Physical Address
304 North Cardinal St.
Dorchester Center, MA 02124
Hair of the Dog
1.
The road wound around the curve and he floored the car. He loved taking the Pinto on the back roads and opening it up. He hadn’t owned it long, but it had potential to be a sweet ride. The outside was a little rough, orange paint faded and someone had written on it with black magic marker. “Git-r-done” was scrawled across the back of the trunk. Hell, that fit with him. He got it done.
A feeble black Lab tried to cross the road as quickly as his old bones would carry him. He grinned, score fifty points on the Roadkill Game. The Pinto should be able to take it; it was a sturdy piece of work. Horace Gilley floored the gas pedal and the engine began to rattle as the car gained speed.
As he expected, the old codger was no match for his machine. He was proud of his machine. The skull on the gear shift grinned at him. He had to cover his tracks. What if someone saw him?
He backed up towards the dead animal and got out of the car. He grabbed its back leg and pulled it towards the side of the road. He whirled it around and the carcass rolled down the slanted hill.
There wasn’t anything wrong with a little fun. He took another swig from the bottle of Bud and kept going. It was going to be a wonderful night. He had a case and his ride; he would be wasted by bedtime.
He had around twenty miles to go. It was tough to live so far from everything, but the benefits outweighed the trouble. He could target practice whenever he felt the urge, piss in his front yard, and mow the grass naked. It was a good life. His yard was always mowed because Horace always got it done. He had a junkyard started behind the house; it looked a little unkempt. But he would keep adding cars and start his own business. He was going to have his own business.
Deer bounced across the road; he didn’t dare hit one. Dogs and cats were fine, but a deer could do some serious damage to his ride. He wasn’t risking that. A black cat crossed the road ahead of him as he came out of a sharp left curve. He swerved to hit it. He didn’t need any bad luck following him around.
He’d counted seventy points just since leaving the store. He sniggered as a German Shepherd crossed the road before him. He didn’t even have to hit the accelerator. He laughed, idiots deserve to be hit. It was the truth. He might as well enjoy it when they’re wandering out in the middle of the road. If he’d broken down and needed help, that dog would’ve probably bitten him just for being there.
He finished his other beer as the road twisted right. He fumbled with the bag in the backseat and grabbed another cold one. He turned and there was a Saint Bernard crossing. What a night. What a wonderful night. He was having more luck with the Roadkill Game than he’d ever gotten. He was the man.
He was drinking Bernadette away. That lousy bitch believed she was arrogant enough to leave him. He still mourned her. She disappeared, or so everyone believed. Actually, he took her sorry body and her sorry things to the quarry pond and chained them all to some concrete weights. That pond was a few hundred feet deep, if not more. The Feds were supposed to explore it, but got scared as they went deep and didn’t come back.
Why did his problems always come from a woman? If he’d find a man half as interesting as he was, he’d go funny. It just wasn’t working out with women and he was sick of trying. And drinking more than normal. The pint of tequila earlier didn’t seem to be mixing well with the beer.
He was almost home. After such a long drive and such good beer, he almost hated to leave his car. Nights like that didn’t come often. A big dog, probably a pointer mix, crossed the road ahead of him. There was some great force at work trying to entertain him.
He pretended to swerve to get the dog to move right and he quickly turned the steering wheel to meet it. The dog went down and the Pinto made a loud thump as it crossed the animal. He did it again. Horace got it done.
He pulled into his grass drive and got out. He needed to stretch; his legs felt cramped. The night was clear and the air smelled clean. Rain might be on the way. He unlocked his house and went in for the night.
2.
Horace Loses
He finished the late-night show and went to bed. His beer buzz had worn off and he wasn’t feeling so lucky any longer. The house was oddly empty. Where was Duke? The old Border Collie should be nearby. He always came running when he heard the Pinto. Tonight, he was gone. He chose a bad time to go up in the mountain to hunt.
He stepped out on the porch and yelled for Duke. A stray bark answered, but he couldn’t figure out where the dog was. Maybe he was tangled in some brush? He walked out into the yard and called again. The bark was closer.
He worked his way through the ten cars and still couldn’t figure out where Duke was. Maybe he should just go to bed. Duke sounded like he was having fun wherever he was.
Suddenly, he heard paws padding behind him. Then another set joined. A smaller set followed those. What was going on? There were animals somewhere nearby, but he couldn’t see them.
He started to go back through the cluster of potential junkyard cars and stopped. A German Shepherd stood in front of him. Its teeth were exposed and something wet was smeared all across the side of its coat. It couldn’t be. Could it?
He backed up until another sound stopped him. A dog was behind him growling; he whirled to see the black Lab. The animal had only half a skull; he couldn’t be alive. “What the hell?” he finally whispered. Where was Duke? He’d show them who was boss.
A different growl startled him. Something was up on the rusted Malibu beside him. A black cat hissed and moaned at him. He ran from his spot and across the backyard. He could hear the animals following him as he slammed the door closed behind him. Those bastards were crazy. What the hell did they think, coming to his house? Duke would rip into them.
He just had to wait. To add insult to injury, a bloody Saint Bernard sat on his front porch. Where was Duke? He hadn’t heard any barking, no familiar whining at the door. Some watchdog he was.
He couldn’t go outside. They were waiting on him. He got another beer from the fridge and swallowed it fast. He needed another buzz; he was too tense. He heard both of his doors come unlocked. What was that? Who the hell was doing that?
Suddenly, he was surrounded. All three dogs and the cat stood before him. Every one was in the position to strike. Their injuries were visible inside, but how were they alive?
The Saint Bernard lunged first and got his arm. The rest of the animals pounced and he was gone. He couldn’t fight them. They were stronger than he ever imagined animals were supposed to be. They tore and bit without tiring.
He couldn’t fight. Before he closed his eyes that last time, he saw the shadow of a woman at the end of the kitchen. Horace Gilley didn’t get that done.
