You put a collar-cuff of the right head of the one mutt as the more doggish head sniffs you and the snakish one flicks out it's tongue. The second mutt the slithery one, only has front legs and they look pretty useless. He's eight foot long like a dachshund from hell, and has unhooked his jaw, pushing a hunk of dog biscuit into himself whole. When his mouth re-closes his ears perk up and he sort of wags his whole body. You put a shock-collar on him, but you only chain the bigger (the one with two heads)--betting that he's the dominant one of the two.
In the end you're wrong: On the way down toward the lobby you run into the other three mutts--two of which fall in line right after DOC (the name you decided to give the dachshund-ish mutt). When the last dog (a behemoth with five heads that was unable to leave the main study area due to its bulk) decides to make a stand, Doc rears up, displaying cobra like fins made of razorblades. Three of the heads seemed intimidated, and before the others could convince them otherwise Doc struck--just a nip on the flank, but enough to make that half the beast turn limp quicker than DOC could retract his fangs.
For that you give Doc a second treat. When you dial Jeffy on your work-cell the behemoth is already dead (pretty impressive). If a kid could make these you'd think he could handle a dumb written final. Whatever.
"Hey Sophie," Jeffy says over the cell. Jeffy's a poll, but he's alright. "Don't need any backup do you?" Jeffy's teasing.
"Shove it. But clear any civilians away from my truck, I'm walking out with some live ones," you say.
"Got it."
The crowd gasps as you walk out with 4 mutts (three un-chained (you love that)). You stroll toward your truck where Jeffy is leaning casually. You use your cell to open the back door and throw the last doggie treat in the back. "What took you so long?" Jeffy asks with a wink, as you shut the door behind the scampering/slithering hounds. Jeffy is a female-male sex-gender. You don't know what his sexuality is, except that he seems to want to jump your bones. Not your type though.
"Is that a gun in your pocket," you say. This wouldn't be funny except Jeffy wears spandex instead of the standard police-issue trousers, and he stuffs them with a sock. Maybe it still isn't funny. You think about this, before saying. "All the ones in there are cold, the janitors can clean em up, but you might want to get the Pitt cybernetic professors out here and see if they recognize the work."
"Fucking kids these days." Jeffy shakes his head.
"You might also want to check for psychotropic chemicals and waves," you add, thinking of the woman at the sea. You're already in the drivers seat.
"Ok," Jeffy says. Lifting up a notepad, "Could you to give a personal number in case we have any follow up questions?" he smirks.
"Five-five-five, five three one, eight hundred, eight," you say and slam the door (if somebody doesn't think that's funny they are obviously too mature (you should tell them to type that number in a calculator, flip it upside-down, and join the club)). You look in the rear-view mirror and snicker at Jeffy who is hurriedly typing digits into his notepad.
###
Back at the pound you through the Mutts in the Bell Jar and turn on the juice. There's supposed to be a ten-day waiting period, but nobody ever comes for ones like these, and this guy sure isn't going to.
The pound's a cozy enough place--a little man-made island in the Allegheny River, with a pretty serious fence and a drawbridge. You live here, you keep up the place. Sometimes you get an intern to help out, but they quit quick.
That's fine with you. You prefer the company of howling mutts echoing amongst concrete and white tile. It helps you write (most of the time). You've been having a little blockage with the "true drama" stories you've been commissioned to do by ol' Buggz. That slice of life crap always gets you down, but you're not a quitter. You sit at your desk and cue your cell to project a screen and key-pad.
It's at least a half hour of staring into space before Jeffy calls the pound business line. You let it click to message and listen as you go check the Bell Jar brand gas box.
"Hey Sophie," Jeffy says to the machine. "Looks like you gave me some bum digits. I'm just calling because It turns out Pitt hasn't had a cybernetics branch for years."
You shrug to yourself and unbolt the viewing hatch. Jeffy Just wanted an excuse to call you. Who gives a fuck about Pitt Cybernetics?
"If you have any ideas keep me in the loop."
You slide open the hatch. The poisonous gas clears, and three dogs lay dead on the cement floor, and one looks very happy.
It's Doc, wagging his body--black tongue lolling about. The message machine beeps and you slam the hatch shut. You double the gas and triple the length of the session, before going back to your desk.
You stare at the blank screen for another ten minutes, when something sneaks into your consciousness. It's the woman with the neck, and the beach...
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