Psychos

by Neil Gaiman

  I get nearly two blocks before I have to go back and check that fucking gate again.

  Straycation

  BY SCOTT BRADLEY AND PETER GIGLIO

  You can tell a lot about people from the way they treat their pets. Excessive pampering implies certain kinds of crazy. Obvious cruelty, on the other hand, draws a pretty straight line to the dark side.

  Scott Bradley and Peter Giglio are the components of a two-headed writing machine whose first joint novel, The Dark, should be in print by the time this book appears. With “Straycation,” they pay a strangely sideways and cunning homage to Thomas Harris, with a lovely psychotic nod to all animal lovers everywhere.

  1.

  The young couple couldn’t pull themselves away from spreadsheets and reports long enough to look at one another, let alone at Tabitha Greyson, for which she gave silent thanks. Having the uneasy burden of sitting next to them on the plane was bad enough; actually talking to them would have been intolerable.

  The woman was all wrong, with her spray tan and fake red hair and the none-too-subtle hint of plastic surgery in her cheekbones. Her loud jewelry alone was enough to make Tabitha gag.

  And the man, with his tight designer T-shirt and nose splitting cologne, wouldn’t have begged a second glance.

  Not normally.

  But Tabitha looked at them anyway, wondering if what she’d often heard had merit—that, essentially, people are what they spend most of their time doing.

  She certainly hoped it wasn’t true. She needed a break. That was what this trip was all about.

  So she just studied them when she wasn’t skimming her paperback. Didn’t strike up a conversation, and mentally wished them well on their trip, whatever they were seeking from it. Little good it would do them.

  But hopefully, she considered, her own journey would help her.

  2.

  A little after noon, having unpacked and napped and called to check in with Sally—her slightly dotty but kind-hearted neighbor, who was taking care of Tabitha’s pets—she slipped on a summer dress and glided out of her hotel into paradise.

  Much as she wanted to take in the sweet tropical scents, relish the cool ocean breeze, and wade in the warm waters, she knew there was time enough for that later. Right now she was hungry and feeling light-headed from low blood sugar.

  She went to the first in a line of cabs clustered at the curb. She said to the driver, “Do you—”

  “Speak English?” He laughed. “Of course. Job requirement.”

  She returned his grin and got in. “Is there a decent restaurant close by?” “Question is, do you want decent or do you want the best?”

  She considered the question. Here she was, on vacation, seeking refuge from her day-to-day worries and endless responsibilities. She didn’t want to be like the couple on the plane.

  Slowly, she shook her head. “You’re right. I want the best. I’ve earned it.” He nodded and started to drive.

  3.

  Ten minutes later, the cab speeding down winding streets that bordered palatial monuments of architectural perfection, Tabitha saw something that broke her heart.

  “Stop the car!” she shouted.

  Surprised by the intensity of her demand, the driver braked and pulled to the side of the road. Tabitha wasted no time. She flung open the door and rushed to an injured dog, panting and bleeding on the roadside.

  Not here, she told herself, tears welling in her eyes. Not in paradise.

  The mangy mutt hobbled, whining with each step.

  She knelt and ran a gentle hand through the dog’s thin, matted fur. “What happened to you, boy? Oh, God, what happened to you?”

  The dog whimpered and licked her hand. “When’s the last time you had anything to eat?” she asked.

  The dog’s enormous, sad eyes told her much. He was starving. And his wounds—not made by claws and teeth but with clubs and knives—told her everything else. This was the work of someone, not something.

  She gently wrapped her arms around the animal, picked him up, and hurried back to the car.

  The driver was mortified. “¿Qué demonios?! What are you doing, lady?!” “I’m rescuing this poor creature,” Tabitha said as she rested the dog on the bench seat and climbed in.

  “Fucking tourists!” he growled, eyeing the blood dripping to the car’s floor. “Get that thing—”

  “Just drive!” She desperately rummaged through her purse, looking for the treats she always carried. She found the bag of cat treats. Kept searching.

  “Lady, that thing is fucking up my car. Get it out, now!”

  She found the package labeled Milkbone, opened it, and spread the contents across the backseat. The dog looked at her, mystified. “Go ahead,” she said. “Eat up.”

  And he did. Slowly at first. Then greedily.

  Still smiling from the sight of the grateful dog, she looked at the driver, who had done his best to calm down.

  “Look, lady,” he began, “I love el perros. We got two at home, my family. But…” He shook his head mournfully and started to reach over the driver’s seat to seize the dog.

  Tabitha’s hand went to her purse and whisked out the small but very sharp knife she’d unpacked from her luggage.

  In one fluid motion, she jerked the blade up and into the soft spot just below the driver’s chin. His eyes bulged, as much from surprise as pain. His hands reflexively grabbed her wrist, but in trying to defend himself, he only managed to guide the knife further down, into his throat.

  A gurgling sputter of blood spattered Tabitha’s face. She held firm, clenching her jaw. His grip loosened, eyes rolling upward. The dog continued to eat.

  “Good boy,” she cooed.

  She scratched the dog’s head as the lifeless driver slumped in the front seat.

  4.

  She hated driving in places she didn’t know. But with her navigator, it was okay. When he turned his head left, she turned left. Right, she went right.

  Animals possessed a keen sense of direction, Tabitha knew from research and experience.

  They could find their way home.

  5.

  Narrow streets bordered shanties of unimaginable squalor, places no tourist was ever meant to see. She drove slowly, waiting for a sign from her new companion.

  Finally, he barked three times then emitted a low, feral growl. “Here?” she asked, pulling into a rutted dirt drive.

  The dog barked again, and she knew he was home. She was glad it wouldn’t be his home much longer.

  6.

  Carrying the dog in her arms, Tabitha was greeted on the rickety porch by a boy, no older than twelve or thirteen.

  “Is this your dog?” she asked, putting the trembling animal down.

  The boy gawked at her, clearly dumbfounded at the spectacle of the bloody and mad-eyed gringa.

  Then he slowly started to smile. He thumped his chest proudly, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. Tabitha nodded as if she understood him, then grabbed a handful of his hair, pulled him close to her, and cut his throat.

  His body dropped. Then came a scream. Tabitha jumped, startled.

  The front door burst open and an old woman, possibly the boy’s mother or grandmother, staggered out, shrieking in Spanish, grabbing for the bleeding, dying boy.

  Tabitha took no pleasure in what happened next, but it was thankfully over very quickly.

  She dragged the woman’s prone form into the house, which was ripe with the smell of something cooking. Peasant food. Not unpleasant. In fact, it smelled pretty damn nice.

  Silent as a cat, she moved to the kitchen, listening for the sounds of others, but the house was still.

  On the stove, a stew bubbled in a large pot. Meats and vegetables swirled, reminding Tabitha just how hungry she still was. The dog slogged into the house, regarded the old woman with a low growl, then made his way to the kitchen.

  Tabitha reached two bowls down from a cupboard and filled them with heaping portions of the stew.

  In t
he living room, the old woman moaned. Tabitha placed one of the bowls on the dirt floor. “Be careful,” she warned, “it’s still a little hot.”

  The dog didn’t care; he quickly began to feed. Tabitha put her own bowl on the kitchen table then went to the living room to finish her business before enjoying a well-deserved meal.

  7.

  It is a complex procedure to bring an animal into the United States from another country, but not insurmountable when the other country is of the third world, where American dollars speak louder than laws.

  Tabitha had brought many dollars with her, and had even more available on her credit card. Her job, after all, paid well.

  She worked as a secretary at the Behavioral Sciences Division of the FBI in Quantico, Virginia; the unit charged with apprehending and studying serial killers and mass murderers.

  Not that she fancied herself one of the agents, for whom she diligently worked. But Tabitha had acquired a great deal of rudimentary knowledge from simply doing her job.

  She had learned, for instance, that one of the primary indications of psycho-pathology—particularly of the potentially homicidal sort—was cruelty to animals.

  8.

  “You’re traveling with this animal?” the girl behind the counter asked, scrutinizing Tabitha’s passport and paperwork.

  “My new dog. His name is Roy,” Tabitha said. “And, yes, I am. I was assured that everything was in order.”

  The girl nodded and grabbed the pet carrier. Roy howled.

  “Be careful!” Tabitha snapped.

  The girl, hearing an odd edge in Tabitha’s voice, nodded apologetically, handling the carrier with greater care.

  9.

  On the long flight back to Maryland, Tabitha found herself sitting next to the same couple as before.

  The trip had clearly done them some good. No longer engrossed in the azure glow of computer screens, they looked at each other often, even stole the occasional kiss when they thought no one was looking.

  Halfway through the flight, the redheaded woman turned to Tabitha and smiled. “Did you have a nice vacation?” she asked.

  She returned the woman’s smile. “Yes. I did.”

  Tabitha reclined her seat and closed her eyes.

  How will he get along, she wondered, with his new family? With Rex and Molly and Spot and Scooby and Dash and Roger and Hank and Bert and Farful and Annie and Max and Audrey and Emma and Stanley and Herb and Tiki and . . . and . . . and . . .

  Her mind reached for another name but couldn’t quite find it.

  After all, with 57 cats and 21—now, with Roy, 22—dogs, it was sometimes hard to remember all of their names.

  For Bella

  Life Coach

  BY CODY GOODFELLOW

  For many people, Los Angeles is the go-to place for potentially lucrative outof-your-mindness. An unbridled sense of entitlement is practically the name of the game. If you can successfully carve a niche for yourself that is broadcast live, it’s like being dipped in gold.

  As long as your market share holds, you can say or do pretty much whatever you want. And the weather is great.

  The only problem is other people. And maybe their dogs.

  Here to race us through the untethered paces is noted spoilsport of conventional wisdom Cody Goodfellow, who never saw a luxuriant showbiz oasis he couldn’t reduce to painfully accurate houndshit and pinpoint-precise, off-the-charts mayhem.

  You don’t like it? Talk to your agent. If you’re lucky, she’ll take your call.

  This is what happens when you lose control. The moment you start to live for someone else, you become a human-shaped hole in the world. The moment you stop making things happen and become the victim of things happening, you stop being the star of the movie of your life and you become a statistic. Or worse: a story.

  You’re walking your dog when a tiny Smartcar pulls up and this distinguished older yuppie couple asks you for directions. “We’re soooo lost,” the man says.

  They’ve come to the right place. “OK, write this down. Ditch this ridiculous car. You look like time travelers from a sad, shitty future. Get your parents’ Cadillac out of the garage. Stop dressing young. Your desperation is like a hate crime. Stop recycling. If you carry on like the world will go on after you’re gone, then you don’t deserve to live in it, now. Spend your retirement money getting some cosmetic work done, so you can bear to fuck each other. Here, take this card and tell the doctor I sent you. Not just you, ma’am…you. A beard is not a chin implant, sir. Now, get out of my fucking neighborhood.”

  It is one of the greater paradoxes of your life, that your flaming hatred of humanity has made you one of the more sought-after life coaches in LA. And here you are out on the street, giving it away for free.

  Because of the dog.

  Hatred is healthy; hate gets things done, but fear is not. Doubt is not. And living alone, you sometimes feel both.

  When your last boyfriend moved out, all your best frenemies told you to get a dog. Lord knows, you’ve recommended it to enough of your clients who want intimacy and unconditional love from something that won’t ever talk back. You resolved to knock down your need for security and companionship in one play, and so picked out Clovis.

  The rescue dachshund-ridgeback mix struck you as intimidating and charming at the same time. His powerful torso ripples with layers of prison-grade muscle, but his stubby legs give him a whimsical look that defuses the threat, for everybody but him. And the ghetto shock appeal of a brutalist mutt among the purebred puppy farm lapdogs your neighborhood favors salved both your conscience and need to inspire fear. Don’t let a man define you. Get a monster.

  The combination of lethal strength and small-dog syndrome makes him a bad fit for even the rowdiest dog parks. Clovis attacks anything that tries to sniff his ass and has to be dragged away, straining on his four-point harness and spraying froth through his muzzle.

  Training made him easier to handle, but one can never let their guard down. Every morning, you run him for an hour on the winding canyon streets around your split-level mid-century stilt-propped bungalow off Mulholland. You get up before sunrise to have the streets all to yourself with no distractions, but there are always a few others.

  You like this neighborhood because the steep hills and busy lives of the inhabitants mean they mostly mind their own business. Anyone on the street in daylight hours is sure to be a gardener, a nanny or a pro athlete burning calories in the off-season.

  But walking Clovis has introduced you to more of the neighborhood than you can stomach. Every psychotic overachiever in the area keeps a neurotic, lonely bottom rattling around the house. Usually, these jet trash losers are your staple diet, but Clovis makes it hard to fraternize and puts you in a defensive mood.

  How to greet a pedestrian in Los Angeles without looking like a hillbilly: Don’t overdo it. Merely observe that it is indeed, “Morning,” with no treacly wish for a good one, or even a rhetorical howyadoing? Angelenos hate over-sharing and questions, and wishing someone else a good day might somehow cost you one. Also acceptable is a cool nod and chagrinned tightening of the mouth when caught staring.

  You detour out into the street, but they seldom take the hint. They have no control over their dogs, and they blame you for controlling yours. If they say Good morning and you just roll your eyes at their banality and offer a friendly warning to keep away from Clovis, or remind them to pick up their dogs’ filth up off the sidewalk, you get a half-baked rant cribbed from the weak second act of their doomed screenplay. Even in the best neighborhoods, talking to anyone on the street in LA is like waking up a sleepwalker.

  This is why you quit real estate. After so many years, you stop listening to what the buyer wants, and learn to mold them into the ideal mark for the property you need to sell. Subtly reshape their goals and expectations until they’ll buy anything you offer. But after the deal is closed, you have to start all over with a new rube. After seven years of it, you realized you could ditc
h the houses and just work on the people.

  This morning, you’re out before six with your whole obedience kit: a six-foot length of iron rebar; a tennis ball can filled with nickels; a rape whistle and an air horn for emergencies, and four recycled plastic shopping bags for his leavings. Some trainers recommend treats to reinforce good behavior, but you never got anywhere in life by doling out bribes. In your skintight black Lycra running suit, with your theme music cranked up on your iPod, you look and feel like a weapon, more deadly than your dog.

  It should be soothing, but even when you’re alone on the street, the familiarity of it breeds worse than contempt. Every time you pass the Plantation-style McMansion with a huge, faded, guano-streaked American flag flapping under a huge birdfeeder, where they park four black Escalades on the driveway blocking the sidewalk, you have to fight the urge to leave a nasty anonymous note on their lawn jockey. You’ve never actually seen these people, but you have dreams of feeding them to a wood chipper. If trifles like this can get you so worked up, then what’s the use of any of it?

  As soon as you see him coming up the sidewalk, you know he’ll be trouble. Doughy and prematurely bald, swaddled in baggy, holey sweats that say UCLA DRINKING TEAM, and those asinine road-running shoes with separate toe-compartments, that look like space chimp feet. Wheezing like a smoker trying grimly to fend off the results of his bad choices.

  Your finely honed people-reading senses go to work: Bass player with a washed-up late 90’s alt-rock band, coasting on radio residuals and sporadic scoring work for porn. Divorced, childless man-child, out delivering pee-grams with his only friend.

  His dog is a young Aussie, flailing like a hyperactive kindergartener in his urge to rend, chew and piss on all creation. Your eyes nearly pop out of your head when you notice the dog is frolicking off-leash.