FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Every day was a new start for Reid Travis. The sunny, mild, California mornings greeted him with easterly sunrises and fair weather to which he could complete his morning routine, which now no longer consisted of alcohol consumption before noontime hours, but instead, calisthenics and protein shakes. Reid had not only quit drinking, he'd made many a drastic change to his diet, changes which left him slimmer, trimmer, and with energy he hadn't had since his early twenties.

If alcoholism had taught him one thing, it was to not take things like waking up refreshed for granted. Reid took nothing for granted in fact, but disease and recovery couldn't take all the credit. If anyone deserved praise, it was Aiden. Three months after his death, the heeler still missed him terribly, but he lived his life as he hoped the lab would have wanted him to.

And so, he swung his legs over the edge of his new mattress, stretched, and pulled on his shorts and running shoes, trundling shirtless down the stairs and out the front door, where he took off down the street at a brisk pace.

Something as simple as a morning run gave him resolve, cleared his mind in preparation for the day, and prepared him for the marathon he planned to run in the approaching months. Three months later, anyone who knew Reid Travis before knew someone else now. He was happier. He was healthier. But even with those facts to carry him through his days, he was still lonely.

Aiden was just one more person he thought about on a daily basis. It was hard not to, having one of the lab's internal organs keeping him alive.

West Burbank Boulevard's traffic criss-crossed one hundred yards in front of him - his turnaround point. One mile there, and one mile back. For reference, he'd researched the minimum two-mile run time for a late-thirties male in the Army, as Xavier's descriptions of the Marine Corps' physical fitness standards were far too daunting. Twenty-two minutes and twenty seconds later, he arrived home; a dismal two-mile run time and a failure by the Army's standards, but the heeler was making strides, both literally and figuratively.

Following a breakfast of scrambled egg whites, fresh fruit, and a protein shake recommended to him by Vance, he showered, dressed, and stopped in front of the mirror in his bedroom. Gone was the dog that once glowered at a graying muzzle from deep-set, icy blue eyes. Gone was the beer gut, gone were the abdominal pains, the headaches, and the cravings for the substance that nearly killed him. Instead, he saw exactly what he wanted to see for the first time in years.

With three deep breaths, he affirmed to his reflection a tired - but effective - mantra suggested to him by his therapist.

"Today...is the first day...of the rest of my life."

***

If there was one thing that hadn't changed, it was Reid's need for coffee in the morning. Need was a misnomer, as energy was something he was rarely short on, but he enjoyed the taste just the same. Frank stuck his head into the break room through the door.

"Reid, hey. You gotta see this!"

He followed the rat out through the bay and into the hot, mid-morning California sun where out on the track, Vance was taking his 1995 Toyota Supra for a doozy of a test drive. Reid just chuckled and folded his arms, and waited for the inevitable pop that was the blowout of a tire.

Vance Gillis could drive in any direction - forward, backward, side to side, in circles, and almost never in the same direction in which the wheels were turned. Opaque, white smoke churned out of squealing tires as he laid donut-shaped tracks all over the tarmac and conquered every corner with lateral finesse.

Reid noticed that the car he thought was Vance's turned out to be someone else's when the pit bull reached the tarmac just behind the bays, slinging the car to a stuntman's stop and sending white smoke flying in their direction. He was just about to chew the dog's ass for driving a customer's car that way when Vance stepped out and tossed the keys to an unfamiliar cougar standing nearby. The cattle dog hadn't even noticed him.

"That's how you drive a Supra." The pit bull said coolly on his way into the bays, popping his neck and straightening the collar of his embroidered work shirt, rumpled by the harness. "Park it around front, meet me back in here in ten."

Reid caught up to the pit bull and punched him in the arm.

"Who's that?"

"New hire. Paul just brought him in, first day. He's a douchebag."

Reid frowned, "And he didn't talk to any of us first? That's not like Paul."

"Yeah, I know." Vance turned his head towards the door and squinted into the sunlight. "I think he's the son of a family friend."

"Mother's cousin's sister's fiancée's brother?" Reid joked.

"Something like that."

"Think he's going to work out?"

"Doubt it. Kid thinks he knows everything because he was a mechanic in the Army. Up until they kicked him out, that is. Don't know what for, Paul didn't say. But we're going to have to break him like a wild horse, I think."

"What do you mean 'we'?" Reid chuckled, walking back towards the front abreast with the pit bull.

"Oh, come on, man, you're going to stick me with this churl?"

"Of course! You're our resident 'ass man' now, so it's your job to train the new hire and report any and all findings to me, whereupon I will forward the information to Paul."

Vance shot him a reproving look.

"We are way too small of an operation to have a chain of command."

Vance, or 'Ass Man', as he had been affectionately dubbed by his peers, had risen to the rank of assistant manager through a lengthy - and somewhat hesitant - brainstorming session between Paul and Reid. The pit bull had a less than stellar reputation for customer service and interpersonal relationships in general, but without Billy around, the last few months had seen a more mature side of the canine, something that was surprising to no one. Neither Paul nor Reid wished to employ a newcomer in a ranking position, so up the ladder it was with Vance.

"Maybe so, but you're still a twenty-something like him. Maybe you'll understand him better than I will." Reid winked.

"I'm turning thirty in a week." He protested.

"Well don't get in too big a hurry. Pretty soon your hair's going to start thinning out like mine."

Reid laughed, and the pit bull grinned queasily, compulsively running a hand back through his thick, dark-brown hair, gelled back with Brylcreem.

They pushed their way through the doors leading into the lobby just in time to catch Paul lumbering out of his office looking none too pleased. He was rarely angry, but when he was, people stepped aside.

"Of all the dumb shit..."

"Paul?"

"Reid. I gotta go downtown. Hector got his dumb ass arrested last night."

"What? What for?"

"Street racing. What else, right? I need you to come with me, we need to get his car out of the impound lot. Vance, keep an eye on things."

"Got it."

***

Reid watched downtown Los Angeles fly past him in the passenger seat of Paul's truck. He was deep in thought, something the old bear never failed to notice. The cattle dog had learned to open up more since the transplant, something he credited to weekly sessions with his therapist, Dr. Soto. Paul no longer had to buy his thoughts for a penny; he shared them for free.

"Hey, you remember that thing we said we were going to do last year?"

"What thing?"

"Host a racing event. You know, use the track for something other than testing? I bet we could get sponsors, hell, I bet we could even get the LAPD to sponsor us if we said we were doing it to help crack down on street racing."

"I don't think anyone would show up if they did." Paul chuckled.

"You may be right." Reid chimed, joining in, "I just think that with all the street racing and automobile-related fatalities they have here, it might be a welcome opportunity to get racers off the streets and I'm sure we could make a little money doing it."

"I knew there was an ulterior motive!"

"Hey, I'm a businessman! I learned from the best." Reid smirked and punched Paul in the shoulder. He continued after a few moments of silence.

"Besides, it hits home for me." He patted his fist over his heart, "Between Jeff and Aiden, you couldn't pay me enough money to do more than ten over on the streets now."

"That's good. You know, I guess I can take a look at our finances and see what we can do. We need to get the tree fixed, and turn five has a pothole I've been meaning to get out there and fill."

"There's a lot of potholes out there. Why don't you just hire someone to come out and do it?" Reid muttered.

"You sound like my wife." Paul laughed. "Reid, I come from a time when if something was broken, you got out there and fixed it, because back then, we knew how."

"Says the guy who called IT support because he couldn't figure out how to get rid of the picture of Frank's ass they set as your desktop background."

"I could have gone all day without being reminded of that!"

"Paul, you're pushing seventy and you've got a bad knee. You don't need to be out there in the heat fixing potholes. I'll have that new guy do it, whoever he is."

"Oh, that's John."

Reid glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, brow cocked in skepticism.

"Well whoever 'John' is, you don't sound too excited about him."

"I'm doing a favor for a friend. His kid's got some problems. Tried to go into the Army, but they kicked him out. Allegations of misconduct. I don't know exactly what happened, but at least he passed the drug screening." Paul shrugged, the last sentence carrying with it the kind of audacious hope that accompanies unacknowledged futility.

"Do you think you're taking on any unnecessary risk?"

"No more than I took on when you came around." Paul said quietly. Reid had to give him that. He wouldn't have passed a drug test in 1999.

"I've known his Dad for a long time. I'm willing to give the kid a fair shake, all I'll ask is the same of you guys."

"All right."

"We need the help, you know. We're running on a skeleton crew, and Hector's going to lose his driver's license over this."

"Vance already doesn't like him."

"Well, you know Vance; he's lacking in the people skills department. Why do you think he's gone through so many girls in the past few years?"

"What, you mean it wasn't them?" They laughed.

***

"What I'm trying to tell you is that I _needed_that second turbo for my car because...listen."

Vance was holding his phone with one hand and shoveling grilled chicken and spring mix into his muzzle with the other. With everything he had on his plate that day, there wasn't much room on it for his lunch.

"Listen, product familiarity is crucial to my ability to be able to sell things like this!" He took another bite, "No, it's _not_bullshit, Blaine! I told you, I have to work with customers as well as cars now, I don't like it, but that's the way it is!" He retorted, allowing himself a bite and to wash it down while Blaine continued with her lecture on money management.

"It's a Supra! They appreciate, if I choose to sell it, that second turbo is going to add so much value to it, I'll actually make money. Look, I'm not having this conversation, okay? I've been putting in a lot of hours lately; I figured I deserved a chance to treat myself. Bottom line is I can afford it, so what's the big deal?"

A plastic fork clattered to the tabletop and his forehead fell into his palm. Blaine's words were now little more than a tinny, earsplitting whine desperate to cross the distance Vance had put between the phone speaker and his ear. Like rewinding a cassette tape.

"Look, I'm having a bad day, all right? I have to train this..." He looked around, ensuring that he was alone in the room, "this fucking douche-bag...can you just let this one go? Blaine...Blaine..."

Click.

Lips pursed, he punched the end call button and tossed the phone onto the table. He was in for it that night, but the make-up sex made up for their near daily arguments. Round and round they went, to the point that Vance had lost his appetite - he wondered if that was what kept him in so good of shape.

He tossed what was left of his lunch into the trash can on his way out the door and hung a right into the bays, the doors swinging open like those of a saloon and clapping shut behind him. John looked up quizzically to see Vance approaching him looking none too pleased.

"The fuck do you think you're doing?" The pit bull snapped with his face twisted into an ugly scowl.

"Finishing the install on these heads?"

"What did I tell you?"

John looked baffled.

"I told you not to work on the car without me!"

"I know what I'm doing!" The cougar spat, offended.

"Yeah?" Vance snatched the torque wrench out of the cat's hand, waving it at him. "How many pound-feet of torque did you apply to those bolts?"

"Sixty, just like it says in the manual."

"Uh-huh, and did you go in the correct sequence?"

"Sequence?"

"The sequence, John! You move in a sequence!" Vance pointed exaggeratedly to the bolts in the correct order they were supposed to have been fastened down in, "You do that to ensure that you get a good seal against the block."

"Okay, well, I'll just back 'em out and do it again." John reached for the wrench. Vance pulled it back out of his reach.

"Explain to me what a torque-to-yield bolt is." He demanded.

"What?"

"Explain to me what a torque-to-yield bolt is!"

"Well, it's uh, it's-"

"It's a bolt designed to stretch and spring back at the correct torque value to create a precise fit and proper seal against the gasket. Once it's already been stretched, it can't be re-used; otherwise it won't form a tight enough seal."

"Okay, well if it's such a problem, what can I do to fix it?"

"You can start by using the right wrench." Vance chaffed, digging in the drawer of a nearby tool chest and producing a wrench nearly identical to the one he'd just taken from the cougar, but larger.

"Inch pounds." He said, holding up the previous tool, "Foot pounds." He held up the bigger one. Swapping out the socket, he handed it back to the chided feline and instructed him to loosen the bolts. Predictably, they came loose with little more than a hearty tug.

"Does that feel like sixty pound-feet of torque to you?"

John just shook his head and stared the pit bull dead in the eye, his hackles raised, his teeth gritted behind a tight-lipped frown.

"You know why? Because sixty inch-pounds of torque is only five pound-feet! FIVE!" Vance held out his hand, his fingers splayed wide, as though the big cat needed a visual reference to understand the concept of five. Chris and Frank turned to look, perturbed by the sudden outburst.

"You're a fucking dick, dude."

"And you seem to have a problem with following simple instructions! I told you not to touch the car, how hard is that? I hate to be a dick, but if you fuck something up because you don't know what you're doing, then I have to answer for it! My ass is on the line here!"

"I'm not the kind of guy you can talk to like that." John said coolly, taking a step closer to the pit bull, his fingers flexing, claws extended. Vance narrowed his eyes.

"Kid, I don't know who you think you are, but you'd better learn some respect, and quick. Otherwise, you and I are going to have a problem."

"Then let's have a problem!" The cougar moved forward until the end of his short muzzle was no more than an inch away from Vance, who swelled with enmity, the fingers of his left hand curling tighter around the wrench, those of his right balling into a tight fist.

"Yo, Vance!"

The first round was abruptly stopped by Reid's return, both parties turning to see him entering the bay. Hector was in tow, ears low, tail tucked, and looking downright ashamed of himself, a product of the verbal reprimanding he'd received from the old bear on the return trip.

"Paul wants to see us out front. You busy?"

"Nah." Vance shook his head, and pointed at the glowering cougar with the wrench, "You, stay off the car until I get back." He turned, and followed Reid out the doors into the lobby, but they did not stop at the office where Paul normally sat pecking away at his keyboard, squinting at his computer screen over his reading glasses. Instead, they walked out into the lobby waiting area and took a seat on the big, overstuffed leather chairs.

"What's up, man?"

Vance played dumb.

"Look, I've known you for years. I know when something's up. You've been on edge lately, and obviously this new guy is really pushing your buttons."

"Blaine's pissed off at me about the turbo."

"Oh, shit." Reid laughed, relaxing into the seat, "What else is new? You can't buy an air freshener for that thing without her jumping up your ass."

"Yeah, I know." Vance rolled his eyes, "Normally, I wouldn't put up with it. You know me. I'd kick her to the curb and go find another girl. Too easy, right?"

"Well, if you're not happy anymore-"

"That's just the thing! I am happy! Sure, she gets on me about spending money on things, but she's right. I shouldn't be dropping a few grand on a turbo I don't need. I should be saving, and contributing to my 401k, and looking to buy a bigger house, et cetera. This is the first girl I've been with that I really feel like I want to be with her...y'know...forever."

"It sounds like she's really pushing you to succeed."

"I'm gonna be thirty years old next week. I feel like I'm behind the curve, like I ought to be further along in life than I am now. But she motivates me. More so than anyone else has in a long, long time."

"So what's stressing you out? Besides the new guy, that is."

Vance stared down at his reflection in the terrazzo floor, his right leg bouncing on the ball of his foot, his boot heel tapping audibly.

"I want to ask her to marry me."

"You're serious?" Reid's eyes lit up, "That's a big step, bro."

"I know, and I am serious. I've already got the ring and everything."

"Dude, that's awesome. When are you going to pop the question?"

"I don't know man; I gotta wait until the time is right. I'm nervous, though!"

"That's normal, trust me. Every guy gets nervous right before he asks a girl to marry him. I did, I proposed to my ex-wife back in the late nineties, and I thought I was going to faint before I could even get the words out." Reid feigned fainting in the chair and they laughed.

"Look, Vance, if you need any help with the proposal or just with anything, let me know, okay? I want to make sure you're doing all right, we need you in good shape around here, huh?"

Vance nodded, and they stood to head back to work.

"Hey, take it a little easier on that new guy. I know he's an idiot, but worst case scenario we're looking at him being here for a while. I don't want things to be awkward, y'know?"

"I hear you. I lost my cool back there, but I wasn't being a jerk for no reason. I told him not to touch the car, and he starts fucking with it anyway. It's a damn good thing he mistook the inch for the foot, otherwise we'd have had to stick all new bolts in that one."

"How do you mistake one for the other?"

"Some people are stupid, Reid. Some people are just plain stupid."

Meanwhile, back in the bays, John was determined to prove himself to the others. After all, he couldn't just stand around doing nothing with a wrench in his hand. Noting the correct torque value and sequence of the bolts in the installastion manual, the cougar slipped the socket onto the first bolt and began to crank on it.

The wrench clicked, and he paused, unsure of what it was. So he continued. Click. There it was again.

"The click means to stop." A voice behind him said, making him jump. The socket slid off the bolt head and the wrench slipped, causing the cougar to bang his knuckles on the exhaust manifold. Clutching his smarting hand, he spun around to face Vance, standing there with his hands casually shoved into his jean pockets, a smug grin plastered across his face.

"And that's why they call us knuckle busters."

John said nothing, but simply stared at the pit bull, rubbing his bruised knuckles and frowning. Vance just smirked, which almost seemed to make the cougar angrier.

"What? You gonna say something or just stand there and look at me like you want to rip my guts out?"

Before the cougar could reply, Reid was poking his head through the bay door.

"Hey John, I need you to come fill out some paperwork, can I borrow you for a sec?"

He brandished the wrench in reply and cast a glance back towards the car.

"Um. I'm a little busy right now; can I finish this up first?"

Reid jerked a thumb over his shoulder, beckoning the cat. Vance placed a condescending hand on John's shoulder and took the wrench from his hand, guiding him away from the vehicle and waggling a sage finger.

"It's one thing not to listen to me. To disobey him is another." Vance gave him a pat on the back and a gentle shove in the direction of Reid, who chuckled and shook his head, turning and exiting the bays with the cougar reluctantly following.

Vance allowed himself the eye roll he'd been containing since he'd re-entered to see the cougar doing exactly what he'd told him not to do. If he still smoked, he would be craving a cigarette at that moment; instead, he picked up the wrench and resumed working on the heads, bolting them down to finish sealing the engine.

"Hector!" He called.

"Yo!"

"What happened out there?"

"It was bullshit, man! I think we got set up. We never even had time to react, it was just like bam and they were on us! I tried to get out of there but I got caged in."

"That sucks bro."

"I know, right? I'm going to lose my license over this, man. But the good thing is Reid and Paul are talking about organizing a racing event right here at Doghouse! Paul just told me about it on the way over here."

Vance perked up. Suddenly, the second turbo didn't seem like such a bad idea after all.

"Really?"

"Yeah, man. Paul says it'll be a good way to turn some profits during the slow season."

"I bet so..."

***

Reid found the process of setting up a new employee was poignantly reminiscent of Kelvin's first day at the shop, and to make matters worse, John's repellent personality was making him long for the Shiba Inu's company.

He wished he'd done things different.

"All right, try your login, see if it works."

John keyed in his name and password, the terminal bringing up the point of sale screen.

"Okay, good. So it's pretty simple, really. When you ring someone out for a part, or a service, or whatever, you just scan it with this gun here, it'll automatically calculate the tax and everything. Payment options are down here, you click debit, or credit, or cash, or however they want to pay. For cash, just punch in the amount they give you, it'll tell you the change. Pretty self-explanatory."

"Got it. So how long have you been here?"

"Seventeen years."

"Wow. What about Vance?"

"Vance? Um, I think he's been here for about eight or nine years now."

"I guess there's not much chance of him leaving anytime soon, then." John huffed. Reid shifted his eyes, but did not turn to look at the cat.

"Probably not, no..."

"That dude's a jerk. So I got the wrenches mixed up, big deal. At least it wasn't the other way around, right? Anyway. You seem like an all right dude, though. We should grab some beers one of these days." John offered, an innocent enough suggestion coming from an ignorant party.

"Ah, I don't drink."

What he received in response was the most incredulous, borderline disgusted look he'd been given in a long time.

"You don't drink? Seriously? Pfft. My Granddaddy always told me: 'never trust a motherfucker who doesn't drink, cuss, or smoke'."

Reid's patience was running thin, like his hair, but before he could lose his grip on his tongue, Paul pulled into his usual parking spot in front of the shop. He'd dropped off Hector with Reid and made a trip to the hardware store, where he purchased tools and supplies needed to patch the pothole in turn five. The cattle dog smirked to himself.

"Come with me."

The two walked outside to meet Paul, who was lowering the tailgate on his truck.

"Which one's your car, the Supra, right? Black one?"

"Yeah?"

"Pop the trunk."

John opened the trunk and watched in confusion as Reid unloaded the bags of pothole patching compound and the tamp tool from Paul's truck, dumping them haphazardly into the trunk of the Toyota. He shut the lid and turned to the cougar, jerking his head in the direction of the track.

"Pull around back; take the strip all the way down to the turnaround. There's a nasty pothole at turn five on the way back, you can practically see the bastard from space. Patch it up with that, report back to me when you're done."

Reid spun on his heel and walked away smugly, throwing the front door open and grinning to himself as he disappeared inside. John was hating life right now, and that was good enough for him.

"I guess I hired someone to do it after all." Paul chuckled, to which the cattle dog winked before heading into the break room to get some lunch - his medication had to be taken with food. Full and sated, he tipped the pill caddy out into his palm - Valium was markedly absent, replaced by nine others. He swallowed them in one shot and washed them down with a gulp of water.

When Reid entered the shop, Vance was up to his waist in the engine bay, starting on the second head. The cattle dog tapped the pit bull on the back and pointed with a grin out at the track. Vance straightened up and squinted out the doors towards the track, where in the distance John was busying himself with the pothole filling compound. He laughed and shook his head.

"This is really happening, isn't it?"

"I thought it might brighten up your day to see him put in a little manual labor."

"Well, yeah, but I meant the racing. Are we doing it?"

"We're going to give it a shot. You know, I haven't legitimately raced in years, but I think I could be undefeated in my car."

"Yeah, right up until it goes up against my twin-turbo!" Vance nudged him, and they laughed, watching the sight of the cougar out on the track, sweating, cursing, and earning his paycheck with his bare hands and strong back.

"I almost feel bad." Reid shrugged, "Almost. That ought to keep him busy for a little while, now let's get some real work done."

"Amen to that." Vance leaned back into the engine compartment, and the cattle dog took off for another car two lanes over - a 1969 Chevy Chevelle with a custom metallic, surf green paint job. Something about the car looked familiar - not the paint, God, what an ugly color - but he couldn't put his finger on it. It perturbed him. But as with most things, he shrugged off the details and cut to the chase.

Someone out there was paying for a sub ten-second car, and Reid was going to deliver.