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My thanks to MyOwnParasite for allowing me to use a few of his creations for this story.

Three Furs, One House: Chapter 1- Chaos Theory

As I stepped towards the doors of the House of Blues music club, situated in the heart of Harbor City, the signature strains of tonight's opening band hit my ears. The music crashed over my head in a discordant rhythm of hard guitar riffs, thudding bass from the drums, and almost unintelligible lyrics.

The band was called Slaughter and Silence, and they would be opening for another band named Chaos Theory. Chaos Theory was a well-known local furry band with the greatest lead singer and guitarist I'd ever heard: Charlie Clayton. The brown-furred shepherd was an amazing performer, able to captivate even the most cynical of critics with just one song. His voice was unbelievable, soft and commanding all at once. If you ask me, he could've been a public speaker. He could have run for office. Instead, he'd decided to make a name for himself by playing hard rock.

I'd first met Charlie in high school. We'd both gone to Harbor Hills High, and we'd properly met at one of the parties that he and his former band liked to throw in the numerous abandoned houses strewn around the campus. At first, I was hesitant. I'd been dragged along forcibly to one of the parties by a friend. But after a while, I was quite glad that I had gone. I'd eventually lost touch with the funny shepherd after we graduated, however, but I'd heard his name a lot over the years on various news programs and radio talk shows. Then, I'd been introduced to his music.

Charlie had a rough life. He'd gotten kicked out of his first band, a group called Lo$t Sh3pherd, a few years ago. He'd then proposed to his mate, James, only to have James ripped away from him and sent across the country by his asshole parents. Finally, things began to look up after he and James were married a few months ago, after more than four years apart. It's kind of a sad story, really, but if you wanted to hear it, you'd have to ask him.

I knew James too... Well, kind of...

One afternoon during my senior year at Harbor Hills High, I'd been quietly talkng to Charlie at one of his parties when suddenly, James came stumbling down the stairs, grabbed a cup of booze, and went out on the patio and broke down crying. Neither of us had met him before, and I hadn't seen him since, until I got together with Charlie for a drink and he'd come along as well. I later learned the story behind James' breakdown. It was a tale that was already familiar to me.

I empathized with Jame because my own parents had been cast from the same mold as his, except not quite as bad. I mean, they'd bought me my own place because they didn't want me to be bi in their house, with my new little brother. Go figure...

Anyway, I had barely set foot inside the establishment when I was accosted by a dozen furs, each sporting t-shirts with Wolfpack Motorsports written on them. I grinned at one in particular, a fox with vivid orange fur, a WPMS shirt on, and a hat with my number on it; 97.

They had probably recognized me from the news. I'd been on it for a hideous crash at Road America two weeks before, and I was still feeling that wreck. Either that or they had recognized me from the neon blue and orange markings on my paws, ears, and tail.

I laughed and pulled a sharpie pen out of my pocket. Instantly, I was mobbed by a dozen paws clutching things they wanted to sign. One of them caught my eye, a die-cast model of my own car, the blue and orange Maserati MC GT4. It was in the paws of the same fox with the hat. He must be a die-hard fan.

"What's your name, foxy?" I said, getting my own paws on the car and uncapping the pen.

"J-Jericho," he stuttered, visibly shaking. He spelled out his name for me and I autographed the car, writing, "Jericho, keep your paw down. Ricky," across the hood.

I handed it back to him and he clutched the little chunk of metal to his chest like I'd just handed him a hundred thousand dollars. I offered my paw and he shook vigorously.

"Were you at the last race?" I asked him.

He nodded. "I don't miss any! You're so much better than Davis, he was a major dick for wrecking you out like that!"

I'd been in contention for the win with two laps to go at Road America up in Winsconsin with Jarrod Davis in the Shadow Racing Team in second place. He'd taken the air off my wing going through the sweeper at the back end of the track and I'd wound up flipping the car over a half dozen times.

"Well, I'm looking forward to seeing you at Sebring in a week," I said, pressing a pair of tickets and infield passes into his shaking paws.

His jaw dropped and he hugged me so tightly I thought I was going to die of asphyxiation. Finally, he released me and scampered off, but not before planting a kiss on my cheek. It was well known that I was bi in the motorsports world, and the other teams, and my own, had given me endless shit for it.

I couldn't help smiling at the thought of that hyperactive fox sitting front row at Sebring next week as I signed a few more things for the furs crowded around me before making my escape to the bar. I rapped the counter to get the barkeeps attention and ordered a pint of Guinness.

While I waited for the beer to arrive, I turned and watched the band on stage. The lead guitarist and vocalist, a blue-furred wolf with creamy white belly fur, caught my eye and grinned.

I grinned back. This wolf had been my mate a few years back, before Slaughter and Silence had formed. His name was Michael, though he preferred to go by Moon.

He waved at me, taking his paw of the guitar and jerking it around before resuming his frenzied playing. I laughed, then got tapped on the back with a glass.

I turned around to see my pint of Guinness sitting on the bar in front of me. I set a five down on the counter and took the beer with me over to the backstage area. The security guard, a big coyote with brown fur, fixed me with a sharp glare.

"Charlie!" I called. Behind the well-built coyote, I could catch a glimpse of the famous shepherd as he prepared for his show. His head snapped over to me and a warm smile crossed his muzzle.

"Blackwell, it's cool. I invited him," he said to the coyote.

The guard relaxed and stepped aside, allowing me access to the backstage.

I'd taken no more than a single step backstage before a fat joint was stuck in front of my muzzle, along with a lighter. Holding the roach was a human hand. James.

"James!" I called, embracing the skinny human in a bear hug. "How you been, dude?"

"I've been okay. I'm just about ready for this damn tour to be over, so we can go home and just relax for a few months."

Charlie laughed. "You know it's another week, babe." He wedged himself between me and James and planted a kiss on his cheek. I felt my face grow hot with embarrassment. It had been so long since I'd had someone to share moments like that with.

"Yeah, I know. But it's tiring," James relented.

I had to laugh at that. "But you're not even the one onstage!"

Charlie laughed with me. "That's very true, he isn't."

James scowled at the both of us before breaking out in laughter as well.

It was then that I remembered the blunt in his hand. I gestured to it and waggled my eyebrows.

"Oh, sure dude. Help yourself. Oz has a ton of this shit back at his and Cory's place."

I laughed again and took the blunt from him, pulling a battered Zippo from my pocket to light it.

That first hit made me cough a few times. It had been months since the last time I'd smoked anything besides cigarettes, mostly to keep my standings with the GT4 series that I raced in. But, since there was two races left in the season, next week at Sebring and the week after at the Circuit de Catalunya in Spain, they wouldn't be doing any more this season.

I took another hit on it, the thick smoke pouring into my lungs and out again in a giant cloud of blue-gray smoke. Almost immediately, I recognized the strain; Pineapple Express. After the movie had become such a huge hit, profit-minded pot dealers had suddenly raced to develop a matching strain. And they had succeeded...

"Damn, that shit is GOOD!" I exclaimed, taking one more big puff before handing the roach to Charlie. He accepted it without hesitation and took a huge puff.

"Alex! Come over here!" he suddenly called out.

My ears perked up at that name. I'd known a half dozen Alex's over my life, including three of them during my time at Harbor Hills High. I doubted it'd be someone I knew, so I didn't pay it any mind.

Charlie seemed to scoop a wolf out of the air and add him to our little circle. So this was Alex. I couldn't help but think that he looked kinda familiar. A wolf of shorter than average stature with silver and gray fur and black head fur with blond highlights, he looked very punk rock. Charlie handed him the joint and I watched him take an enormous hit off it before passing it to James.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" Alex asked me. He started studying me with a fixed expression, his blue eyes scanning every inch of my body. I noticed that they held a few seconds longer on my crotch than they had on the rest of me.

"I was thinking the same thing..." I said slowly, still trying to place him. "Did you go to Harbor Hills?"

He nodded. "Met Charlie there."

I snapped as the memory came back to me. Alex had been present when James had broken down on the patio, talking with the two of us in the living room. He was a lot less punk back then. I was surprised at how much he'd changed.

"That's right! You were at one of the parties near the campus when James had a freak out."

James cleared his throat to capture my attention. I took a second to turn my head, and saw that he was giving me the finger. I guess he doesn't like to be reminded. Alex laughed. "That's right! We were in the living room smoking and he just came down and grabbed a drink."

Out on stage, the opening band was finishing up their song to general applause.

"Well, that's our cue," said Charlie. He gave his mate a kiss and me and Alex paw bumps before striding over to his guitar and slinging it over his shoulder. His paws flew over the frets and strings as he refreshed himself on the riffs of one of his latest songs.

The three of us went back to the front of the club, picking spots near the stage so we could be close to the music.

"Alex, you want a drink?" I asked, holding up my pint of Guinness in case he didn't know what I was talking about.

"A double of Jack, if you don't mind." He reached into his wallet to pull out some cash to pay for it, but I put my paw on his.

"Don't worry," I said. "I got this."

He smiled at me and withdrew his paw from his back pocket. I went over to the bar and ordered what he'd wanted, setting down a few bills to pay for it.

While I waited, I sat on one of the low-backed bar stools and watched Chaos Theory set up their equipment. Oz and Cory were bolting together Zack's drum kit while Charlie hooked together distorters and wah-wahs and amps to the trio of guitars. Zack just stood in the background, a cigarette dangling from his lips, waiting for his bandmates to finish setting his drums so he could get on them and make sure everything was ready to go. He was twirling his drumsticks between his paws and twirling his striped tail back and forth.

The clink of glass on wood alerted to me to the presence of a drink and I turned to retrieve it. When I did, my paw brushed up against that of the bartender, a black-furred wolf. He blushed and looked away, leaving me to take the drink and with a clusterfuck of feelings running through my head.

I shrugged it off and took the drink back to Alex, who took it and again insisted on paying me for it. I finally gave in and took it, resolving to slip it back into his pocket sometime before he left.

Finally, the band was ready. I could hear Charlie's amp let out a few guitar notes before he stepped up to the mike.

"How are all of ya tonight?!" he screamed into the microphone. The crowd went berserk and started clapping and cheering and whistling. I laughed and joined in, slapping my leg with my free hand while my tail wagged behind me.

"Who's ready to rock?!"

The crowd gave, if it was even possible, a bigger response than the first question.

"We are Chaos Theory! But, before we start the show, I'd like to welcome a friend of mine to the stage. We've known each other since we were both in high school and he's famous in his own right. Ricky, if you would, come up on stage with us, dude."

Everyone next to me, including Alex, turned to stare at me. I felt my face grow hot from being unexpectedly thrust into the spotlight, sure that my blush was showing through my thick white fur.

I stepped up towards the stage and a brown paw appeared. I grasped it and was pulled up on stage. Oz handed me a microphone, the cord almost getting tangled in that of his guitar.

"How's everyone tonight?" I yelled into the mike. My applause wasn't as big as Charlie's had been, but I was still pleased by it. From the back of the room, I could see Jericho jumping and hollering, waving around that car that I had autographed for him.

"He'll be signing autographs after the show," Charlie called into the mike, making me scowl at him.

Then I started laughing. "He's right, I will be. We're gonna be at Sebring in a week, so the first fifty people that manage to get close and get my autograph are gonna get tickets and infield passes. I'll be expecting to see all of you there."

With that, I tossed the mike back to Oz and jumped down. I went back over to Alex, who was standing there laughing his ass off, drink forgotten.

"What's so funny, wolf boy?" I barked at him, causing him to jump and spill almost half of the whiskey on himself. I started laughing at him, watching him uselessly try to wipe himself down.

"I'll get you another one. Hold on."

As I went to go get a replacement drink, I heard Charlie and his band rip into a song, a cover of Brad Paisley's "American Saturday Night." The smooth country riffs were instantly transformed into the hard rock sound that Chaos Theory was known and loved for.

She's got Brazilian leather boots on the pedal of her German car

Listening to the Beatles singing 'Back in the USSR'

Yeah, she's going 'round the world tonight, but she ain't leaving here

She's just going to meet her boyfriend down at the street fair.

It's a French kiss, Italian ice, Spanish moss in the moonlight,

It's just an American Saturday Night.

I found myself clapping and singing along to the song, familiar with it from the few Paisley shows I had gone to in the past. Charlie and his band were doing a masterful job of converting the song to metal.

As I listened to the music, I found myself surrounded by furs again. All of them were clamoring for autographs and the tickets I had promised. My paw started to go numb from the countless things I signed and I got quite a few paper cuts from the tickets.

Alex was beside me the entire time. I could feel his eyes watching me, even though I only glanced at the wolf once or twice. Eventually, I gave up, hanging my head and letting go of the nearly depleted pen.

"Alright, people, he's done for now," I heard Alex say. I looked up to see him shooing off the last few people that had been grouped around us.

"Thanks," I said, taking a sip of the Guinness I had neglected since getting it nearly an hour before. It was warm, but that was okay with me.

We sat in silence for the rest of the show, cheering at the end of every song and encouraging them to have an encore at the end.

"Come on, you guys," Charlie finally called, exasperated. After three encores, and well over two and a half hours of rocking, they were starting to show their fatigue. "We're fucking tired!"

The furs in the audience gave exactly no fucks. All they wanted was more of Charlie's music. The crowd erupted in a roar of anger at Charlie's refusal; from where I was standing, I could see him jump back a couple of feet as empty beer bottles began to fly towards the stage. Panicked, he shouted for the audience to stop, before turning to face the others.

I saw him confer with the rest of his band before stepping back up to the mike.

"Okay, we're gonna do one more song, and that's it. What do you guys wanna hear?"

All at once, a hundred furs started shouting out suggestions. One of their songs came to mind for me, and I bulled my way through to the stage and waved at Charlie to lean down.

He did, and I whispered the name of the song in his ear. I saw his eyes light up at the mention of something they had written forever ago and he nodded. I smiled and stepped back, sipping my third beer of the night.

"Alright, we're gonna play something that we wrote a long time ago, and I hope you guys remember it."

A million faces passing by,

All so dead, but so alive,

All in a rush to get in line...

A million faces, and they smile and say 'goodbye'...

They live and die inside their hives...

_ _

You were stuck in the shadows day and night,

with no release in sight,

Just another night, and you've survived...

From nine to five, you kept your master satisfied,

like white-powder slaves with no real lives...

_ _

But I've seen the sadness in your eyes!

The truth behind the lies!

And we can laugh, and we can cry!

'Cause we're so free, we share the stars that trace the sky/!

We're watching their world through heroin eyes!

Watching their world through heroin eyes...

Watching their world through heroin eyes...

I can see the crowd eating this up. Charlie's paws fly across the strings, stroking each with the passion of a thousand suns. Towards the front of the crowd, I can see James standing there, shaking slightly. I could tell he was remembering what had happened to him the first time he'd heard this song, the time that he overdosed on coke and got stuck in the hospital for three weeks. Right before his parents took him away from Charlie for more than four years.

I stepped up to him and wrapped my arm around his shoulder.

"You alright, man?" I asked softly.

"Yeah..." he said, wiping his eyes. "I'm just remembering what happened all those years ago."

I was right. That was going through his mind like a runaway freight train.

"Hey, you're here now, and that's what matters." He buried his face in my neck fur and I glanced up at Charlie, who was standing at the microphone, playing and watching his mate. I made pointed to James with my free paw and made a slashing gesture. The signal to cut it short.

Charlie finished the next verse and ripped out an earsplitting solo to end the song before setting his guitar down and disappearing backstage. He reappeared a moment later, carrying a small glass full of a dark purple liquid. I could see the sadness in his eyes as he looked over the two of us, me holding James while he sniffled into my fur.

As gently as I could, I detached James and he promptly latched onto his mate. Charlie handed him the drink, and I saw him throw back the contents of the glass in one gulp. Must have been some kind of liquor. Maybe even a syrup or something.

"Thanks, Ricky," said Charlie, leading his mate backstage. I nodded at him.

"What was that all about?" asked Alex. He didn't know Charlie and James the way I did.

I told him the story that James himself had told me a few months ago. That he had been at a recording studio with Charlie and the band and had overdosed on cocaine. That he had been forced away from Charlie for years on end because of his controlling, narrow-minded parents.

I saw a tear in his eyes at the conclusion of the story. I couldn't help but agree with how fucked up that situation had been. A few days after James had left, Charlie had called me and we'd hung out for several days back-to-back. It was depressing at that time, and still was, as a matter of fact. The mere mention of that period of time brings back some troubling emotions.

"How about you and I go grab a drink?" I said to drag him back to reality. "I don't think I'm up for any more autographs."

"Where? I don't know of any good places around here."

"It's a bit far, but you know Fender's pub, right?" I asked.

He nodded. It was difficult not to have heard of Fenders. Chaos Theory performed weekly gigs there for free drinks.

"Your car or mine?" he asked.

"What do you drive?"

***

A few minutes later, I was standing next to an old 1940's Willies army jeep. It was an olive green with the top folded down and a manual gearshift sticking up out of the floor. The most surprising thing about it for me was the pristine condition it was in. There wasn't a spot of rust anywhere on the green steel body. The seats were still in perfect condition, as if they had never been used. Everything shone with fresh wax and polish and seat cleaner. It was all old school, except for the brand new stereo head unit and the pairs of speakers mounted behind the seats and in the footwells.

It was a beautiful vehicle, and I kinda felt bad about how badly I was about to one up him, but that's how it works. We decide on cars after we see all of the options.

So, I led him over to where I had parked my car.

It was all by itself in the middle of a parking lot across the street. The beautiful blue and orange bodywork with black striping, the big number ninety seven on the side, the carbon fiber front lip and rear spoiler. It was an exact replica of my WPMS racing car, except that this one was actually street legal. Under the hood was the exact same engine and mechanical bits, down to the transmission and suspension. The outside was as close to the race car as I could have gotten it, except that the car had been raised about an inch and a half to accommodate the speed bumps in the city. The interior was pure Maserati, MC Stradale badges covering the dash, center console, and the headrests. The seven speed transmission was hooked to a pair of gleaming carbon fiber paddles behind the wheel, and all the trim pieces were carbon fiber,

Alex whistled, clearly impressed. The car was beautiful and powerful, just like I wanted.

I raised my eyebrow at him, asking him which car he wanted to take.

He laughed. "This one, all the way! I love this thing!"

I laughed as well and hit the unlock button on the fob. He slid into the leather bucket seat and buckled up the five point racing harnesses. I dropped into the driver's seat and slipped my feet into the footwell. I slotted the key into the ignition and turned it, keeping my foot on the brake.

The engine came to life with a hard snarl, the supercharged Italian V8 barking out of the unbaffled exhaust. The tach needle jumped when I blipped the gas, sending a throaty roar from the tailpipes.

Like I always did when it wasn't raining, I pressed down on the traction control button and held it until the dash indicator told me it had been disabled. I then put it in sport mode, which firmed up the suspension and sharpened the throttle response beyond what it already was.

I lowered the windows and blipped the gas again. The supercharger kicked in with a whine, shaking the car.

Alex was laughing in the passenger seat, loving how this car sounded. He couldn't wait for me to get it out on the road.

"Damn, is this what you drive every day?" he asked. I nodded. I did have another car, a fully kitted out two door Jeep Wrangler Rubicon, but that was just for when I needed to tow something or felt like going off road.

I slipped the dual-clutch seven speed into reverse and rolled backwards out of the parking space.

I pulled the paddle and shifted into first with a sharp crackle from the exhaust and pulled away.

***

Less than half an hour later, I slotted the car into a parking space at Fender's Pub and killed the engine. The motor let out one last growl before going silent as I tugged out the key and slipped the fob into my pocket.

"Damn, that thing is fucking amazing!" Alex said. His headfur was windswept from the ride and he had this look of amazement on his face.

"If you think that thing is quick, you'll have to try out the team race car. No supercharger, but it's faster."

"Really?"

I nodded. The WPMS car was a thing of tuning beauty. I'd worked with the team's tuning expert to develop a setup of camber, toe, damping, and all that other shit that would make the car corner as quickly as possible. We'd succeeded, and the result was an astounding 1.65 lateral G's at a hundred and twenty miles per hour. I never got enough of racing the thing.

He was still shaking his head as we walked towards the pub. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the 1970 LS6 Chevelle that belonged to James. That meant that they were here too. I couldn't help but smile as I reached out a paw to take a hold of the door handle, and gave it a swift tug.

I stepped inside with Alex, and I instantly noticed the two of them sitting at the bar. I went over to them and sat down with Alex on my other side.

"Hey, guys," I called over. Charlie looked over at me and wagged his tail a little.

"Somehow, I'm not all that surprised that you two came here," he said, ordering a new round of drinks from Mr. Fender. The older weasel pulled out a quartet of glasses and splashed some whiskey in them. He slid them down the bar with a flourish and we all intercepted our drinks.

"Thanks, Mr. Fender," I said, raising my glass to him.

"Don't mention it, Ricky. Who's your friend?"

"This is Alex. We've known each other since high school, just like me and Charlie here."

"Hard to believe that all four of you went to the same high school."

"I know, right?" interjected Charlie. "It's like that shithole churned out nothing but dropouts and celebrities..."

Behind him, I could see James sit up and grasp at his drink. He held it for a few moments, staring at the dark brown liquid inside the glass before raising it to his lips and throwing it back.

I imitated him, the fiery whiskey burning a trail down my throat. I heard Alex cough as he did the same thing and I had to hide a slight grin.

"James? You okay?" I asked him.

He nodded. I saw him wipe his eyes once before turning back to me.

"Thanks, Ricky."

"Any time, man." I reached over and rested my paw on his hand for a moment.

The next few hours passed with ease, the three furs bringing James back from his downer mood and generally cheering him up. With relish, he recounted the story of how he and Charlie had met, along with the bar fight that had ensued. With a smug look of pride on his face, he pointed out the dusty antler still nailed to the wall.

"And there's your proof."

"Damn, Charlie," I said, throwing back another shot of bourbon. "I wouldn't want to get on your bad side."

He laughed. "That was nothing. Did you ever hear about what I did to Johnny Echo?"

That perked my ears up. I hadn't heard about this one.

"What's that about?"

"He used to be a reporter for FMTV. Did you ever see that interview with him where James's parents came around, and his dad pulled a fucking gun on me?"

I nodded. It had been played countless times on the local news for weeks after it had happened. Twitter servers had been overloaded. FMTV had rushed to put together a formal apology. Chaos Theory's sales had gone through the roof.

"Well, the day after all that shit happened, me and the band had decided to go and start recording our first album together. Me, Cory, and Oz were inside setting up the guitars while Zack and the studio engineer had gone down to get the drums from the van. Not two minutes later, they ran back inside and slammed the door behind them, and they were freaking the fuck out. I pointed them out to Oz and Cory, and we went out there to check. Zack had a huge, beeding gash on his forehead, and they both looked exhausted. I asked them what was wrong, and they started screaming that it was that fucking douche bag, Echo. There were four of them outside by the van, apparently: The reporter, a bull, a stallion, and a wolf. They didn't have guns, but two of em' had bats and the other one had a knife."

Charlie paused for a moment to light up a cigarette that James had offered him. He took a few puffs before he continued.

"Then they started pounding on the door, right, and one of them, I'm not sure who, screams at us that they know we're in here and to come out and face them. I yelled back at him 'What the fuck do you want?' and I'm getting ready to do some ass kicking at that point. Then that asshole Johnny Echo starts getting smart with me. He starts telling me how he got fired and blacklisted right, and at one point, he asks me if I know what happened after our interview. I didn't know, and I was pretty fucked up, so I just blurted out, 'Did someone pull the knot out of your ass?'"

That brought on a round of laughter from the four of us.

"So we're all in there, right?" Charlie continues. "And we're laughing at him when he tells one of the other guys to kick open the door. So I wait until he's about to hit it to open it. The wolf was the one doing the kicking, and Oz just brings his foot up and sinks it right into his crotch before the fucker can even land. He whined like a little bitch at that and just fell right over. He dropped the bat and Oz got his paws on it. Then the other two thugs came in, and they look really pissed off."

A small crowd had gathered around us as Charlie told his story. Fender refreshed our drinks, and waved away the money that James tried to offer him. James shrugged his shoulders and returned the wad of bills to his pocket, before swiveling around in his stool to face his mate as the story continued.

"The bull charges me, right, and he's got this huge fucking combat knife in his hoof, hand, whatever the fucking thing's called. I dodge the first slash and back up a bit. He swings at me again and I duck. I almost trip on a folding chair that the producer had been sitting on and snatch it up and smack the knife away. My foot lands right in his gut, which gives me the opportunity to hit him upside the head with the chair. The guy's horn goes right through the chair and he tried to pull it off, but by then, I'm already on the fucker, punching him in the face and stomach. Then I grab the chair and throw his ass to the ground and kick his dumb ass in the face. Knocked his ass out, let me tell ya."

Voices rumbled throughout the crowd. Charlie kept going.

"Then Oz, who's been dealing with the stallion, dodges a swing from his bat and me and him box the guy in. Oz hits him in the chest with his bat, which cracks a few ribs, then hits him on the head and breaks the bat in half. He snatched up the other one and we both chase down that fucker Echo. He's running for his truck, right, and I flip the blade around so it's in the perfect throwing position. My dad, although an asshole and a fucking rapist, did manage to teach me something useful. So, I throw the knife and it sinks to the hilt in the back of his leg. He's already down, but I've had enough of this asshole trying to make us look like shit, so I go right up to him and knock his ass out cold. I called the paramedics so the fucker wouldn't die, but that's about it. The funny thing is that Oz's brother was the one that responded to it. We didn't tell him a few things, chief of which was me hitting Echo with the blade from twenty yards. But it was a good fight, and I definitely needed it. Besides, that bastard had it coming."

I'm just sitting there, stunned at the end of that story. I'd had to kick a few asses before, but never anything like that. Charlie nearly choked on his beer as he suddenly remembered a few more details.

"Oh, and before the cops showed up, Oz was a fucking genius. He went and snapped the discs that were in the security cameras."

I laughed. For a speed junkie, Oz sure had street smarts.

"That's not the end of it, but I'll tell you the rest later. I'm sure you saw Cory's burn scars, right?"

Me and Alex nodded. They kinda were hard to miss, though we made a point not to stare.

"Yeah, that happened after a tour promoter tried to have Oz's mansion burned down," said James. He yawned widely and I could tell he was getting tired.

Fortunately, Charlie noticed as well. "Come on you, let's get home." he muttered. The two of them stood up and me and Alex said our farewells. I watched them until they were out of sight, the door swinging shut as they disappeared out into the cool, hazy night.

After they were gone, I looked at Alex.

"Your place or mine?"

Once again, I'd like to extend my gratitude to MyOwnParasite for allowing me to use his

characters. All lyrics in this song are the properties of their respective writers. Lyrics to

American Saturday Night are copyrighted by Brad Paisley.

Don't worry, Charlie and James will make a few other appearances in the story, so you won't see

the last of them!