"Manny, tonight's the night. I'm going to take the first batch out of the freezer in about 15 minutes. If you've got nothing else to do, maybe you could stop by for the grand unveiling. That is, of course, if you're not to busy washing out your socks or something, heh-heh-heh!"
"You gotta be kidding me, pal! I'll be there in a flash! Man, this is the night I've been waiting for all my life. Are we are all gonna be just rolling in the stuff or what?"
Click, tunk, bzzzz....
The line disconnected to a dial tone without even a hint of a goodbye from Manny's end. How Manny made it down to the morgue so fast was always a mystery to Max, but in less than 20 minutes the grinding complaint of the steel rollup doors leading to the underground parking garage announced an impending visitor. There was a corridor about 100 feet long gently sloping downward from the ground level entrance on Water Street. Ambulances on the way to the hospital emergency entrance squealed down the ramp with lights flashing and sirens wailing. Ambulances arriving with customers destined for Max's attention usually entered in silence.
The unmistakable monogram of Manny's wing tips drumming a tattoo on the painted concrete reverberated along the corridor. Nobody else had feet that made that kind of noise. Manny scuffed his heels a little with each step, and the steel cleats on the outside edge of each heel made a small scritching sound preceding each completed footstep. In the background of the wing tip beat was a frenetic scrambling sound. It could have been the sound of B-Bs swishing around inside of a large ceramic bowl, or perhaps a metal leaf rake dragging across a plate glass window. This sound, however, was erratic, nervous, and random, with no semblance of order. Considering the origin of the sound (which Max recognized instantly) this came as no surprise whatsoever.
"Thanks for nothin', Max!"
Manny was definitely in a much more disheveled and haggard condition than was usual. His crotch area sported a large wet stain, slacks sticking to the ample flesh of his left thigh. The necktie, thoroughly coated with a viscous slimy goo, was crumpled and wadded, pierced here and there with several jagged puncture wounds. His tie bar was mangled and bent at a 45 degree angle. At least one shirt button had been wrenched from it's moorings and was dangling by a single soggy thread. His right hand was rapidly changing from it's usual pasty oatmeal cast to a reddish purple hue, due entirely, no doubt, to the fact that the wrist was being relentlessly constricted by a greasy brown leather tourniquet. The unmerciful jerking tension applied to the tourniquet was coming from the large object at the other end. At the business end of the strap was a heavy-gauge stainless steel choker chain wrapped double around the neck of an ominous hairy beast. It was about 30 inches high at the shoulder, its entire body covered with a pelt of short black hair, accentuated by small symmetric areas of cinnamon brown. The ends of sinewy, tautly-muscled legs terminated in black-clawed paws, continuously scrabbling at the smooth concrete surface. Fortunately for Manny, the smooth walkway did not provide a substantial purchase for the pumping legs, otherwise he would likely have been drug endlessly down the corridor or his hand would have shriveled and fallen off completely from a total lack of circulation.
Glancing at the head of the beast, one's attention was instantly riveted to the inch-long gleaming white fangs, dripping with saliva, gelatinous purple lips flecked with white globs of spittle. Fetid hot breath, smelling of rot and decay, blasted out in humid pants. And the eyes; gleaming beady golden points beneath oblong brownish brows spiked with long black guard hairs. The eyes were slightly crossed, giving the beast an expression of...well, incredible innocent stupidity.
"Bruno! I'm so glad to see you, you little devil! Have you been a good little doggie for Uncle Manny?"
Bruno, appearing more over-grown and bloated than his usual 120 pounds, unsuccessfully attempted to dig his claws into the concrete in an effort to greet master Max. The sudden flurry of flying feet nearly jerked Manny's shoulder out of the socket, sending him spread-eagled to the concrete, right arm extended in a 'Heil Hitler' salute. Bruno collided with Max in a slobbery crush, punctuated with the inevitable hot pink tongue coating Max with unspeakably foul slather from forehead to Adam's apple.
"Get this goddamned thing offa my arm!" Manny squawked and sputtered as he was slowly dragged along the slick floor. "My hand is gonna fall off! Jeez Max, for God's sake help me!" Manny managed to grab hold of the leash with his left hand and was pulling himself (or Bruno, or a combination of the two) together in an attempt to unhook the leash from the choker chain. By this time, his right hand had swollen so much that removing it from the leash under tension was out of the question. "Gimme outa this, and keep that stupid sonofabitch away from me!"
Manny reached with his free hand up behind Bruno and was about to release the catch on the collar when Bruno let go. The fart was a point blank blast right into Manny's flaring nostrils which were scant inches away from Bruno's deadly exhaust portal. The fusillade paralyzed Manny, and sent his tortured body into gyrating spasms, quickly melting into a pitiful lump of pleading flesh.
"Please, please, puhleeeze! Save me, Max! Cut my arm off, shoot me, kill me, anything, just put me out of my misery! That moronic evil bastard jumped all over me in the car, burnt my balls with scalding coffee, grabbed my Egg McMuffin right outa my mouth and chewed holes in my best tie. That sonofabitch nearly strangled me before I yanked it outa his throat. Gawd, Max, I would rather have my throat cut and be dumped in the river than spend one more hour with this stupid mutt!"
Max untangled the leash from Manny's swollen hand, setting the poor wretch free. Bruno sat on his haunches doing his usual innocent, confused, and quizzical routine. Max had always suspected that sometimes--just sometimes--Bruno knew exactly what he was doing.
"What did I tell you last night, huh, Manny? You said that you wanted to have a watch dog in the house for a few days. I told you that Bruno only watches food and the inside of his own eyelids. I told you that Bruno would be much more of a threat to you, both bodily and mentally, than even the most heartless assassins that this life has to offer. I told you that he would eat you out of house and home and give you nothing but clouds of dog-gas in return. But did you listen to me? Noooooo. Now here you are begging for mercy, blaming this poor innocent creature for all of your shortcomings."
Rubbing his wrist in an attempt at restoring circulation, Manny sat up. He swiped at a trickle of blood that was running from his nose.
"That sonofabitch gave me a bloody nose! Look at this." Manny flung his index finger in the direction of Max, but it was intercepted in mid-stroke by Bruno's tongue. With one taste of blood, he went for the source, liberally basting Manny's face with layers of slobbery mucous.
"Bruno, down!" Max commanded, tongue in cheek, through sputters of poorly restrained laughter.
"No, that's okay Max. Good doggie, Bruno. You know, I think your stupid hound might have actually saved my life last night. About 1 o'clock this morning I had a visit from the leg breakers. You know, the big fat ugly one, Edgar, a.k.a. Little Ed? Well he twisted off the doorknob to my apartment with a pipe wrench and busted in. He had a straight razor in one hand, and was stuffing his grinning fat face with a candy bar with the other. I was watching the tube in my skivvies--didn't stand a chance. I can't remember what I tried to tell the ugly bastard, but what ever it was, he either wasn't buying my story or he had specific orders to cut me up and/or collect the five yards, in full. He just stood there grinning like the idiot that he is, sizing me up like a side of beef in a locker. Little Ed said, very matter factly, that he was about to carve me a second smile. That, my friend, is when he made the mistake of his life. He reached into his pocket--I thought he was going for his gun--and pulled out a Snickers bar.
I guess that Bruno musta heard the paper crinkling when Little Ed ripped it off with his teeth, cuz that big beautiful black Dobie came a-running from the kitchen. Good old Bruno eyed that Snickers and went for it! Little Ed was so scared I bet he crapped his shorts. You shoulda seen Bruno, he jumped up onto Little Ed and grabbed the candy right outa his mouth. Little Ed had his hands up to defend himself and I guess he got a little close to those choppers of Bruno's, cuz Bruno not only got the Snickers, but he also got at least one finger! Lookee here. I found this layin' right on my rug just after Little Ed ran outside screaming like a raped ape. I didn't think that fat fuck could move so damn fast."
Manny gingerly plucked a bloody handkerchief out of his jacket. Sure enough, a finger complete with a whole fingernail and one knuckle. The bone had been bitten clean through.
"I bet that Bruno got more than one finger, cuz there was a trail of blood clear out to the sidewalk. And man, it wasn't just a drop or two, it was a whole lot. Looked like he was running and squeezing a ketchup bottle all the way out to his car. If Little Ed didn't bleed to death last night, he's gotta be really pissed today. Damn, I hope that I never see that ugly puss again."
Manny had cleaned himself up a little bit. His favorite tie, a formerly snappy looking silk item with a toucan sitting on a bamboo shoot in some jungle (really; it was a neat looking tie!) and the mangled tie clip had been relegated to the circular file. Bruno, safely sated after scarfing down a pound or so of dog chow, was busily studying the bubbling fish tank, safely out of reach on a lab bench. Max and Manny were sitting on opposite sides of the examination slab, staring at a very tiny frosted vial containing mere drops of the pinkish-amber ambrosia.
"Now what?"
"Well, I guess we gotta test it. The proof of the pudding is in the eating."
"You go first."
"Whaddya mean, `You go first'? I'm not tasting that stuff no matter how many times they send Little Ed to visit!"
"Wait a minute, Manny, this is your gig, pal," Max explained nervously. "It's your skin and you stand to make the fat bucks, not me."
"Hey, Max, I'm gonna cut you in, but big, you know that."
"Yeah, right. No dice. I'm not sticking that stuff in my mouth. It'll probably fry your brain like a jumbo grade AA in a hot skillet. Uh-uh, no way, José."
"Ok. What about Bruno? He doesn't even have a brain to begin with. No brain, no pain."
"Hmmm? Manny, I hate to admit it, but you've definitely got a point there. Better to fry the brainless wonder dog than to damage that pure thinking machine between your ears."
Max quietly, very quietly, slipped the wrapper from a 50-cent Snickers bar and sliced it into six chunks with a clean scalpel. He popped one chunk into his mouth and offered another to Manny.
"Bruno. Here Bruno. Sit. Sit, goddamn it!"
Max tossed a chunk in Bruno's general direction. Beady yellow eyes tracked the candy like radar. The slice of Snickers was silently sucked past glistening fangs and disappeared as a lump in his gullet without a bite. With a toothpick, Max scooped the tiniest spot of Hyper-Speed from the still frosted vial and daubed it onto chunk number four.
Bruno licked his chops in anticipation of the next morsel. Drool festooned his lips and splattered onto the linoleum with each slurp of his vacillating tongue. He whimpered and snatched the chocolate just as it was flipped from Max's shaking fingers. Max popped another Snickers chunk into his own mouth and tossed the remaining morsel in Bruno's direction. The small brown block traced a shallow hyperbola from the tips of Max's fingers precisely to the center of Bruno's nose. There was no motion from the Doberman as the candy blipped from his quivering black schnoz and onto the linoleum.
Bruno's central nervous system went under a relentless attack from the epinephrine. Nerve synapses were firing like a billion Browning machine guns. Nervous energy and electricity built to a silent but ominous crescendo. Heart and respiration rates rose, doubling, then tripling. Appetite dulled, saliva production stopped. His senses of hearing, sight and smell rapidly amplified in quantum leaps. Even Bruno's emasculated loins responded to an atavistic, overpowering, and irresistible urge for the perpetuation of his species.
"Beemer! What the hell is that animal doing in my morgue?" Oxford screeched, his pince-nez threatening to spring off of his oily nose. "And who, may I inquire, is this gentleman?"
Oxford had crept into the lab and was holding his cross-eyed, bad-tempered, white toy poodle, complete with cutsie little pink ribbons at the base of each daintily trimmed ear. All that the coroner knew was that there was an unauthorized animal and an unrecognized person where he had expected to find only Max and John Doe.
But he was about to become very cognizant of the attitude adjustment that the Doberman was experiencing at this very moment.
Max, Manny, and Wilton stood shocked and mesmerized, staring at the very visible metamorphosis occurring in the normally slow and relatively docile Doberman. The pupils of his eyes sharpened to imperceptible pinpoints. Bruno's external vasculature was visibly pulsing and expanding. Starting from the base of his compact skull and continuing across his deepening chest, the musculature was rapidly becoming more sharply defined, engorging with blood. His entire body quivered with the unimaginable chemically induced tension.
Bruno focused on the poodle just as the Hyper-Speed took complete control. The neutered beast regurgitated an ominous rumbling growl from the bottom of his throat, rising in volume in syncopation with an enormous and formidable canine erection. In a single bound, he catapulted nearly twenty feet across the autopsy theater. His powerful claws dug in and gouged deeply into the floor. One large chunk of tile flew up and struck Manny in the thigh with enough force to tear the fabric of his slacks.
Before Wilton P. Oxford could take his next breath, Bruno was on him. Or more accurately, on the hapless poodle.
All three men were paralyzed in a trance of fear, awe, and revulsion at what they were witness to. Bruno didn't stop for nearly 20 minutes, his huffing, grunting, and panting accompanied by an occasional howl.
There was absolutely no thought given to attempting a rescue of the poodle. It is hard to say if the pitiful creature succumbed to Bruno's strangle hold on the nape of her fluffy neck, or if its diminutive internal organs were pummeled to mush by the incessant pumping and pounding.
Regardless of the grisly details, the poodle bit the dust.
Most likely very shortly after Oxford had fainted and hit the floor like a gunny sack stuffed with so much rendered lard.
Just as quickly as the transformation into devil dog had taken place, Bruno reverted to his usual, low energy, slack-jawed, and generally sleepy demeanor. He immediately detected and devoured the previously snubbed Snickers fragment. Exhausted by, and obviously oblivious to, his deadly encounter with the poodle, Bruno collapsed into a flaccid heap of sleeping dog flesh.
"Well, Manny, I'd hazard a guess and say that the stuff works. At least on Dobermans."
"Yup. Too bad about the poodle."