Sin City 2000 Type IX Part 13
Type 9: Rated Poodle Generation 13
Past 7
by Fixate

	"Your life is a luxury, not a right Pooky!  I chose to have you and raise you in the ways of the true Poodle, and I can choose to kill you as well.  I am your father and Commanding General.  What I say goes because I am older and smarter than you are, and most of all, I outrank you.  Your own brothers and sisters outrank you, second lieutenant.  You are pathetic and will always be pathetic", Marcel growled to the tall, thin, and withdrawn poodle standing before him in nothing but a thick, dark brown, leather collar.
	"If that is how it is going to be, Daddy, then I would rather I be dead.  Then I would no longer have to deal with all your proper Poodle crap and you can pick another sibling to abuse", Pooky responded gruffly, his body stiff and defiant as his head drooped slightly from the weight of the chain that bound his thick leather collar to the center of the grand room's marble floor.
	With an air of utter indifference, Marcel unfastened and removed the holster strap bound diagonally across his chest, opened up the holster, removed the ornately stenciled, gold and silver plated, .45mm pistol, tossed it to Pooky's feet, and dropped the holster to his own left side.
	"So be it then, Pooky.  You have my authorization to kill yourself.  You will not be missed", Marcel stated all too matter-of-factly as Pooky groaned in frustration.
	While muttering incoherently about how much better his life would have been if he hadn't been born a poodle, Pooky knelt down and picked up the highly polished weapon.  His father's full name and social security number were neatly engraved on the left side of the silver handle, and as he turned it over and over, the minute sweat from his pads left incriminating smudges on its otherwise spotlessly shiny casing.  Then he briefly removed the silver magazine clip and saw that it did have a full case of rounds inside it.
	"Aye, Daddy", Pooky barked as he pointed the pistol at the base of his right ear, and then, right before he pulled the trigger, he quickly aimed the pistol right between his father's eyes.
	Marcel Poodle didn't even blink.
	The first shot should have killed Marcel, but just let out a small, harmless muzzle blast.  By the second blank, Marcel was already on the move, and Pooky grimaced from the pain in his wrist as his father grabbed it, turned it sideway, and brought it closer to him, momentarily throwing Pooky off balance.  The third round was real, but was now aimed too far to the Pooky's right.  By the fourth round, the pistol was harmlessly pressed against Marcel's hip and Pooky could do nothing but loosen his grip on the pistol and relax his arm muscles as his father slammed his bent elbow down on the side of Pooky's elbow.
	As a surge of pain shot up his arm and he heard and watched the pistol clatter onto the floor, Pooky instinctively relaxed his entire body and accepted the forceful elbow to his jaw and uppercut that he knew would follow.  As Pooky nearly flipped over backwards, white hot pain momentarily blinding his eyes, a downtrodden yelp escaped his lips as he wondered why his father had been so nice to him.
	Pooky knew his father could have moved faster and not given him time to soften the blows.  He knew his father could have turned his wrist completely around and hit his elbow on the bone, thus completely breaking his arm.  He knew his father could have then decided to lay him face down on the ground, take his other arm, and push it diagonally across his body to the base of his tail so that he would have two broken arms.  Hell.  Marcel could have even picked up his pistol, put it back into Pooky's hand, and shown Pooky how to correctly kill himself.
	If he had been angered or surprised by Pooky's actions, Marcel could have done a lot of things to compensate for it, but he didn't.  Instead, he just disgustedly walked over to his son, unzipped the fly of his perfectly creased green trousers, and commenced to piss on the whimpering poodle.  When he was done, he casually zipped up his trousers, adjusted his uniform, and then watched emotionlessly as Pooky slowly got onto all fours, and then stood up as tall and rigid as he could muster.  Pooky's defiant anger was now replaced with hopeless pain and bottled up suffering.
	"You are not fit to wear a true Poodle's brass, Pooky," Marcel sentenced ominously, his eyes narrowed into soul burning slivers, "but I am not letting you out of living by the Poodle ways yet.  You are from this time forward, a second-rate Poodle of the rank of... Private."
	Pooky unconsciously dropped his jaw, ears, and shoulders in defeat, and then quickly caught himself and sucked it up.
	"Your new rank structure shall be discussed later, but no matter how high up it you get, you shall generously salute and call 'sir' or 'mam' any true Poodle, no matter how low in rank.  Do you understand, Private Pooky?", Marcel finished as a third poodle silently slipped into the room.
	"Yes, Daddy.  Sir", Pooky answered monotonously, the weight of his chain and collar making his head hurt more.
	"Belay my last.  You, Private Pooky, as a second-rate Poodle, shall address every Poodles only by their rank and shall address every true Poodle as 'sir' or 'mam'. Do you understand?", Marcel hissed, as he picked up his holster and started securely fastening it across his chest.
	"Yes sir, Commanding General, sir", Pooky angrily replied, suddenly finding himself aliened from the entire family by all means now.
	"Good.  Then clean this mess up right now, Private Pooky, and then I will consider having one of the true Poodles take you for a walk outside, but only a walk", Marcel concluded as he wiped off his pistol with a small rag from inside the holster pocket, and then placed both back into the holster before snapping it closed.  "There will be no fraternization between true and second-rate poodles."
	"That is so cruel, Daddy.  At least let us play with him like when we were younger", Major Tootles suggested as she waddled in closer from next to the doorway, her well defined, pear-shaped body bouncing and waving regally with every dainty step.
	"Yes.  I guess that is going just tad too far, but second-rate Poodles are not allowed to touch true Poodles.  True Poodles on the other hand can play with, but not yiff second-rate", Marcel stated as he looked with mixed emotion at how Tootles had unbuttoned her perfectly creased blouse just enough to freely display the tight, basket ball sized bulge of her semi-ripe, shaved belly, and how her little bellybutton stuck out like a fuzzy extra teat.  "That is the end of discussion on that matter."
	"Daddy.  One more thing.  Please.  If you are going to make him a Private, can he at least be a First Class Private", Tootles continued as she moved into Marcel's embrace and mrrred as he started massaging her belly.  One of his new siblings got the hiccups and she started panting from the dual-sided sensation.  "*mrrr* I do believe he's earned at least that much, Granddaddy."
	"Granddaddy?  Yech.  I told you I didn't like the sound of that, Tootles", Marcel lightly scolded before wrapping her in a furotic embrace and letting a couple minutes slip by as he kissed and licked her face.  When he finally, momentarily pulled himself away from his daughter's groping, provoking her to start undoing his trousers, he commented to Pooky, "I hereby promote you to Private First Class.  After you finish with the floor, brief the rest of the Poodles about new second-rate Poodle policy, and then have Fluffy walk you."
	"Aye sir, General", Pooky sighed, thought about it, and then went back to lick up all the piss on the floor.
	Physical pain was only temporary.  Pooky's jaw would heal in due time, but a possible lifetime of solitude?  He father had come very close to making him actually kill himself this time.
	First chance he got, Pooky was going to make sure he somehow repaid Tootles for softening their father's verbal blows and for letting him watch her and their father foreplay and yiff right in front of him.