheesy.]

Evening!

[jacksonian]

I'd prefer something along the lines of cold hard cash.

[ Mark offers up a smile that he thinks, in his head, looks devil-may-care and confident. In truth, it just looks a bit strange and off-putting. The poor kid has all the charm of a sweaty, fat snake. ]

Tell me about your sales numbers, won't you?

[shifting]

[Sam's own smile is just a touch harder to keep up after that. There's a noticeable pause before he answers, a moment's mental sigh. Mark may have a businessman's closet and wallet, but there's a way of dealing with people that clearly didn't come with the suit.

Despite the lack of request, he starts making Mark a hot toddy.]

Sure. Off the top of my head, best I can? [mild, not out to offend, but holding a mirror up to the request all the same.]

'Course, if you're willin' to wait a moment, maybe start off with a 'hey, Sam, how are things?' first, I can give you this drink and we can look at 'em in the office together.

[jacksonian]

[ The oily smile drops away, leaving behind...well. Mark, when he doesn't smile, has a really off-putting sort of intensity, a stare that tends to make people's skin crawl. It's the stare of a kid who was never appropriately socialized, yeah; there's nothing hostile or evil behind it; but it comes across rather like the stare of a serial killer. This is why he doesn't have many friends. ]

I meant later. I didn't mean now.

[ An awkward pause, and then: ]

How are...things.

[shifting]

[it's a difficult stare to hold, to be sure. The breath Sam exhales through his nostrils skirts the edge of being a sigh. He's still not sure how to reach to Mark, or if that's even a good idea. If he won't just fuck it up. Having the young man as his investor has only complicated matters.]

They're good. Not bad. [he assumes Mark means with the business.]

...The blackout hit hard, but there's nothin' we could have done about that. February's typically a slow business month for restaurants anyhow, so timin' wise better now than when the weather's warmer. And I'm hopin' Valentine's Day sales will help us bounce back.

2/18, Heropa || CLOSED to Will Graham

[shifting]

Dogs understood the beauty of the world. A full belly and sunshine, something new to smell and something fun to chase, these were the pillars of true joy. But to have a companion to share them with? Ah, now that was the rarest treat yet, and one that flooded Sam's currently canine heart with a gratitude he could only express through bird-scattering barks, leaping over a mossy log as he chased a similarly four-legged Will Graham through Florida forest.

It hadn't taken long after Sam discovered Will's powers for Sam to make the first pass at a play date. At the time, months ago now, he'd couched the offer in something about being a mentor, or just helping the fisherman get a grip on having paws, but to Sam's delight those justifications were never needed. Will always seemed eager to meet with him, whether near his own De Chima cabin or in the tangled Heropa overgrowth, not a hint of shame shared between the temporary beasts as they wasted long hours digging and running, sniffing and tussling, just two wagging tails enjoying all this world had to offer a dog. Sam always came away from their runs (and the inevitable bit of chatting and drinking which followed) feeling as though he'd burned away a layer of whatever current stresses plagued him. Will was just good company, furred or not; he'd proven that.

He also appeared to be damn amazing at hide-n-seek. Sam lowered his nose to the damp earth, snuffling along after Will's scent, his damn bushy Shepherd's tail wagging lazily behind him. He'd thought he was closer to gaining on the other man (well, other dog) for a moment there, but Will must have made a clever turn during their chase. Sneaky. Not sneaky enough though, not with Sam on the hunt, no sir. He was going to -

There were voices nearby. Distant but distinctly male, gruff. Sam caught the slam of a vehicle door and the rumbling purr of an engine on standby. Something small, by the sound of it. An ATV, maybe? He raised his head, both floppy ears lifting. He couldn't see through the grey line of trees and Spanish moss. Despite some wistful consideration that the men may have brought sausages or jerky with them, Sam would have left it at that and returned to his day then, if not for the barking.

Will's barking, unhappy and echoing from the same direction.

Sam bolted towards it without a second's thought.

[infomodder]

Sam was not the only one who came away from these outings with a lighter spirit, tension worked out. Freedom, eventual booze, and a companion who understood certain aspects of a life started in their particular home was a truly nurturing experience. Chicken soup for the soul, in essence.

Will was going to be Tricky this time around. He'd found a damp patch of mud that absolutely stank of fox and proceeded to roll in it. Perhaps there was fox waste in that mud, but oh well. He could just run through some body of water later, take a shower, it would come off. Winning hide and seek against a pro-nose like Sam would make it all worth it. So he rolled himself nearly sick, and then there was a fox-stinking, mud-covered Rottweiler carefully crawling into a patch of underbrush. Yes. This was perfect, nothing could go wrong.

It went wrong when he felt something close around him and hoist him up. When he felt his paws no longer touch ground, and his body became a tangled mess, everything where it shouldn't be, making it difficult to breathe. He couldn't have been there long, but long enough it felt like an eternity, when the men came and he was cut down, collared, handled roughly, and stuck into a kennel barely large enough for him to sit in. While his mind raced about turning human once more, he did the only thing he could now: bark like a fleet of mailmen were driving by. He wasn't alone in this van. The other dogs simply weren't barking, and he didn't want to think about why — sedated? Broken spirits? So he kept it up, even when it seemed to piss off the guy about to shut the door on him. Even when the door shut, he kept it up. Sam would hear him, he had no doubt. Worst case scenario, they were both taken. Then what?

Then these dog-snatching assholes had two pissed off imPorts on their hands and didn't even realize it. It would be fine. As long as he kept barking, kept making sure Sam had a trail to follow as the van began to pull away a little faster than was ideal on dirt roads, it would be Fine.

[shifting]

Sam burst out of the brush, a thorny mess caught in his fur as several yards up the road, the door to the back of a windowless van slammed shut, muffling but not silencing Will's frantic barks. At a bark from Sam, a thickly-built man using a scraggly beard to (unsuccessfully) dress a pock-marked face turned to look back at him, one hand on the handle to the passenger door. He looked downright amused.

"...Hey, looks like our big fella had himself a friend. We got room for one more?"

There was a moment's shuffling before a second, older man's head peeked out the passenger window, half a cigarette dangling from a greasy bottom lip. He snorted and retreated back inside fairly quickly, his reply only audible thanks to canine hearing.

"Tch, that prissy bitch ain't worth the god-dang rope to haul 'im in, wouldn't last four minutes. Just get yer ass in here, Chuck, we wastin' time as it is."

Chuck shrugged, huffing a laugh as Sam took off towards him. His door slammed shut well before the shepherd came within range of even the back of the van, and Chuck had the audacity to wave out the window as the two men take off with their stolen cargo.

There were smarter things Sam could have done; better ways to respond. More human ways. This wasn't the first time the shifter had found himself too caught up in the instincts of his shape to see another way out. If he'd returned to form before these men, naked and angry, a chase might not have even been necessary. Instead, Sam chased with a dog's speed and determination after prey which didn't share his need for breath or rest. Before long, the white van became a shrinking blur, and Sam was forced to slow his run to a panting trot as it disappeared from sight altogether. Still, he kept on.

Eventually, streams of human logic trickled in. The road was disused, unkempt and rock-strewn. That was to his advantage. The men would have had to come from a main road onto this one, which hopefully meant only one path to follow, and the possibility that they had already been near their destination to begin with. It couldn't be too far.

Sam remembered himself then, struck by the knowledge of who and what he was. He jerked to a stop. There were no witnesses to his shift from dog to owl, and no one but the squirrels to hear as he took to the air with a frustrated screech. The owl's shadow glided across the packed dust of the road. The shepherd may have had the van's trail in its nose, but the owl soon had the compound in its unparalleled sight, a smattering of vehicles and sheet-metal dugouts glinting under the high afternoon sun. Among them, Sam was grimly sure, he'd find a nondescript white van.

Hold on, Will. I'm on my way.

cw watersports

[infomodder]

He barked, and barked, and barked. Mournful, depressed looks were shot his way by the other dogs, as though they had once been new and hopeful, too, and were not looking forward to another one breaking into the sad bundles of fur they all had become. But still he barked. After being told to knock if off and having a lit cigarette tossed into his kennel, he still barked. So they turned up the radio to something far too loud and heavy for dog ears.

He kept barking. One back paw stank of singed fur and the barking did not stop.

Didn't stop when the van did, either. Not until the men came around and threatened him with one of these in that thing you'd stuff in a breeding bitch while waving another lit cigarette did the barks cut off. For a few shining moments, it seemed like their new dog had figured his new place out.

Then, while being carted to his new home if your bite matches that bark, Will waited until his kennel was tilted just right. Then he peed. Urine rolled right out onto the leg of the man carrying him, who stopped carrying him with an abrupt drop and shouting. What followed was not too pleasant but definitely worth it. Dogs peed on things they owned and as soon as Sam came around, Will was certain these fellows had met their match.

Most of the dogs were kept inside in filthy cages, he saw, but Will was not most dogs. He was hauled outside and chained at a spot where he could not reach much shade from tree nor any shade from those roofs. Anyone overhead would have a difficult time spotting him if they were going fast enough, but he was there, chain a bit too tight, open to the elements, and without dish for food or water.

Sam would come. Will would give Sam time to come. Until it seemed Will's life or the lives of any other dog was in more immediate danger, he would wait. He would sit proudly with his pee-matted legs, and he would wait, and that guy he had quite literally pissed off would regret his decisions quite soon.