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3.

Max's strapped 9mm pistol remained stashed firmly and securely on his person.

He kept the gun in a black leather belt-buckle harness which he wore beneath the backside of his jacket, fastened tightly against his spine, near the base of his tail. The piece held its ground, awaiting its chance to be used, to be discharged, to be fired at will. He hoped the weapon didn't bulge too noticeably from his back-side. Why even have the weapon in possession to begin with? Safety first, for fuck's sake. Society nowadays had possessed a typical common practice of murdering off lesser-organized citizens to make room for the far more extraordinary ones. Max simply didn't wish to be christened into the former category.

Taking a fresh sip of piss-N-vinegar from his chipped terra-cotta mug, Max checked his cell-phone yet again for the current time.

Twelve forty-one in the morning. Fucking perfect.

_ _ The informant was over two hours late... that goddamned prick. The plan was to meet up at half-past ten on the dot. Max arrived half an hour early just in case, well before the girls began their ritualistic dancing and the ravers began to stink with the debilitating scents of whiskey, ganja smoke and sloppy reproduction, hankering above the night-owl-laden crowd like a massive funnel cloud of hallucinogens preparing to shed down a tremendous rainstorm, an onslaught of intense carnal lust and divine suffocating sin. Max believed in keeping a steadfast focus on time, which had nearly run short for Mr. Big Money.

And still Max held onto his patience, now worn down so very thin.

Anytime during the exchange, he'd be ready to take back the trade earnings by brute force. Max couldn't wait to get rid of the dirty balloon-concealed perpetrator responsible for all that went wrong with American western civilization; anyone who lived in the Watts neighborhood during the Reagan administration.

He wasn't about to just hand over a whole half-pound of hard fluid scag fresh from the deserts of Afghanistan to some punk-ass obscure stranger, especially not when the substance itself was as damn potent as it was. Max planned instead to kill off the measly druggie-informant's asshole boss, stash the fucking body, re-sell the shit and make haste out of this forlorn pit of vice-fueled malevolence with money in hand.

Maxwell wanted out at least before any bouncers came sniffing around, armed to the teeth with Ruger SR22s, Uzis, AK-47s and itchy trigger fingers. Max figured this was probably a dick move, but he'd been known to incorporate the thought process of a sheer interminable fuck-wad at the best of times in order to serve his own personal business agenda satisfactorily. If that meant 'accidentally' killing a poor helpless druggie, then so be it. Besides, what was one less pusher to a universe already bursting at the seams with despicable unworthy shitheads and a criminal-laden, degrading society that had long since gone so horribly and deliriously wrong by all accounts? What's one less dead junkie's boss to the massive ensemble of other like-minded kamikaze drug barons throughout the world entire? Fuck them - they've always had this coming.

On Max's right side sat a grizzled anthropomorphic gentlefur, either a skunk or a badger. His tail was docked, his ears clipped. The lighting inside the warehouse made it close to impossible to tell for sure just what species he was, plus having only one good eye didn't help make matters any easier. The old anthro took numerous sips from his highball glass; whiskey, straight. While glancing up and down the shoddy bar looking for an equally despondent soul to connect with, the old crony looked like he had another few years of life left before he'd simply expire due to liver cirrhosis.

Good luck finding that connection, buddy.

Max stared at the old-timer. Glossy eyes, droopy lids, ravaged matted fur; a disgusting presence. If anyone were to be found in this slummy trash compactor of an abandoned lumber warehouse, they'd admit to either a night of intense dancing, glow stick twirling, heavy drugs or a mutual sex companion wooing them over hardcore. Nobody came to this wild-west menagerie nestled deep within Oregon's forsaken woods for mere casual friendship. Nobody except for this tattered old bum who easily could have been Max's long-lost grandfather, save for the total lack of any direct visible resemblance.

To seek a suitable companion in this hellish nightmare to the introverts yielded the same results as an attempt to find a non-ridiculed homosexual pansy who attended the Westboro Baptist Church on a regular basis. In other words - zero chance. If only this grandfather of three (long since abandoned) could realize such earnest truth in the established order of things.

If only, Max thought, then he'd be retired and living extremely pretty. No need to seek attention from others in a real jive-dump like this one. God bless you, old timer. God's blessing shall shine upon you, well after we're all dead and buried - jeez, I hope this fucking prick shows up soon.

Live and let learn; the one piece of advice Max diligently held sway from his father alongside the multitude of verbal abuse and sexual molestation from yesteryear. At least Daddy had some significant advice to leave behind for his beloved son.