Paws

by Stefan Petrucha

  They both shout, “No!”

  With a tsk and a harumph, Miss America 1776 yanks Ben’s chain to resume the morning walksies and gives us her back. Gotta hand it to her—snubbing two big-power types like Spidey and me takes guts. But hey, the little guy really looks like he has to go. Grunting endearingly, he pulls hard against the leash, tugging her forward.

  At first it’s a few steps, but then…bang, zoom!

  Ben’s off like a streak, dragging grandma with him. Too freaked to let go of the leash, she flies behind him like a crappy kite, not even touching the pavement. Go granny go!

  Wonder how high she’d get if that leash were longer. Doesn’t matter. Looks like it’ll be a short trip—the tear-assing pooch must be getting fur in his eyes. He’s headed straight for the cornerstone of one of those six-story brick apartments.

  Scratch that. His coconut-sized head takes out a chunk big enough for him and the old lady to plow through.

  “Aunt May!” Spidey screams.

  Hold it. What? He knows her name, too? I didn’t know he was psychic! OMG, does that mean he can hear my thoughts, too? That would be so embarrassing! It’s not like I spell out my every passing whim and fancy for all the world to see. Spidey, can you tell me what number I’m thinking of? Come on, do it! Tell me!

  No go. His spider-sense is probably too busy being spider-shocked. For those of you out there in our audience wondering— yes, it was seven.

  But fear not, Aunt May! Spider-Man’s swifter than swift, with wild reflexes. Like a streak of light, he can arrive just in time. So he’s stunned, yeah, but only for a microsecond.

  That happens to be long enough for a quick-thinking merc such as myself to snatch back the ADD. Snatch!

  Weapon of choice in hand, I’m hot in pursuit with a hearty, “Told you so! Told you so!”

  (To be clear, ladies, the DP is always hot. This time it just happens to be in pursuit.)

  Remaining dogged in appearance, but not deed, Ben races through Forest Hills. When I say through, I mean through—parked cars, street vendors, residential structures, dragging the hapless Aunt May behind all the way. Given all the crashes, bangs, and flying debris, you can’t really call it the Snooze District anymore.

  I play catchup, bounding off this, twisting around that, ducking debris, closing the distance, and trying to look cool while I do. Spider-Man? He’s got that web-swinging down like he’s been at it since 1962. (Anyone ever tell him spiders don’t actually travel that way?) He’s past me in a blink.

  To avoid complete humiliation, I pick up the pace, gaining until I’m close enough to kiss the old lady’s free-flying foot (though I have no idea why I’d want to do that).

  You’re probably sick of all the wrecked cars, but really, what else is there to hit in New York? Ben splits a parked limo in a postmodern symphony of rending steel, ripping polymers, and careening composites. It barely slows him down, but barely’s all I need.

  As limo pieces hurtle past me, I make this incredible move. It’s a peak moment—maybe not in terms of sheer strength, or even speed, but as a zen-like exercise in technique. I’m totally going to ask Agent Preston to check the traffic cams for a shot of this. I’m telling you, it’d make a great splash page. Picture it drawn by your favorite artist, a signed print available in a numbered limited edition: With one hand on the sundered limo’s deploying driver-side airbag, I push myself up and over Aunt May. My other arm’s already out, aiming the ADD smack-dab at the perilous pup.

  But…along comes a spider. With no waterspout in sight, he slams into me, probably thinking he deserves the splash page. From a purely marketing standpoint, he may be right.

  “Don’t shoot, you maniac! You might hit her!”

  He swings past, leaving me to rant at the red spider shape on his receding back.

  “Oh man! This sucks! Come on! Hitting the target is what I do!”

  Rather than mope, I pick myself up and get back in the race. The path of destruction is easy to follow. It’s narrower than, say, what the Hulk might make if he had to get to a bathroom real quick, but the rubble’s every bit as good.

  Spidey’s moving above, looking for an in. Since he hasn’t found one by the time I reach him, I figure now’s as good a time as any to clear the air.

  “Y’know, wall-trawler, if she gets hurt because you blocked me, it’s your fault.”

  He slaps himself in the head. “Like I don’t have enough guilt!”

  “This whole thing with you and her is kinda strange to begin with. People get older, they get sick. Sometimes they get dragged off by a monster puppy, but eventually they do die. Circle of life, my friend. Don’t you think it’s time you just…let her go? As Faulkner said, ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies.”

  “Shut up! It’s not a Grecian urn, it’s a monster dog! And that’s no old lady, that’s my…!”

  He stops mid-sentence. I hear his teeth gnashing behind the mask, like he almost gave away his secret identity or something. Then it dawns on me:

  “I know that one! That’s no old lady, that’s my wife! Henny Youngman, right? Wait, that’s your wife? Dude, that is so…wrong.”

  “She’s not my wife!”

  “You’re just using her? I know commitment can be scary, but if you’re never tied to anything, can you ever really be free?”

  “Aghhh!”

  He veers off from his desperate chase long enough to smash my chin with his heels. It hurts. Not only physically—though I do see stars. It really hurts deep down inside, where I keep my feelings and my porn. But that’s okay, I know it was for my own good. I know it’ll make me a better man, a better son. I know I should leave Daddy alone when he’s drinking his adult juice. I know…

  Daddy? Daddy? Why don’t you love me? Why?

  A puppy would love me. A puppy could…

  Look at me, Sophie!

  Hallucinating.

  Okay, then. The traveling circus family of Deadpool, Spidey, May, and the Astonishing Ben exits the residential section for a bit of tended greenery. While Spider-Man hovers like a helicopter parent watching his kid’s first steps, Ben and May burst through the stone wall of a dog park. Along the perimeter of the poop-filled grass, pet owners look up from their smartphones to see their world turned upside down: A dog is walking a human. They scatter, but their pets are into it, awed at the sight of one of their own breaking the grass ceiling. They bark joyfully at the mighty Maltese, as if to say:

  “I’d sure sniff your butt if I could!”

  Before the Benny-train reaches the other side, Spider-Man spots his opening. Using that endless supply of web gunk, he fashions a zip line running from a high tree branch to the far wall. He rides down spectacularly and scoops Aunt May into his arms.

  But May still has her knuckles wrapped around the leash, and Ben’s not stopping.

  “I’ve got you! You can let go!” he cries.

  It’s looking like Spider-Man may wind up being dragged along himself. Frankly, that’d be pretty funny. But she does let go—so she can tase him again.

  Bzt!

  “Ow!”

  “Put me down, you awful Spider-Man!” Awfully amazing, she means!

  While Spidey tries to justify saving her life, Ben hits the streets again, and (finally, finally, finally!) he grows. Wish I could say he snowballs into a horrendous beast, because that image would match his coat, but it’s more like a big rocky orange thing comes bursting out of a little furry white thing. His dog features don’t vanish so much as fold into a larger picture.

  It may seem strange, but I feel really good about this. Here it is: proof that I’m not lying or crazy. Well, not just crazy.

  My first instinct is to grab Spider-Man and turn him around so he can see, but Aunt May’s busy swatting him with the leash. Besides, Ben’s transformation is already causing problems. Of course a growing galoot like that is going to block traffic—how can he not? More specifically, he’s doing his business right in front of a speeding bus. />
  And—you’re not going to believe this, because even I don’t—it’s packed with nuns.

  Seriously, with the world the way it is, why bother hallucinating?

  Force of habit?

  Practice?

  Nuns. I suppose I should be grateful it isn’t kids again. At least they look like nuns, what with the wimple-and-veil habits, but it could be a flash-mob performance of the 1992 Whoopi Goldberg vehicle Sister Act. That feels like a stretch, so I’m going with real nuns, none of whom seem to realize how close they are to an unscheduled meet-and-greet with the Big Guy in the sky they’ve devoted their lives to.

  The driver does. He honks. I dunno, maybe he thinks the swelling rocky mass hasn’t seen him yet and will get out of the way when it does. It doesn’t, though. It turns toward him, all angry and monstery. The driver screams so loud, I hear it over the horn.

  The nuns are just starting to look up as the beastie proudly announces:

  “I am GOOGAM, son of…”

  Whatever.

  I spray him. He goes all puddly. The end.

  CHAPTER 15

  WE’VE already had Chapters 14 and 13—so 15, right? Look, just read the damn thing in page order, okay? It’s all one story, more or less— with a subplot or two. Stay with me. One sentence after another. There you go!

  Sun creeping up behind me like a big bald head, I stand on a flat roof, listening to the vents rattle as I give Mr. Snuffles a look-see. Like all Labradors, he’s got this floppy skin a size too big for his frame. It bunches into small wrinkles when I hold him up, making him look newborn and a million years old at the same time. He’s still lightweight, like a puppy should be—and also still asleep. I can tell he’s not faking. His eyeballs are moving beneath his furry lids in doggie-style REM.

  Can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s feeling as free and happy as he looks.

  Awwww! He is special!

  No! I will not lose myself in warm fuzzies. I will not nuzzle him. I will not bond. I will not bond. I will not bond.

  I should dump the mutt with S.H.I.E.L.D. like I did the collie. Their biochemists are the ones who’ll have to figure out what to do with the duds. But this hit went down so fast, Preston’s probably still on cleanup duty in Queens, and she’s the only one I trust there. Can’t have Mr. Snuffles wind up in the hands of some raging infomaniac whose rallying cry is, “Hey, how does this life-form work?” Having gone through that myself in the Weapon X hospice, I wouldn’t wish it on—yep—a dog. But I can’t keep him, either.

  “Can I, Dad?”

  It isn’t real Dad I see. It’s imaginary Dad, better Dad, Dad who might have let me have a dog. Hey, not all the fantasies can be basketball games. Sometimes you have to keep even the dreams real.

  It’s a narrow galley kitchen. He takes up most of the table. Rest of the place is small like that, too. He fills every room he’s in. Everything is always underfoot. Ice clinks in the glass as he shuts his bloodshot eyes.

  With his head bowed low over the broken Formica surface of the table, most of what I see of Dad is the top of his military crewcut. That’s pretty much how I really remember him—in pieces. Top of his head, his arms, his belt. To remember his eyes or his face, I’d have to look at pictures of him. (Same with Mom. Back then I’d have to be sure he wasn’t around while I was looking at her photo. Mom died of cancer, like maybe I should have, and any reminder— like a photo, or me—put Dad in a bad mood.)

  “That thing craps or sheds anywhere in my house, I’ll put it to sleep myself.”

  Imaginary Wade is much more eager to please than I ever was. Half the beatings I got, I asked for. Half. “You won’t know she’s here. I swear it.”

  When Dad stops moving, I think he’s some version of asleep. But then he starts cursing. Not at me—at nothing. He slams his fist so hard into the table, his glass spills—even though there’s barely anything left in it. He hits the Formica again and again with one hand, but the slams fade out like he’s losing a boxing match. The arm twitches and settles. He takes a few deep, rattling inhales and starts to snore.

  Sometimes I have trouble remembering who’s who in these things. For a sec, I’m the one with my head down on the table, smelling old food stains mixed with scotch, ready to pick a fight with the air. But it’s my delusion, so I force myself back into being good little Wade, watching the top of his head. I mop up the booze so he won’t mistake it for dog piss in the morning. I try to imagine leaving him there like that, drooling on himself, but I can’t seem to exit the room.

  And there’s no dog. No dog anywhere. The place is too small.

  A wet belch (his or mine?) takes me halfway back to the rooftop. Mr. Snuffles is still breathing peacefully in my arms, every bit as alive as Eternity or an amoeba. But some delusions are stickier than others.

  “I’ll put it to sleep myself.”

  Given the way the world is, maybe mercy killing is the only kind there is. What with Snuffles likely a monster, where he’s at now could be as good as it gets. I raise him a little closer and whisper, “Oh, Mr. S., one day, one way or another, sooner or later, you’re going to die. Would it be more merciful to put you down now, before the world steps in and ruins you?”

  It’s funny because it’s true.

  He makes a little growl, almost like a snore.

  “Damn it! Who am I kidding, Mr. Snuffles? I could never hurt you!”

  I give him a hug. Nothing big—just enough to let him know I’m sorry.

  Thought you weren’t going to bond.

  It’s not bonding! It’s an apology. The hallucination weirded me out, okay? It’s not like I’m going to adopt him. I’ll pass him on to Preston as soon as I can. Watch.

  I prop the esteemed Mr. S. behind my back to make it look like he’s photobombing me, take a selfie with my cell phone, and shoot it off through the intertubes.

  Takes a sec before my cell rings.

  “Did you mean to post that shot to Pinterest?”

  It’s good to hear Em’s voice. “New phone. Really got to change the defaults on this thing. I may have tweeted it, too. You still in Queens?”

  “Yeah. Where’re you?”

  “Upper East Side rooftop. Got a nice view of the FDR and the sweetest little Lab y’ever did see. Goes by the name Snuffles. That’s Mr. Snuffles to you.”

  “Wade, don’t name the dogs.”

  “Why not? So I don’t bond with them?”

  “No, because Mr. Snuffles is a ridiculous name.”

  “Tell that to the precious little girl who gave it to him.”

  “Little girl? Tell me that’s one of your multiple personalities.”

  “No, she’s real—I think. I really need to start wearing a bodycam when I work. Gonna yell at me for the mess in Forest Hills?”

  I can tell from her tone she won’t. “Tough call. You’ve actually got a busload of nuns as fans. By the way, they want you to know there’s forgiveness to be had. The big problem this time is Spider-Man’s involvement. How’d you manage that?”

  “It’s not like I invited him. Why’s that a problem?”

  “Because fights between costumed types attract attention. The media was already all over you after Midtown—now some stringer named Peter Parker snapped you and the wall-crawler fighting over a puppy. Not like I’m your PR manager, but this isn’t the best time for you to be posting a selfie with another stolen dog. You never know who’s gonna see that.”

  “That was the idea, wasn’t it? Don’t blame S.H.I.E.L.D., blame me?”

  “All I’m saying is, get ready for some blowback. I’d suggest you keep out of sight, if I thought you knew what that meant.” For a moment, the world gets the shakes.

  THUD!

  “Em, could you speak up? Sounds like they’re blasting for the 2nd Avenue subway again.”

  “Right. And you’re losing bars ’cause you’re driving into a tunnel. Don’t BS me. I’ve got your location right in front of me. The readout confirms there’s no construct
ion going on for blocks.”

  WHAM! The rooftop vents rattle like tin cans.

  “Really? Maybe I’ve got a headache?”

  Nope.

  Nothing in here.

  THUD!

  I wonder if I’m imagining Dad punching the table in the kitchen again, but even Mr. Snuffles picks his head up at that last one. We scan the roof, the buildings. Nothing.

  “Deadpool! Pay attention. I’ve got some news for you on Goom, Googam, and Gorgolla.”

  “Cheeses, right?”

  “No, that’s what the creatures called themselves.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “They’re also the names of real monsters.”

  KWOOM!

  Mr. Snuffles barks, but I ignore it. “Real monster names? Puh-lease. Frankenstein—now that’s a real monster name. Come to think of it, actually, it isn’t. It’s the name of the doctor, not his creation. Though in the original James Whale film, he does refer to the monster as his Adam, so technically you could say the monster’s name was Adam Frankenstein—but I think that’s a stretch. How about you, Mr. Snuffles?”

  “Focus!”

  BOOM! Mr. Snuffles’ ears go straight up.

  “Hey, Em? Sounds like my fake excuse to get off the phone is getting closer.”

  “Huh. I heard it that time, too. Let me get some sat data.”

  “Focus yourself, Agent P. You were saying about the monsters?”

  “Had to have my security clearance upgraded to get this information, but S.H.I.E.L.D. used to work with a whole team of… well, monsters, to assist in paranormal containment.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Stop. Rewind. S.H.I.E.L.D. worked with monsters?”

  “Hired you, didn’t we? The group was codenamed the Howling Commandos…”

  “And you have trouble with the name ‘Mr. Snuffles’?”

  “While the Commandos were active, we ran tests on all the members, took samples. The servers storing their DNA patterns were breached a few years back. The working theory—and it’s a good one—is that their data wound up in the Weapon X lab and was used to create these creatures.”