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Chapter 1!

Bars are rarely busy on Thursdays, and that night was no exception. The bartender, a one-eyed, three-fingered drafthorse of monstrous proportions, looked up and smiled crookedly upon my arrival. I gestured towards the table I had my eyes on, he nodded his understanding, and began preparation of my drink. Jack Daniels, and water. Our usual exchange; but I didn't fool myself into thinking this hoss was afraid of me. He's just a good bartender.

While waiting for my booze, out of boredom rather than any desire for familiar faces, I scanned the lounge area. A few folks I knew, a few folks I didn't. The usual crowd. Myron, a scruffy looking tiger that could've been quite handsome if not for a pesky crack addiction, lay passed out in one of the booths against the far wall, snoring noisily and with a string of spittle hanging halfway down his torso.

If he were conscious, I'd have probably conned him into sucking me off for a rock. Thoughts of Tissimo had temporarily staved the urge, but the image of the prostitute struggling and kicking for breath even as light left his eyes was a provocative one; and little Barri just wouldn't stay down. I shifted positions, and toyed with the hilt of my gun under the table. The cold, steel muzzle rubbed against my partially exposed, partially erect shaft, stirring it to attention and sending a shudder of chill-induced pleasure rocketing up my spine.

Murdering someone, while rarely polite dinner conversation, is the most intense rush I've ever been able to find. It's very much a drug. The concept of controlling someone to the point of deciding how much longer they are going to breathe is powerful, primal, and at least for me, extremely sexual. I rarely killed people solely for the sake of getting off, but that night had been an exception. The whore had lost his life for no other reason than to provide me a boner, and wank-material.

"Don't usually see you 'round 'til the weekend, champ," said the horse as he suddenly thumped my drink down on the table, causing me to leap nearly a foot in the air and tip my chair over backward. Fortunately he was standing near enough to catch me before I took a spill, saving me some modicum of embarrassment. "Ya know, I get the feelin' a lot fewer people would be afraid of ya if they knew what an all-fired klutz ya are." The horse whickered in a decidedly horse-like fashion as he righted my chair.

"Din't your mama teach ya not ta sneak up on people, Nancy?" I asked grouchily, emphasizing his massively inappropriate birth name and discreetly easing my paw away from my crotch. "Th' hell gives, anyway? Shouldn't you have...what's-his-name out here servin' drinks?"

"Trigger." Trigger being his son, a few years my junior. Nancy's wife had run out shortly after the boy was born, leaving the big horse a single parent. They'd been really close as long as I'd known them. Outwardly, it made me want to puke. Inwardly, unconsciously, I was a little jealous. "I gave 'im the night off. He's gotta study. Some kinda exam tomorrow." He waved off the unspecific comment like a pesky insect, understating the role he'd assumed in his son's higher education. "Said he needs to talk to ya at some point, though, champ."

"Wouldja stop callin' me that?" An indignant snort, followed by a quick swig of booze. He'd been calling me 'champ' since the day we met, seven years prior. I'd been sixteen at the time, already too old for silly monikers. "He knows how to find me if he needs me. 'm not lendin' him any money, though, so if that's what he's got in mind, ya can tell him to forget it."

The stallion shrugged his shoulders in a way that said he wasn't going to get involved. "Whatever," he said, confirming his neutrality. "Not what I came over here for." He leaned in closer, and whispered in a conspiratorial manner. "Know who that guy is?" I followed his gaze. A few tables away from Myron sat a human. Short, relatively thin, buzzed brown hair, and a leather riding jacket nearly identical to my own.

"No. Why? Somebody important?" I asked, regarding the fellah critically. Humans are rare around places like this. While most of us of the more beastial persuasion have managed to co-exist without too much issue, there are still the type that'd gut one just as soon as look at them. Hard feelings, brought on by years of political bullshit that I'd never had a desire to understand, and now have even less of a desire to talk about.

"Couldn't say." The horse lifted to a stand. "But he's had his eyes on you ever since ya walked in." As if on cue, the human's eyes met mine. He grinned, fingers drumming slowly on a motorcycle helmet. I smirked. "Keep your eyes open, champ -- and quit playin' with yourself."

"Whatever." I willed myself to stop blushing as the horse made his retreat to deal with the meager throng around the bar. I nursed my drink, meanwhile, occasionally peering over at the human, but never making direct eye contact again. I wouldn't approach him. I was comfortable, and if he had something to say to me, he obviously knew where I was.

Of course, I had a good idea of what he wanted to say. I'm a handsome dog; tall, buff, and monochrome. Though as far as I know, this was the first time I'd ever been the target of a human's bedroom-eyes. I suppose he was pretty alright. Cute, in a hairless sort of way. I wouldn't have minded banging him in the alley, at least.

It didn't come to that. After draining what remained of my drink, I got up to mark some territory. I was half-expecting the biker to follow me. He didn't, and I was left to drain the dragon in peace. Standing in front of the urinal, always careful not to splash my hands, I thought about him. I'd never given humans much consideration before. Tissimo didn't like them; but he dealt with them a lot, and I'm sure that had something to do with this negative opinion.

I lacked any such experience. Zipping my fly, I washed my hands, bared my fangs for the mirror in a cartoon snarl to check for anything lodged between my teeth (an obsessive habit), and resigned myself to not being an outright jerk if he got a mind to approach me. At first, of course. If things went the way I thought they were going to, I'd end up leaving him bent over the dumpster with his pants around his ankles.

Upon reentering the bar area, I saw him sitting at my table. Like any self-obsessed mutt, I considered this a pretty serious offense, and any goodwill I'd previously had in mind was forgotten. Righteously miffed, I stared a hole through the back of his fuzzy head for a moment before casting a glance over to Nancy as if to ask if he could BELIEVE this guy. The horse just shrugged, and continued cleaning mugs. I started over.

"...you're in my chair," I said, standing with arms crossed about a foot behind the guy.

"Huh?" He started, clearly surprised that I'd gotten so close without him noticing. Humans apparently don't hear as good as they think they do. "Oh. Yeah, guess I am. Sorry, pup." Pup. Another affront.

"Move," I continued, unwilling to let the silence draw out. I didn't like this guy anymore. Any thoughts of him servicing my dwindling arousal were quickly snuffed.

"Alright, alright." He laughed, moving to a different chair nearby, and kicking his feet up on my table. "Not one to mince words, are ya, big guy? I like that." It was becoming increasingly obvious that this human fancied himself a top. An aggressor. An alpha-male. He had his eyes on me, alright, but not in the way I'd imagined.

"Yeah, well." I gripped the back of the chair, leaned forward, and stared balefully at the biker. "I don't like YOU. Clear out, before I lose my fuckin' temper." I took some satisfaction in the glimmer of surprise and hurt that flickered briefly through his eyes.

"No need to get nasty, pup," he began, slightly put off his game but handling it well.

"Somethin' in your ears?" I cut him off, whipping the gun out of my jeans and pointing the long barrel at the spot between his eyes. He was afraid; I remember the scent. A cold, steely scent that I found nearly impossible to resist. "Clear. Out."

"Okay," he said simply. "Take it easy, bud." His collected demeanor surprised me. I'd expected him to whimper, and cry like the hooker from earlier. Instead, the human carefully got to his feet, held his hands up, and backed slowly away from my table. "See? No problem. You don't have to wave that thing at me."

"Ya know," I mused, ignoring his comment. "You're a lot more fun when ya squirm." Despite his lack of outward fear, the rush brought on by the power I now wielded was already having an effect. Even as he retreated, I wanted to kill him. I wanted to see a smattering of his gray matter against the wall at his back; and I guess on some level, he might've understood just how unstable I was, because he turned and made a hasty exit through the front door.

Afterwards, the bar was silent. Any of those remaining were looking at me. Even Myron had come out of his drunken coma, and was staring bleary-eyedly. I didn't care. Feeling as masculine as ever, I tucked my gun in my pants and reclaimed my rightful seat. The few other patrons eventually learned that I wasn't going to kill anyone, and got back to their own business. Myron went back to sleep.

"That was out of line, champ; even for you." The horse's tone was appropriately terse, and disapproving as he swapped out my empty glass. I'd known this was coming.

"Lay off. He knew damn well I was sittin' here."

"And YOU know damn well that he was just flirtin' with you. There was no reason for you to play badass and start wavin' your damn dick-extension around." He was getting a little louder, and that's far from a good thing when you're dealing with a ten-foot horse, but that last comment upset me.

"I'll ask if I want your goddamn opinion, Na--," I started, sitting up and glaring irritably at the stallion.

"Yeah, well, you got it," he cut me off, thumping my drink down on the table for emphasis, and sounding angrier by the second. The encounter had upset him, and given the proper distance, I can understand why. At the time, I was annoyed that he wasn't taking MY side.

"If you got some problem with me, big guy, then come right out wit' it. Don't dance around." I leaned over the table, about half a foot from the horse's face. My ace was that no matter how mad he got, I knew he wouldn't hurt me, and I was exploiting this to its fullest extent.

"I got no problem with you," he laughed, something I didn't much care for. "I just think you got a lotta growin' up to do, Barrigan." As it turned out, it upset me further to have him call me by my full name. Funny how that works. He left before I could retaliate, though, tromping off behind the bar in that noisy way horses have of getting where they need to be.

Enraged and unable to believe the AUDACITY of people that night, I backhanded my freshly refilled drink off the table, got up, and stormed out in a huff. Fortunately for both of us, Nancy didn't follow.

The night air nearly drowned me. It was warm, wet, and miserable -- the perfect harmony to my newly soured mood. The weather is one of the very few things I hate about New York. It's always either sweltering, or frigid. And ALWAYS too wet. I didn't get far, though.

I can only assume he was hiding in the alley, and I was too distracted to catch his scent in the stagnant air. My pace, by this point, had slowed to a leisurely amble, and I must have provided an easy target. I remember a flurry of motion behind me, a sudden impact against the back of my skull, the sound of shattering glass, and the vague awareness of how CLOSE that sound was to my sensitive ears. I remember falling forward, but never hitting the pavement; and perhaps most clearly, I remember the darkness that followed. I thought I was dead.