M A R A N A T H A





© Osfer, November 2004





All rights reserved.



May only be distributed for free.



May not be altered in any way.



Contains material of an erotic and homosexual nature which may be illegal to 
read in your country, state, province or region.



The author takes no responsibility for transgressions on the part of the reader



Comments welcome at
osfer.kesh@gmail.com.





Available on 
paperback in 2005 - mail the author for information



~ Enjoy. ~









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Chapter VII – As Told By Reiner Kierkegaard









The sound was from the bullet's sonic boom, not the actual firing, so the 
sniper rifle that took out that dog in the security uniform was fitted with a 
suppressor. That kind of thing is pretty hard to get your hands on. Even we 
don't get those, but then, by the time we need a sniper rifle to get the job 
done it's usually a fall job.

You know what that is? It's the kind of job where you're probably gonna get 
caught. That's part of the mission. You gotta take the fall, hence the name, and 
not make any statements, just go to jail. You'll be there a couple years, but by 
the time people have forgotten about you, the boss'll get you out. It sounds 
like a bum deal, but it ain't. Boss keeps his word, see, and when you get out 
you've got a couple years of back pay waiting for you. Four of my buddies took 
fall jobs and they're all back on the job. Well, except Ian, but that's because 
he broke into his parole officer's house when he was on holiday and spent a 
weekend raping his son. Poor kid ended up loving it, too – not loving it the way 
that broads in porn movies end up begging for more when they're getting raped, 
but more psychologically fucked up. Stockholm syndrome, it's called. When the 
mind tries to fool itself that it's not completely miserable, through sympathy 
for the captor.

I talked to Ian a while back. We take turns visiting the fall guys in the pen 
once a week, see. I asked him why he did it, because he knew he'd get caught and 
Mr Ferrum wouldn't get him out and you know what he said? He said he did it 
because he knew that boy would end up Stockholmed. And the kid still visits him 
every day. Ad he has him do all kinds of things with friends or pets or 
strangers and take snapshots of ‘em, and every day he comes t visit Ian and 
shows him the pictures. In a few weeks the kid'll turn eighteen and they're 
going to try and wrangle conjugal fucking visits and he's asked mister Ferrum to 
waive his back pay and put the money toward hiring a lawyer for the wrangling. 
That guy is a sick motherfucker.

And the rest of us are pretty damn jealous. 

That guard dog, lying in a pool of his own blood? He's the doberman's bitch. You 
can't tell from looking at him; the dog's got a Marine's gait and he checked and 
loaded the MP5 I handed to him in the van like a real pro, but you just... feel 
it. The way he'd stand just a little behind the dobie instead of right next to 
him, the way the dobie never looked at him or spoke to him, just assumed he was 
there. Mister Ferrum treats us like that, too, and I guess technically we're all 
his bitches but he doesn't fuck us and this Shep did get fucked, by the smell of 
the cum on his uniform.

There's blood on it, now. Nasty business, getting shot in the chest. It doesn't 
hurt that bad, I'll admit, but you feel really, really fucked up. Nothing feels 
right. You breathe all wrong and it feels like your heart's pumping blood the 
wrong way round. And you can't move. Your arms and legs are fine, but they feel 
like lead and all you can do is writhe. But this guy ain't writhing. Either he's 
playing possum or he's counting down to erasure. Sucks to be him.

Wait, hold on, I've missed something. The doberman's awake again – the ferret 
punched him with brass knuckles earlier, then tossed the knuckles aside and held 
his hand like he'd hurt it really badly... But now the dog's awake again. Fuck it, 
I always do that. I zone out and I don't pay attention and now I don't know what 
that ferret in his armoured longcoat said. Whatever it was, the doberman must 
have thought it was funny. His laughter earns him a punch in the face, but 
either the ferret's got wimpier arms than they look like or the dog's seriously 
hardcore, because he doesn't stop laughing. Not even at the second punch, nor 
the third though at the fourth he pauses to spit out some blood and he sort of 
runs out of laughs. He's still snickering, though, and even though he's kneeling 
on the ground and looking up at the ferret and we've got a dozen shotguns aimed 
at is, he still looks like he owns the ferret.

God, I love shotguns. Mister Ferrum outfits us with high-tech gear, and they're 
really good weapons and hard to trace and that sort of thing... But on the rare 
occasions that we do more than just stand around looking hardcore, I do wish 
sometimes I could hear the demon-hound bark of a shotgun and watch some fucker's 
arm splatter against the wall instead of the almost clinical pop of Ferrum's 
fancy-schmancy sci-fi guns.

Fuck, I did it again, I zoned out. The ferret and dog stopped talking to each 
other and I fucking missed it. Ah well, it was probably a load of gloating and 
posturing, anyway, since now the shotgun guys are coming closer, circling around 
us and kinda getting the point across that they want us on our feet and to 
follow the ferret. Sharpish, his name is, said Mister Ferrum. Petty crime lord 
looking to make it big. Maybe he's even got designs on pushing Maranatha's big 
dogs out of the way, I don't know.

I don't spend enough time in Maranatha to get a feel for more than the files 
Mister Ferrum has us memories every week. Most of the time we're in the Layleaux 
offices where Ferrum works, sometimes we visit the Sargasso branch of Hale, but 
Ferrum doesn't have standing offices waiting for him there, the way he does in 
Maranatha. I wonder what attracts him to this shitty city, and sometimes me and 
the guys speculate, but we don't often talk long. Don't wanna say anything 
untoward, in case it gets monitored, you know? More'n a few of the Shadow guys 
‘disappeared' after mouthing off about Ferrum during poker night or something.


He's a good boss, though. Clear rules, good pay, plenty of free time and most of 
us would be in jail on the long run if it weren't for him. Not to mention the 
fact that even when we're on the clock he usually keeps us entertained. When 
he's just working in his office and doesn't need the full security detachment 
he'll order up a boy and send him down for us to share – and the stallion's got 
taste. Never sent us a boy that wasn't worth fucking twice over, and mostly 
they're happy to do it, too. I remember this wolf he sent us this one time – 
older than the usual fair, twentysomething I'd say, blond, blue eyes.. We went 
at him rough and long and I swear, by the time dawn's light crept into the van 
we'd squirted in him three or four times and he was still fresh-faced and could 
stand up straight on his knees and ask who wanted another round. That guy was 
amazing.

We're walking out of the warehouse in single file and when I try to look over my 
shoulder to see if they're dragging the German Shep or if they just left him to 
die on the floor I get a shotgun muzzle shoved in my back, so I guess I won't 
find out. 

God, I miss shotguns... 

We're guided to a caravan of cars and vans. I can see the dobie – what was his 
name? Miller or Mallory or something – looking around at everything, the tires, 
the number of vans, the number of people, the types of weapons they've got, even 
the handcuffs they slapped on us. He's a sharp dog, that, so I guess that's why 
Ferrum agreed to lend him two of his private Shadow detachment for... Well, 
whatever the dog had planned, it didn't really work out. They were waiting for 
us, two dozen guys in black jackets. Now there's a set-up if ever I saw one, and 
the dog's probably looking around for clues as to who set him up. I wonder if 
he'll figure it out?

We're taken to separate vans, Hector – that's the tiger I was with, another 
Shadow – the dobermann and I, so I don't know what happens to them when they get 
pushed inside but it's probably the same as me. A hood over the head and a sharp 
whack to the back of the skull with a rubber club. The first one doesn't knock 
me out, just knocks me to the floor and hurts like a motherfucker, but, stupid 
fuck that I am, I don't think to play possum and growl and try to sit up and 
they whack again. That does the trick. 



The hood's still on when I wake up. It doesn't hurt, the knock on my head, as 
usual. Got a real thick skull, I do, no mistake. I can hear things, but I ignore 
that for now. First things first: take a discrete sniff.

I'm in a cellar. I can tell that more from the stale, unfinished smell of 
concrete than from the feel of it under me. I smell some other people – the 
dobie, and Hector, aaaand... Sniffsniff... Another jackal like myself, and two 
wolves. One of them smells like he hasn't bathed in a while and has been the 
centerpiece of a really hot orgy. Speaking of which, sex is in the air. So 
strong it almost masks the faint scent of another male, a rabbit, I think.

Those are the scents; time for the sounds. Breathing, slapping and thumping, all 
rhythmic. Sounds like the doberman and Hector are still out for the count, by 
their respiration, but somebody's really panting hard– that, coupled with the 
rhythmic slap-slap-slap, leads to only one conclusion: Somebody's fucking 
somebody else. This doesn't strike me as a really professional thing, mind. 
Whenever me and the other Shadow guys nab somebody, our dicks are neatly tucked 
away. Ferrum doesn't even have to order it, it just goes without saying. 
Fucking's for free time, not for on the clock. 

By the sound of things, the one getting fucked's tied up. There's metal creaking 
and leather squeaking, muffled grunts and rapid breathing. It's odd that 
nobody's talking, though. Whenever I'm humping some working boy the other guys 
are usually cheering on – it's just something you do, I guess. But not these 
guys. Maybe it's because watching a rabbit getting fucked is such an ordinary 
thing. I'm assuming the bottom's a rabbit, because, well, if there's a rabbit 
and there's somebody getting fucked they're usually one and the same. Like my 
buddy Ian used to say, if rabbits weren't intended as fucktoys, God woulda given 
‘em more of a tail ta cover their tush with."

Normally I'd be trying my bonds now, maybe try and pick ‘em, if I knew how. 
Better not, though. Just relax, and wait, and everything's sure to be fine. I 
can hear deeper sounds, too – I can almost feel them, deep booms thrumming 
through me. I try to tune out the increasingly agitated mating from my range of 
hearing and focus on the thumps... 

It's music. We're in the basement of some fucking dance club. How fucking tacky 
is it to base a criminal operation out of a dance club? That shit went out with 
the nineties, man, and I've got half a mind to pipe up and tell somebody.

Unfortunately, I don't need to. My snort of disgust, apparently, wasn't just in 
my mind, I actually made the sound. Fuck. I hear somebody nudging somebody else.

"Vernon, check him out," says a snide, whiney little voice and I hear heavy 
bootsteps coming toward me and for the duration of that walk, his footsteps, the 
thumps, and the slap-slap-slap of groin against ass synchronise and it's the 
weirdest thing. I imagine a thousand dancers humping each other to the time of 
the beat, deep dub bass sounds coming from somebody's boot every time he takes a 
step–

Then the hood's pulled off my head and I realise I'm right about one thing and 
wrong about the other. We're in a basement, and a pretty big one. I can see a 
set of stairs leading up to a door at the far end of the spare, low-ceilinged 
concrete-walled room, There's somebody tied up and getting fucked, and pretty 
kinky, too. His footpaws are on the ground, manacled in place so he can't lift 
them; there's leather bindings around his thighs and a harness around his chest, 
both of them attached by metal struts to the side supports of a steel frame 
erected around the guy, who's bound in place standing-up, tightly enough that he 
can't move out of the way. His arms are spread out to the sides, bound to the 
steel poles on either side of him at the elbow, with another metal strut leading 
to a binding around the mouse of his hand. He's blindfolded and he's got a 
ball-gag in his mouth and some weird fucked-up metal thing around his crotch 
with tubes leading to some fucked-up machine to his left and I realize this 
bondage bitch ain't the rabbit I thought he was, but a pretty familiar-looking 
wolf.

The rabbit, in fact, is the guy who just pulled my hood off and I actually have 
to try hard not to cringe. One of his buck teeth is broken, his lips are scarred 
and his ears are nicked in more places than I can tell, tied back with a band of 
leather and draping down his back like a ponytail. I've always thought rabbits 
were cute and I didn't think I'd ever meet one who wasn't, but this guy, his 
face is creased in a sneer of pure hatred. "Looks like one of the Judases woke 
up," he snarls.

The wolf's heaving and sagging in his restraints and fresh sweat drips onto an 
already existing puddle on the floor. He whimpers softly, chewing on his ball 
gag, but he doesn't try to make any words. I notice some more things about the 
frame he's bound to, which are quite hard to see form my position on the floor. 
On his left side, the one covered by his body, there seems to be a plastic pack 
dangling off the frame with plastic tubes leading out and into, I can only 
guess, the wolf's arm. From behind this blond bitchwolf his breeder comes 
a-strutting, a shirtless jackal who's buttoning up his jeans, looking more tired 
than triumphant. He's skinnier than me, but he's got that clean, rippled 
musculature you see in all the fashion mags these days. I can't bring myself to 
feel jealous of him; I could snap him over my knee if my hands weren't tied.

The jackal walks up to the other wolf, and I survey the situation properly. The 
room's roughly square, with the fuck-toy bound near one wall, me and Hector and 
the doberman on the ground near the opposite wall, and the stairs on the wall to 
our side. That side's guarded by a black wolf in a bomber jacket, who's slung 
his shotgun on the shoulder-strap to hand the jackal a bottle of water, who 
takes a grateful swig and sits down to pick up a pile on the floor – his shirt, 
a bomber jacket like the ones the other two are wearing, and a black gun. I try 
to make out the brand – it looks like a Glock, but I've never handled one before 
so I can't be certain. "Your turn, Vernon," says the wolf as he takes the gun 
back in his hands and stands at attention. It's not quite attention, though, so 
this guy hasn't really been in the army. But it's close enough.

Who was still in my face this whole time, rolls his bloodshot eyes and turns 
away from me, bumping me in the face with the stock of his shotgun. "What the 
fuck? Again? My dick's gonna fucking fall off!" he barks at the wolf, while the 
jackal grins. People almost tell me I can't smile, I always look like I'm 
grinning and now I see another jackal do it, I realise what they mean. 

"Aww, come on," says the jackal and you can hear the sarcasm drip off his words 
like sticky clear oil. "Aren't you bunnies supposed to be able to keep on 
giving?" he asks, making a mock humping gesture with his hips. 

The rabbit's enraged and starts walking toward the jackal. "I'll give you a 
fucking–" and then the black wolf steps forward with a growl and cocks his gun. 
The jackal smirks, that slimy fucker, and I can see the rabbit calculating his 
odds of getting to him before the wolf can step in. But the odds aren't good and 
the rabbit backs down, tosses his shotgun at the jackal and starts pulling off 
his jacket, muttering under his breath.

"I'll do it," says a groggy voice and everybody freezes, looking around. The 
sleeping, hooded figure next to me shifts. It's the dog, still wearing that 
expensive suit of his, though the jacket's been taken from him and a little 
blood has dripped onto the breast of his shirt and his pants are smudged with 
dirt. "You need that guy fucked, don't you? I'll do it." I don't know how he 
knew what was going on or what he knows about that wolf or even how he woke up 
without me noticing. Maybe he was awake the whole time? That dog is sharp. He 
rolls onto his knees, his hands still bound behind his back. "Just take this 
fucking hood off me and pull down my zipper and I'll take care of him."

"Here, that's a good idea," says Vernon, pulling his jacket back on. "We'll let 
him do it."

"What's the matter?" asks the jackal as he checks the chamber of the shotgun. 
"Afraid we'll see you can't get it up?" The wolf turns over his shoulder and 
growls loudly enough for the jackal to almost drop the gun. The other wolf, the 
naked one tied to the rack, I mean, is starting to groan. No words, not even 
attempts at words, but muffled moans are coming around that black ball-gag in 
his mouth and the jackal dramatically covers his ears. "Oh, fucking hell, not 
the screaming again... Fine, fine, let the dog hump him just get that cock in him 
fast."

With a nod from the black wolf, the rabbit goes to the doberman beside me – fuck 
it, what is his name – and grins at me. "When he runs out of steam, it's your 
turn. You ever fucked a wolf before?" he asks as he roughly pulls the doberman 
up to his feet and pulls his hood off. God, he's a mess. His lower lip's split 
and his left eye's swollen. There's a wound on his cheek and dried blood that 
dribbled from his nose. But his eyes are full of fire and he raises himself up 
so he stands just a hair taller than the rabbit, rolling his shoulders back in 
pride. "Oh yeah," says the rabbit with a grin, "real tough." With unbelievable 
speed he pulls his fist back and clocks the dog right across the face – I 
seriously underestimated this bunny. The dog's head snaps sideways and he 
manages to just keep from staggering, but I hear something small and hard 
skitter over the floor. Poor dog lost a tooth, maybe.

Poor dog, I think and I have to grin. Poor dog indeed.

The light grey wolf's jangling his bindings now, really tugging, pushing and 
pulling, starting to moan louder and it's a fucking annoying sound. "Oh, 
Christ," says the jackal, "stop fucking around and just put him where he needs 
to be!"

The rabbit seems to be just as irritated by the sound of the wolf's moans as the 
jackal is and under the watchful gaze of the wolf's unflinching eyes he pushes 
the stumbling doberman forward and grabs him in the groin, fuzzling the 
expensive fabric of his trousers. The doberman, for his part, just looks at him 
with scorn until the zipper's pulled down and the rabbit reaches into his fly. 
He must have squeezed the dog's nuts because I can see his good eye flinching, 
and then his sheath's pulled out and the rabbit stands back. "Now be a good 
dog," he says, and fishes into his jacket for a cigarette.

"Share," demands the black wolf when the rabbit finally found a pack and, 
reluctantly, he tosses the pack to the wolf, apparently the leader of the three, 
insofar as they've got a leader. "You, Malloy," he adds – Malloy, that was the 
dog's name! – "Bite his shoulder. No talking!" He sounds like he means it, and 
the doberman, Malloy, leans forward and lowers his head, taking the slimmer 
wolf's shoulder between his jaws. Looks like he ain't the first: there's a 
couple of marks showing there already, one or two of them even showing a little 
blood.

It looks so humiliating, with his shirt ripped and bloodied, his face bloodied 
up, his fly unzipped, forced to rub his sheath between this fucktoy's buns, 
gnawing on his shoulder while three thugs and one prisoner watch, but there's no 
shame in his eyes, just... I don't know. What I see in those eyes, when he looks 
at me, worries me. He's daring me, threatening me, and I guess he's threatening 
me to rat him out because I can see his lips move. He's mumbling to the wolf, 
trying to say something without anybody noticing.

I don't know how the fuck he managed it, but by the look on his face and the 
fact that the wolf stopped moaning for a second, he must have gotten hard and 
slipped inside. I can't imagine it was very difficult, with the jackal's load up 
thee already and gods know how many others. Semen dribbles from the wolf's balls 
and joins a puddle already formed on the concrete between his bound feet, and 
for a second all three guards watch it and then lose interest. They must have 
been taking turns fucking this guy to keep him quiet for hours, and I can 
imagine how tedious fucking must get when you're only doing it to get some peace 
and quiet. I wonder what happened to the wolf that he got so fucked up? And what 
that weird boxy-looking machine is on the floor next to him – it looks like a 
generator, about knee-high, but it's got solid black walls so you can't see what 
goes on inside.

Malloy keeps looking at me, groaning as he humps the wolf and the wolf, from 
where I'm sitting, actually relaxes. He's not tense any more, his breathing's 
more even... Christ, he's asleep!

Hector's not, though, not any more at least. He awakens with a start and tries 
to sit up immediately and just as the jackal's moving over to him, either to 
clock him or to take off his hood, the door at the top of the stairs opens, 
letting in a gush of fucking loud rave music and that fucking ferret in his 
fucking trench coat. He takes his time walking down the stairs. "Mister 
Antonelli, Mister Kierkegaard – did I pronounce that right?" he asks Hector and 
me. "Glad to see you're awake. And Malloy, you dog, you, couldn't keep your dick 
out of that bitchwolf for one fucking minute, could you," he says with a laugh, 
but the dog simply continues rhythmically pumping his hips, ignoring him 
entirely.

The ferret walks over to him, walks around behind him and stands In front of the 
bound, gagged, blindfolded wolf, stroking his face. Malloy glares at him with 
open hatred, but the wolf continues to sleep. "Oh, Owen... Poor thing. You know, 
your little lion friend wouldn't have had it this bad. Henderson explained it to 
me, you know. A preadolescent would make the best host for the microbes because 
they would affect him least, but poor Owen needs a good fuck every fifteen 
minutes just to stay sane. Well, sane... I haven't been able to get a word out of 
him since Mister McIlwain turned off the inhibitors in his little device." The 
ferret reaches down to pat the weird metal encasement around the wolf's sheath – 
whatever that thing is, it doesn't look comfortable and I don't fucking want 
one. "So heroic, offering himself up instead of that little lion. You should 
have let him be. Everything was settled, you could have gone home and everything 
would have been square."

He pulls an arm back and slaps Malloy in the face, knocking his head against the 
wolf's, waking him up. The three guards by the stairs roll their eyes and cringe 
as that poor tied-up fucktoy starts groaning again. "Better fuck him harder to 
calm him down... Weird, these microbes. Still, you'll be pleased to know," the 
ferret says, pulling some kind of vial from his breast pocket. I see Malloy's 
eyes follow it as he places it in an indentation in the top of the weird machine 
and, with a click, locks it in place. It starts to fill up with some fluid, 
translucent, blue and oily-looking. "You'll be pleased to know that your 
friend's suffering is not without its benefits. We haven't even thought of a 
name for this stuff – Clive here suggested Horny Juice, didn't you, Clive?" the 
ferret asks, turning around to see the jackal scowl while his two colleagues 
chuckle at him. 

"Whatever we end up calling it, it's already quite a hit. All the benefits of 
Heat and Rut without any of the side-effects, and no problem if it's taken by a 
herbivore or a carnivore. In fact, we tried one of Henderson's suggestions and 
mixed it with a one to two ratio of Rut, and gave that to a carnivore. Normally 
taking Rut would lead to the runs and all sorts of nastiness, but in this case, 
nothing happened to him. But then he went and let this skunk fuck him, and he 
came back to tell as that the skunk just went wild, had the best time of his 
life. So it seems that mixing this stuff with a non-species-compatible 
aphrodisiac delays the drug's effect and saves it for the user's sexual partner. 
We're going to be whipping up a batch and handing it out to mister McIlwain's 
stable of hustlers to improve their skills... All I'm saying, Malloy-my-lad," he 
says, mimicking the doberman's English accent, "Is your friend isn't suffering 
in vain."

"That's all well and good," I say and everybody looks at me like they saw a 
chair or an end-table speak. What, they think me and Hector are just going to 
sit here like we're at the kids' table. He's managed to shake his head enough 
that his hood came off on its own and now looks at me – I have to stifle a 
giggle because his hair's all fucked up – and nods. "But you ain't got no 
business keeping us here." The ferret looks at me, and then at Hector and then, 
stupid fucking tiger that he is, Hector winks at Sharpish. Immediately I look at 
Malloy, but he's still busy gnawing on that wolf's neck, trying to hump him 
harder to keep him quiet, making the leather and metal creak as he throws his 
all into fucking that poor fucked-up wolf.

"Of course," says the ferret with that mocking tone of his and as the dog and 
wolf groan in climax behind him, he looks at me. Those eyes, man... Unpleasant 
ain't the word for it. The pupils are so small they might as well not be there 
and the irises are so light they might as well be white. Your hackles rise, just 
looking at him and it's way, way worse when he looks at you back. "Why don't we 
go to my offices and talk about this like gentlemen? Clive, Vernon, why don't we 
escort our guests upstairs."

The jackal grabs Hector by the arm and the rabbit comes over to snag me as well. 
I know I shouldn't be worried. I know everything's under control. But the look 
in that ferret's eyes... I don't know. It makes me kind of nervous. 



We're lead up the stairs, which end up in a narrow hallway with bleak lighting 
and loud goddamn noise coming from the end. We walk up to a T-crossing and from 
one side I can hear the blare of the music and the shouting and the dancing. 
There's doors in the walls and one of them just opened, with a pair of giggling 
ravers coming out, pulling their pants back up before they link arms and start 
skipping back toward the dancefloor.

Now, I like to fuck a boy now and again, even more'n I like pussy. But those 
guys were fucking faggots.

We get led in the other direction, though. The rabbit's got a pretty firm grip 
to him and I think I'm gonna really enjoy the next time I see one of those 
fluffy long-eared little cocksuckers and get to spend a night reaffirming that 
at least most lapines are nice little dickwarmers, even if this guy might 
actually stand a chance against me in hand-to-hand.

Of course, it ain't gonna come to hand-to-hand. Hector and I are led down the 
hall, past two more thugs and then we're at a door. The door's open and there's 
an alley beyond it and I can hear a girl's voice and a man's voice and the man's 
having a good time and the girl isn't. Probably some slick bastard with enough 
money that he could buy a little ‘enforced' privacy from the club, enough that 
he could ‘enjoy' that chick... Probably drug her afterward so she won't remember, 
too, you know how these things go. Sucks to be her, eh?

Sharpish tells the rabbit and the jackal to stay at the door and then leads me 
and Hector out into the alley – to our left, past a couple of side alleys, is 
the street and to the right is the shady corner where a coyote in a white nylon 
suit is holding some squirrel-type girl up against the wall, with her pink skirt 
lifted, humping under her soft, bushy tail. Gotta have some moxie to be able to 
do that in plain view of the street, but hey, I don't know this neighbourhood. 
The girl, she looks at me and actually pleads – not with words, she has enough 
dignity for that, but with her eyes... She's asking me to be a white goddamn 
knight and save her from getting raped. Honestly, some people.

I turn my back on her, Hector doesn't so much as glance at her and her squeals 
are no more than a mild annoyance as both of us hold up our cuffed hands. "Your 
employer's a shrewd man," says Sharpish as he pulls a key-ring from one of the 
many pockets of his coat and unbinds Hector's wrists, letting the cuffs fall to 
the floor as we walk toward the street. "When he called me and told me he'd lent 
Malloy two men to rescue his friend, I was counting on a double bluff, or a 
triple-cross, or whatever it's called. That's why I brought out so much muscle 

with me," he explains.

Christ, this guy's a gloater. He can't just do his business and get on with 
things, he wants people to understand what he did and why he's so clever. See, 
Ferrum never does that. That's one of the reasons why I like working for him – 
he tells you what to do, and afterward he tells you if you did right. But this 
fella...

"I'm glad he kept his word, though. And so should you, or you wouldn't have 
survived. Tell your employer I owe him one, and that Sharpish doesn't forget his 
debts."

"Will do, Mister Sharpish," I say, trying not to let my irritation sound too 
obvious in my voice. We're almost at the streetside now. I can hear enough noise 
from inside the club spilling out, that whoever's walking past can't hear the 
sounds of the girl's crying – really clever alley, this. "How about uncuffing 
me, and we'll be on our way. Did you call Mister Ferrum? Has he sent 
transportation?"

I've been in cuffs before, so I'm used to the chafing, but I gotta say I'm 
pretty eager to get out of here. Mister Ferrum only said we'd be taken captive 
and that we should cooperate, never mentioned anything about getting dinged on 
the head. But we took that in stride, we did our job and, looking at the colour 
of the sun-set, if we get in the car now we should get back in time for pizza's 
and a rentboy with the rest of the guys. Maybe it'll be a bunny-boy – that'd be 
real nice. Get that cute little face around my dick, watch ‘em take all the 
abuse we can give him and still smile all pretty-like and ask if we'd like some 
more head. That'd get the memory of that skanky rabbit-thug washed out of my 
mind. 

The ferret's about to open his mouth when I hear a sound. Of course, I hear 
lotsa sounds, people shouting and screaming and having a good time and that 
loud, droning fucking music, but there's a sharp popping sound. And then a 
second, and Sharpish notices it. Then there's a shout, from somebody inside the 
building and all of us look back down the alleyway. The slimeball in his white 
suit is having a really good time with the chick, now, but that's not what gets 
our attention. What gets our attention is the door flying open, smacking White 
Suit in the back of the head and slammer him against the chick up against the 
wall, and a rabbit in a black bomber jacket falling backwards out of the open 
doorway, clutching at his throat. 

There's blood coming out of his mouth as he tries to speak, looking straight at 
me with even more urgency than that chick that was getting raped. Speaking of 
her, she's lying on the floor behind the rabbit – when the door knocked into 
White Suit, he must have knocked into her and she must have knocked into the 
wall. Really, really sucks to be her... 

Sucks to be the rabbit, too. Because before he can crawl over to us and ask 
whatever it is he's trying to gurgle, somebody steps out of the doorway and onto 
his chest. A fountain of blood sprays from the rabbit's mouth and I'd laugh at 
how funny it looked if I didn't see what the guy on his chest was holding. 

In his one hand, he's holding a gun. A black Glock like the one the jackal had – 
and what's more, he's holding the jackal. What was his name? Clyde? Claude? I'm 
so terrible with names. 

There's one name I won't soon be forgetting, though. 

I can almost see everything happen in slow motion as the doberman pulls the 
trigger and fires a round into the gurgling rabbit's chest and takes another 
step into the alley, walking right over the dead-meat lapine, dragging an 
equally dead jackal in his other hand. Dropping the jackal like a sack of 
potatoes, he flicks up the shotgun the rabbit dropped with one foot, catching it 
in his free hand – catching it with his finger on the fucking trigger – and I 
see the flash and the smoke from the muzzle even before I hear the sound, even 
before I see, from the corner of my eye, that Hector isn't standing between me 
and Sharpish any more, that he's flying backwards, streaking blood from his 
chest just like that German Shep did in the warehouse.

Sharpish is just as stunned as I am. People have heard the gunshots and there's 
already some screaming from inside the club, everybody's trying to get out. And 
that dobermann is standing on two corpses, with a Glock in one hand and a 
sawn-off fucking shotgun in the other and both of them aimed at me and Sharpish, 
standing there, with his expensive slacks torn and his expensive shirt ripped 
and blood dripping from both forearms and a broken handcuff dangling off the 
hand holding the gun and he's looking at us like Satan himself sent him to 
collect our fucking debts.

Malloy.








To be continued.



Available on 
paperback in 2005 - mail the author for information.