Jagger

by Kristopher Rufty

  Clayton smiled. Teresa could tell it was forced.

  “Yes,” said Clayton.

  “Pardon my confusion. I am familiar and quite comfortable with people coming here and requesting all sorts of things from me. And I am always happy to oblige. Sometimes they ask for my product, and other times they ask for Daisy.”

  Daisy looked at Teresa, wiggling her eyebrows and beaming as if Stan had complimented her.

  “Other times they ask for Hap,” he extended his hand toward the sleeping loser on the couch. “But I have to say, nobody has ever come to me wanting one of my dogs. What kind of sick fetish do you have, my man?”

  “No,” said Clayton. “Not…gross…”

  “You have dogs?” Teresa heard herself ask.

  “Oh, honey, yes,” said Daisy. “A whole lot behind the house full of them.”

  “I train them,” said Stan. “They are my guardians to the portals.”

  “What’s the...?”

  Daisy put her hand on Teresa’s thigh and gripped. “Don’t ask,” she whispered. “You’ll get him started and he’ll never stop talking about the portals.”

  “I heard that,” said Stan. “And she’s right. The portal discussion is for another visit, I’m sure. Just know they are everywhere. And at any moment, one could open up and gobble your ass!” He snapped his finger, the harebrained tone switching back to something more rational. “But right now time is of the essence. Am I correct?”

  How Stan enunciated his words reminded Teresa of bad impressions she’d heard of William Shatner.

  “Yes?” said Clayton, forming it into a question instead of an answer.

  “Word on the street is you are in some water of the hottest temperature.”

  “How’d you know?” asked Clayton.

  “The street told me. My ear is always on it.”

  Teresa was starting to get a headache, listening to Stan talk.

  “How much do you owe our mutual antagonist Brock?”

  “Twelve grand.”

  Stan whistled, making Hap stir. His arms and legs stroked the air like a puppy having a bad dream.

  Stan ran a hand through his greasy hair. His fingers gleamed slightly when he lowered his hand. “That’s quite a debt, old friend.”

  “I know. I’m out of ideas on how to pay him back. Didn’t really have any ideas to begin with.”

  “What are you planning to do with one of my dogs?”

  “Hopefully win back Brock’s money.”

  “I see.” Stan tapped his chin with a finger. “I assume you mean the fights, correct?”

  “Correct.” Clayton frowned. “I mean—right.”

  “I have one that’s pretty tough, but is he tough enough, I wonder?”

  Clayton looked hopeful. “I’ll take anything at this point.”

  “Keep in mind, my dogs aren’t giant killing machines like you’re used to, but they are great protectors. I trained them myself.”

  “To guard you from the portals,” said Teresa.

  Stan smiled. “A smart one you’ve got here, Clayton.”

  “Thanks,” said Clayton.

  “But she is correct. They are protectors, not merciless killers.”

  “If they can hold their own in a fight, is all that matters to me,” Clayton said.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Stan continued to tap his chin, his eyes flitting back and forth, as if trying to keep up with the rapid-fire of thoughts behind them.

  “Is everything all right?” Teresa asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Daisy. “He’s thinking about something.”

  “Yes, I am,” said Stan.

  Clayton leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He pressed his fingertips together. He reminded Teresa of somebody waiting on bad news.

  He is. No matter what Stan can do for him, it won’t be good.

  Stan snapped his finger, jerked rigid, and shouted, “Hap!”

  Hap jumped up, feet pounding the floor. “What?”

  “Fetch me Bruticus!”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Hap shambled out of the room, his shoulders hunched and arms dangling limply in front of him. His hands smacked against his green shorts.

  A wicked grin made the skin on Stan’s face crinkle like tissue paper. One eyebrow lifted higher than the other. “If this works, I might just have the solution you’re looking for.”

  Teresa’s skin started to crawl. Goose bumps pebbled up her arms. Rubbing them, they felt like tiny points under her fingers.

  “Let’s go down cellar and wait for Hap. I’ll get things ready.”

  Stan rolled back and flipped over the top of the couch. He dropped. There was a bang that shook the debris on the coffee table when he landed on the floor.

  Clayton stood up. “What are we going to do?”

  Stan’s head appeared above the couch, wild eyes narrowed at Clayton. “A science experiment, Ygor! I hope you brought some goggles!”

  He unleashed a deep throaty guffaw that made Teresa’s chest hurt just hearing it.

  Chapter Eleven

  The dog unleashed a shrill howl that drilled into Clayton's ears, tormented, filled with pain. Flinching, Clayton hiked his shoulders as if preparing to be hit.

  The black dog bumped Teresa's leg when it darted past, making her stagger to the side. She screamed, stepped over to Clayton, and hugged his arm. Her face pressed against his bicep.

  He felt a warm wetness seeping through his shirt. Her body trembled against his.

  She's crying.

  He was nearly to tears, himself. Clayton hugged his arms around her back and pulled her tighter to him. She pressed against him, her arms bent up in front of her breasts, wrists crossed.

  “Get the dog, Hap!” shouted Stan. He stood behind a table erected from stands and an old door.

  Hap had been standing next to him, but now he ran across the basement, leaning over with his arms out. The dog dashed away from him. His claws clicked across the cracked cement floor in the chase. Gaining on the dog, Hap suddenly flung himself forward. His hands opened to catch the dog’s tail.

  And missed.

  He belly-flopped onto the hard floor, blasting out his breath. Wheezing, he rolled onto his side, his face scrunched up and red, groaning through cracked, pursed lips.

  Stan slammed his fist down on the makeshift table, making it rattle on top of the spired legs.

  Daisy carefully climbed down the mildew-slick stairs, gripping the wooden railing that was just as coated and slippery. She leaned her head down to peer in. “What the hell is going on down here?”

  Stan looked up at her. He jabbed his finger into the air. “Stay out of this, Daisy! Go back upstairs!”

  Stepping out from behind the table, Stan tossed the empty syringe behind him. It landed on the table with a soft tap and rolled to the other side. Earlier it had been full of red liquid that had reminded Clayton of fruit punch.

  Hap had brought the dog inside from what Stan had called the dog pen, which was actually just a fenced in backyard crowded with dogs of a variety of breeds.

  The dog wasn't very big, probably no larger than a Collie, but its body was like that of a German Shepard. Its fur was solid black except for a white patch on its chest.

  Putting the dog on the table, Hap had leaned over it to hold it still. Unaware of what was about to happen, the dog had panted away, glad to be receiving all this attention.

  It had barely acknowledged Stan pinching a flap of skin above its neck and stretching it up. When he’d stuck the needle that looked big enough for elephant vaccinations into the taut hairy piece, the dog had only slightly whimpered.

  Time had seemed to drag as they waited. For what, Clayton hadn’t known. Stan had yet to tell him what he was trying to accomplish. All he’d known was Stan wanted them to keep quiet.

  And watch.

  The dog had closed its mouth. Growled. Then its maw had lunged at Stan, snapping with a sound like two boards being smacked together. Stan had successfull
y dodged the bite, but knocked into Hap who’d released his hold of the dog.

  Then the black canine had dived from the table.

  And now won't stop running around and screaming!

  It released another agonizing wail and sprinted to the other side of the basement, its head low.

  “What's wrong with it?” cried Teresa. “Why does it keep making those sounds?”

  Clayton felt Teresa turn in time to see the poor dog crash against the concrete-block wall. It squealed with the dull thud of its head striking the wall’s unyielding hardness. Staggering back, the dog look dazed before plopping down on its rear end. Its tail curled out like a dark grin on the concrete. It gazed back at Clayton, panting. Its tongue hung out the side of its mouth, like a dehydrated section of pink rubber between teeth slick with blood.

  Then its eyes burst, popping like two balloons filled with milk.

  Clayton jerked Teresa back as if they might be struck by eye shrapnel. “Shit!”

  Teresa screamed against Clayton's chest.

  Daisy screamed behind them on the stairs. Apparently, she hadn't obeyed Stan and gone back into the house. “Holy shit!”

  The dog’s chest exploded, blowing open in a cloud of red and black fur as what looked like a fatty heart hurled between the jagged tips of bone. It smacked the concrete and splattered with a juicy clap.

  Stan stopped running. He stood a few feet away from the dog, hands on his hips, upset as if a car he'd been working on still wouldn't start. Shaking his head, he looked at the ceiling.

  The dog dropped onto its side, rolled to its back. Its feet stuck in the air, stiff and rigid.

  Huffing, Clayton gaped at the dog. He was so out of breath, he felt as if he'd been chasing around after the dog with Hap and Stan.

  “What happened to it?” he heard himself ask. His voice sounded scratchy and dry.

  Stan sighed. “Well...obviously he didn't take to the injection.”

  For the first time since their arrival, Stan seemed almost normal. His eyes had lost their wild gleam, and his lips were no longer peeled back over his teeth. He seemed almost calm.

  Too cool for Clayton's liking.

  “What was that stuff you injected it with?” Clayton asked.

  Stan turned around. “Hap!”

  From the floor, Hap groaned.

  “Clean this mess up.”

  “Okay...”

  Stan walked to the corner of the basement to an old picnic table. The bench seat had been removed, so Stan could stand directly in front of it. On top was an assembly that might have passed for a mad scientist's laboratory. Clayton saw tubes running this way and that, curling and twisting as they were connected to tin cans that once stored vegetables or soups. A propane tank was in the back corner, with a blue hose running from the nozzle to a beaker with a small writhing flame underneath. An old two liter bottle of soda had been cut in half, with a plastic funnel crammed into the mouth. It dangled above a white mixing bowl.

  Stan leaned over the table, putting his hands flat on its moldered surface. Lowering his head, his bangs fell into his eyes, hiding them. “Works on people...”

  He’d spoken so softly, Clayton almost hadn't heard him. “The shit you injected him with?”

  Stan nodded.

  “What is it?” Clayton asked.

  Stan turned around, leaning his lower back against the table. He folded his arms over his chest, crossing his ankles. He glanced at the stairs and frowned. “Daisy, if you're going to be down here, help Hap clean up the mess.”

  Daisy looked nervous as she nibbled on her bottom lip. Looking down, her eyes grew as Hap walked by, dragging the lifeless dog by its back legs. It moved stiffly like small furniture, making a soft scraping sound across the concrete.

  “I'll pass,” she said and turned around. The heavy clacking sounds of her shoes could be heard as she climbed the stairs. Light expanded in the dim stairway when she opened the door and was swallowed by the darkness when she closed it behind her.

  She was away from this awful scenario. Just closed a door to it and was done. Clayton wanted to be with her. Upstairs. Where it somehow seemed less maddening than down here.

  He regretted coming to see Stan.

  “Adrenasyl.”

  “Adrena-what?”

  “Syl. It’s what I call it.” Scratching his head, Stan made a face as if concentrating. “Never given it to a dog, though.” He shrugged. “A concoction I whipped up. A synthetic version of hormones and increased muscle mass.”

  “A steroid?”

  “More than that. Much more.”

  “And you sell that to people?”

  Stan's eyes rounded, reverting to their psychotic glare. “Oh, yes. Men looking for that extra edge, the perfect body that looks chiseled out of stone by a homosexual artist. I give them fighters that can't feel pain, buff fuckers that can take hit after hit, their teeth flying, bones breaking, and yet they keep fighting.”

  “And you make it? That red stuff...?”

  “Adrenasyl.”

  “Right. You make it?”

  Stan bumped a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I take the common items, take what I want from each, add Stan's Secret Sauce, and presto, we have Adrenasyl.”

  “What's in it?”

  “A good magician never shares his secrets.”

  Rattling from the side made Clayton jump. Looking over the top of Teresa's head, which was still pushed against his chest, he saw Hap had reached a lift door. He was pulling a length of chain out from the clasps. It was the same door he'd entered the basement through with the dog.

  Before...

  He remembered how happy the dog had been, prancing around, its wagging tail slapping Hap's legs.

  So stupid. It had no idea.

  “Of course,” said Stan, “common side effects are severe mood swings including depression, outbursts of anger, increased blood pressure and cholesterol, nose bleeds, and poisoning of the brain which triggers insanity and madness. Paranoia.”

  Clayton wondered if Stan had been sampling some of his own secret sauce.

  “It reacts to each person differently,” Stan added.

  “And you gave it to the dog?”

  “You saw me do it.”

  Clayton pulled away from Teresa's intense hold. Her hands gripped his shirt, and he had to pry them off. Her eyes were soaked in tears that made them pink and puffy. Wetness had covered her cheeks and formed a damp moustache above her upper lip.

  He leaned in, gave her a gentle kiss, and stepped away. On his way to Stan, he licked the salty moisture of her tears off his lips.

  “What were the plus sides?” asked Clayton. “Why did you even attempt it on that poor dog?”

  The lift door suddenly rose with a rusted groan. Clayton's heart gave a punching lurch that stole his breath.

  All heads turned to Hap.

  He smiled bashfully, shrugged. “Sorry.”

  Then he grabbed the dog's forepaws and started pulling as if he was moving a heavy trash can. The grass rustled when its back swished across.

  Stan fumed at Hap for a moment, leering at him with a face full of rage. It seemed to drop away as Stan turned back to face Clayton.

  “To answer your question, I sell it to local farmers also. They use it in their livestock. Never had any problems.”

  You've got to be kidding.

  Clayton thought of the several independently owned restaurants in town that advertised as getting their meet from local farmers.

  I've probably eaten burgers tainted by Stan's Secret Sauce.

  His stomach felt queasy and jittery.

  “My mess up,” said Stan, “I used too large of a dosage on a smaller animal. But it has to be given in large doses for it to work at all.”

  “And how do you plan on fixing that problem?”

  “I need a big dog. A big dog. Something that can handle that much.”

  Clayton sighed. Where was he going to get a dog big enough for Stan's magic potion to work?
/>   You're not really going to pursue this any further, are you?

  He figured he was. It was either a hundred dogs dying in order to get this plan to work, or Clayton dying. And Clayton might be considered a tad biased in the situation, but he would rather he be the one who got to live.

  A part of him still wished he'd never come here. But the idea was in his head now, and he knew he would try anything to make it work.

  “Do you have any big dogs?” asked Clayton.

  Stan's arms dropped to his side. “What are you, some kind of sadist? You expect me to keep pulling my own goddamn loyal companions to save your ass? No way. The rest is on you. This one was on the house, but the next is going to cost you.”

  “Cost me?”

  “You get the dog. I'll provide the rest. We'll work out an arrangement for payment later.”

  Clayton didn't like how that sounded, but didn't really care. He was the meat of a hell sandwich no matter how he approached his situation.

  “How big of a dog do you think we need?”

  Stan crossed his arms once again. His lips moved, though no words could be heard. He looked like somebody reciting a silent prayer. “Over a hundred pounds,” he said. “For sure. Heavier would be better.”

  “Might as well get a fucking horse!”

  Stan held out his hands. “I don't make the rules!”

  “Yes, you do. When it comes to this you're making all the rules.”

  Sighing, Stan's lips fluttered. “Fine. I'm the almighty keeper of the rules.”

  “Where do you expect me to find a dog that damn big on such a short notice?”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Seriously, man. Where?”

  “Try the animal shelter.”

  “I'd never pass the background check. Besides, it would take too long.”

  “The animal shelter doesn't do background checks. And they always have large breeds in the back. Bunch of sad bastards too. Dumped by their owners because they got too big for them handle.”

  “Isn't there an adoption fee or something?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Clayton groaned. All the money he had was in his wallet, which was in his truck that sat in the parking lot at Teresa’s apartment. And that equaled to around forty dollars. He wouldn't be able to afford it.