The Opening

On May 25^th, 2007, Vincent DeLasario stood in the lobby of the gallery, his tuxedo devoid of even a single wrinkle, shaking the hand of every visitor to the opening of his fiancée’s latest art exhibit. The photographs that hung on the wall depicted various sexual situations but in such a way that they had been rendered almost abstract, all of them either in shadow or extreme close-ups, reducing (or expanding?) their subjects into vast landscapes of pores and naked flesh. Vincent was nervous for his fiancée. He wondered what the reviews would be like. He hoped the opening went well. 

It seemed like a pretty good crowd tonight. His fiancée, Doriᛋᛋ Dae (six months earlier, for some mysterious reason, she had insisted on placing the Nazi SS symbol at the end of her pseudonymous forename), would be proud. She couldn’t stand here beside him and greet the visitors because she was in the back room. In fact, she was part of one of the exhibits. Vincent wondered how drastically the atmosphere in the gallery would change when the true nature of the show became clear. It would be interesting to see the drama unfold.

Whether or not the evening was a disaster was irrelevant; either way, it would be Art.

***

Ms. Doriᛋᛋ Dae lay on a flat white table that somewhat resembled a gynecological chair but wasn’t. She was naked, and her feet lay in stirrups. Her body was separated from the rest of the gallery by a form-fitting partition, a thin wall that covered her entire naked body except for a single small hole between her legs. She closed her eyes and sighed for the hundredth time this evening, wondering why she’d ever thought of all this nonsense. She wondered if the National Endowment for the Arts would ask for their grant money back. Hell, she hoped so. That would just conjure up even more controversy. Doriᛋᛋ liked causing trouble.

But was it worth it? 

Would she be able to go through with it?

Jesus, Doriᛋᛋ, get a grip, she thought, get a grip. It’s just Art.

But it was more than just Art. It was a cutting-edge sociological/psychological experiment. Half the fun of Art was gauging the taboos and mores of society. Why were some behaviors acceptable and others not? Who made the rules? And why?

God, she hoped she didn’t lose her nerve halfway through.

No, no, don’t even think that way, Doriᛋᛋ. Just close your eyes and think of England. Or the Guggenheim. Whatever.

She wondered how Vince was holding up outside. 

Then she heard the door open on the other side of the partition.

The first visitor of the evening….

***

Mr. Armand Wycliffe was 81 years old. He walked into the backroom alone. He had to. The sign outside said explicitly that the artist wished for only one person at a time to view this particular exhibit. Armand’s wife was waiting outside, but she wouldn’t go in. The sign said no women were allowed inside. Mrs. Wycliffe was a little annoyed by this, but Armand patted the back of her liver spotted hand and said, “Oh, don’t fret, my dear, it’s some crazy art thing. You know….”

And so he entered the room, expecting to spend only a few seconds inside.

The room was devoid of any distinguishing features except for an odd-shaped wall on the south side of the small chamber. In this wall, at waist level, was a small hole. Above the hole, at eye level, was a sign that read:

Please observe the hole below. The artist, Doriᛋᛋ Dae, is lying naked on a table on the opposite side of this hole. Ms. Dae invites you to slip your erect penis inside the hole; i.e., Ms. Dae invites you to fuck her. Before you do so, however, please remove the condom from the dispenser to your right. When you’re done, you may place the used condom in the metal waste basket to the left of the dispenser. Thank you. Please do not take overly long, as there are no doubt other art lovers waiting behind you. Paper towels are available near the entrance.

Armand stroked his pointed silver beard. He glanced up at each corner of the room. This had to be some sort of joke. Were there cameras filming his every move? Would his actions be seen by the other visitors outside? By his wife?

Armand approached the hole. He pulled his gloves out of his pocket (it was a cold night outside) and slipped one on his right hand. Curious, he slid his index finger inside the inviting hole. He could hear the gasp of a female voice on the other side of the partition, the shifting of legs against the thin wall. Yes, it certainly felt real. But… no, it had to be a scam… somebody was putting him on….

He could feel his penis hardening inside his pants. How long would it take? Not long at all if he was fast… his wife needn’t know… it wasn’t all that disgusting… after all, the artist wanted him to do it… this was an art gallery, not a brothel… it wasn’t illegal in any way….

He pulled his finger out and was just about to unbuckle his pants when he thought, No, it has to be some sort of candid camera put-on. I’m not going to end up on a damn video installation somewhere. Sweat beads now poured down his forehead. Fuck these people, he thought. Fuck Art!

He stuffed the glove back into his pocket and escaped that little chamber. He grabbed his wife’s elbow and suggested they leave. He wasn’t feeling so good anymore….

***

Doriᛋᛋ thought, Whew. Well, maybe there was nothing to worry about. Maybe no one would have the nerve. That would be an interesting commentary all on its own. Buncha chickenshits. What was wrong with these people? 

Now she started getting disappointed. They were going to ruin the fantasy.

Well, whatever. Let the chips fall where they may.

She stiffened as she heard the door open again. She heard the soft clip of low leather boot heels approaching the partition….

***

Antonio Nila entered the small chamber. He saw some old white dude dart out of there lookin’ like he was going to throw up so he figured there might be something interesting in here. He just came by because his Art teacher at the University told the class they’d get extra credit if they dropped in, looked at some of the photographs, then wrote a 1 to 1 ½ page essay about what they saw there. He’d already checked out all the blurry photographs outside and figured he’d leave in a few minutes. There wasn’t much happening here. Besides, he couldn’t stand those little finger sandwiches and the cheese cubes. He wanted some real food. 

But this cozy little chamber piqued his curiosity, so he figured, Why not?

He approached the sign and read it. He glanced at the condom dispenser and the trash can. The trash can was shiny and made of smooth metal. It was so shiny, in fact, he could see his reflection in its surface. He remembered the guilty look on the old man’s face and laughed. What a cool art exhibit. This was more like it.

The trash can was cylindrical and rounded at the top, the kind that always reminded him of R2-D2. He bent over, pushed the tiny metal door on the trash can inward, then glanced inside. Nope, it was empty. Had the old man gotten scared, or had he simply not used a condom at all? Fuck, who was gonna stop Antonio from just saying, Screw the condom?

But then, he didn’t want to catch something. Who knew where this chick had been? He wasn’t even sure it was the artist herself, but who cared? Did she just hire some prostitute to lay back there? Yeah, that was probably it. What did it matter? His cock was getting real hard now. A pussy’s a pussy, after all. And hell, his girlfriend wasn’t here with him, and it wasn’t exactly cheating, so….

He pulled the condom package out of the dispenser, tore open the package, slipped the rubber over his erect cock, pressed his waist up against the wall, then slid his cock inside the hole. It was nice and warm inside. Oh, it was wet. He heard a woman gasp on the other side. He heard the creak of a wheeled table as she pressed her legs against the partition. Oh, you little bitch, he thought as he pressed his palms up against the wall and started thrusting fast and hard. I hope it is the artist… fuckin’ whore better put out after gettin’ all that government money… fuck, yeah… ‘bout time these high-and-mighty bitches started giving back… stopped acting like they own the whole fuckin’ roost… I can’t get any of my landscape photographs accepted by major galleries ‘cause I’m Latino, ‘cause I’m a man… the Art Establishment has it out for me and my kind… but now I’m gettin’ some wet hapa pussy so everything’s okay… just for a little while…. “Oh, yeah, that’s it,” he whispered into the wall, “oh, you fucking whore, I love it, you’re so tight, you love it, don’t you, you love it, you fuckin’ little bitch, you love Antonio’s hard cock, don’t you, yes, oh, yes you do, yeah, yeah, uhhhhhhh….”

Ten more quick thrusts… he ejaculated, moaning with his face pressed up against the stucco wall as he did so, and then he was done. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, caressed the wall for a few seconds, withdrew, pulled off the condom, tossed it in the trash can, zipped up, then turned and left the room. 

He decided to stay in the gallery for a while and have some more cheese cubes. Maybe if he waited about twenty minutes, he could have another go at it.

***

Doriᛋᛋ tried to catch her breath. It was strange… as good as her fantasy, but a hell of a lot weirder. So odd not to know who was fucking you. She’d invited a lot of her friends and family and former art professors to the gallery, after all. What if that first guy had been one of them? When she came up with the idea, that was the first rule she laid down for herself. Nobody was excluded from the running. Anybody with a cock was eligible. That was part of the anonymous fun of it all. How would her 65-year-old happily married photography professor react? Would he do it? If so, would it be for himself… or for Art’s sake? How would her psychiatrist react? The Art critic for the L.A. Times? Her stepbrother? Her physician? Her ex-boyfriend? Her assistant? What about all the people she hated? The slimeballs who’d been trying to get into her pants for years? The people she found repulsive and disgusting? Some of them were there, weren’t they? What happened when people like that entered the room? What happened, indeed?

It would be interesting to find out. It wouldn’t be a waste. Her reactions would all go into the book. D.A.P. already said they’d publish it. Robert Hughes promised her he’d give her a good quote. He said he might even show up. If so, she thought, it better be a hell of a quote.

Vince popped his head in through the curtain to her right. “You okay?” he whispered.

Her face was still a little flushed from the last encounter. “I think so,” she said.

He entered the room, stood beside her, squeezed her hand. “Any takers?”

“Just one.”

“Already? It might be a long evening then.”

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m just out there shaking everybody’s hand,” Vince said. “You’ve got the hard part.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. What I mean is… we talked about what this might be like, but it’s kind of different when it’s actually happening. Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”

“After doing all this? Of course not, honey. It was your idea. And it’s a good one. Let’s see it through till the end. You should always finish what you start.”

Doriᛋᛋ smiled. “You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve you. I love you, Vince.”

“I love you too.” He caressed the back of her smooth hand.

Doriᛋᛋ drew in some air. Her eyes bulged slightly. She hadn’t been expecting it. God, this was a big one. Jesus Christ….

She gripped Vince’s hand. “Oh, fuck,” she groaned. “Oh, Christ….”

Vince continued to hold her hand throughout. 

Tight, tighter, tighter….

“Let me see your cock,” she whispered.

She didn’t have to ask twice. Vince unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants to the floor, revealing the fully formed erection that had been straining to be released since her moans began.  Doriᛋᛋ let go of his hand and gripped his cock just as tightly. She stroked it fast as the stranger on the other side of the wall pounded and pounded and pounded with what must have been a nine-inch-cock. With each violent thrust, Doriᛋᛋ continued massaging that tender spot just below the head of Vince’s penis where his foreskin was now stretched taught with eagerness. 

“Oh, Doriᛋᛋ,” he whispered, “I love you,” his semen spurting all over the spotless tiled floor. Love comes in spurts, Doriᛋᛋ thought, suddenly remembering the lyrics from an old Richard Hell song. 

“Ohhhhhh, uhhh, I love you too,” the artist whispered as her spine tingled with the heady rush of an oncoming orgasm, as she felt the sudden telltale jerking spasms of the anonymous cock deep inside her, hot semen pooling into a cold latex tip. 

The anonymous art lover withdrew, just like the previous one, and wandered away, leaving room for the next. 

Vince kneeled beside Doriᛋᛋ, held her hand, and said, “Oh God, I love you. I love your talent, I love your mind, you’re the only woman for me. Forever and ever.” 

“Forever and ever,” she said, never feeling more in love with him than now. They locked eyes, seeing each other again for the first time. Then he rose. He stuffed his slick, softening cock inside his underwear, zipped up again. 

“I better wash my hands before I go out there and continue the meet and greet,” he said.

“Meanwhile, I’ll do my own meet and greet back here,” she said. “Get back to work.”

“Back to work,” he whispered, smiling sweetly. He squeezed her hand one more time, gazing at her with pure love, then left the room.

A second after he passed through the mauve curtain, she felt another cock inside her.

***

After about two hours, around nine o’clock, Vincent took to the stage. He approached the microphone. A curious, indefinable, excited atmosphere had descended upon the gallery. The men seemed happy and smiling, flushed with joy, laughing and joking and getting more and more drunk off the red and white wine provided by the gallery. All the women, somehow, seemed confused and agitated, as if they suspected something might be wrong here, somewhere, but they didn’t know what….

Vincent cleared his throat into his clenched fist, tapped his fingernail against the microphone, then said, “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention. My name is Vincent DeLasario, and I’d like you all to bring your hands together and give a proper welcome to the artist of the evening who brought you this splendid exhibit, my lovely fiancée, Ms. Doriᛋᛋ Dae.”

The applause that erupted from the crowd was enthusiastic, to say the least. Again, the men seemed far more excited than the women for some reason.

Doriᛋᛋ emerged from behind the mauve curtain wearing an elegant one-piece black gown that accentuated her slim figure, petite breasts, smooth skin, long swan-like neck; her flowing black hair appeared lustrous beneath the overhead lights; a split up the leg revealed just enough flesh to be enticing. She looked so beautiful, so infused with raw sexuality, that not even the obvious bulge in her stomach could detract from her natural loveliness. In fact, many of the women in the audience might have said that the child growing in her womb made her a thousand times more attractive.

The men in the audience slowly ceased their applause as the women grew more and more confused by the looks of consternation and guilt on the faces of their husbands, brothers, and boyfriends. Doriᛋᛋ proceeded to give a speech about her project, so long in the making, the intention of the photographs and how they all tied into the overall theme of the main exhibit, about the book being written that would chronicle the entire experience; how it was a one-of-a-kind experiment, as you really couldn’t expect to get away with it more than once. “After all,” she said, smiling, “the advantage of surprise would be gone from here on out.”

She laid out in stages how the idea had occurred to her while idly masturbating in the bathtub early one morning. As she spoke about the exact nature of the main exhibit, in great and exacting detail, a low groan of anger and sadness and despair swept over the gathered hordes. The men seemed to grow more and more nervous while the women grew angrier and sadder. Some broke into tears. The photographer from the L.A. Times was the one who caught the award-winning shot that night as an old woman threw a chair at the artist, missing her head by only a few feet, calling her a whore and claiming she’d destroyed a perfect marriage. 

Doriᛋᛋ smiled and said, “But what did I do?”

***

How many relationships were “destroyed” that evening is not known, but Ms. Dae’s (now Mrs. DeLasario’s) unique exhibit/experiment continues to be controversial amongst psychological, sociological, feminist, and Conceptual Art circles. 

Robert Hughes did indeed give the entire affair a rave review in Art News; however, as late as 2012 (the year of his death at the age of 74), he insisted he had not chosen to participate in the main exhibit. 

Few believed him.

Boink for Biodiversity

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Pillbottle.” Elizabeth Huffington-Huffington was thin as a Pocky Stick and had hair wispy as cotton candy. They say inbreeding caused the Habsburg chin. If that was the case, her forebears must have engaged in a lot of it because Elizabeth Huffington-Huffington had two of them. “Care for a sherry?”

“Sure.”

She motioned to the butler who brought two glasses. The sherry was sweet and cloying as Ms. Huffington-Huffington’s perfume.

“A sex cult took my niece and I want her back.” Ms. Huffington-Huffington sipped her ghastly sherry. “It’s called Boink for Biodiversity. They make porn and donate the proceeds to save the planet or some such nonsense.”

“Shouldn’t she make her own choices?” I looked for someplace to ditch my drink but setting it on the eucalyptus-wood desk would leave a ring so I downed it in one gulp just to get rid of it.

“Oh, want another?” Elizabeth Huffington-Huffington snapped her fingers for the butler to bring me a refill. “Amanda’s been in and out of sanitariums for years. Despite the best medical care, she still suffers from delusions. In three months, she’ll be twenty-five. Then the trust fund will revert to her and we won’t be able to help her. How does a thousand dollars a day sound?”

“Better than ten-percent off at Denny’s.” I set down the sherry glass by the foot of my wingback chair.

“That depends, of course, on how much you order at Denny’s. Here are your plane tickets to Wyoming.” She handed me an envelope. “Our local contact will meet you at the airport.”

***

I spotted a Great Pyrenees Mountain Dog holding a placard with my name on it in the arrival hall at the Jackson airport. His coat was white and he had floppy ears and a long, broad muzzle. From his warm, brown eyes, I could tell he was gentle with children and devoted to his family but due to his size and strength would need lots of training and socialization. 

“You Morris Pillbottle?” he asked.

I nodded. “What’s your name, big fellow?”

“Grantham Snooterbox.”

“Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” I scratched him behind the ears.  “Are you related to the Snooterboxes of Penobscot, Maine?”

“No, those are New England Snooterboxes. I hail from the Rocky Mountain Snooterboxes,” he said with pride bordering on arrogance as if no canines who lived below five-thousand feet had the right to call themselves mountain dogs.

Tail wagging, he led me to a white Jeep Cherokee in the parking lot and got behind the wheel. I tossed my bag in the back seat and climbed in beside him. This raised several questions like how did his paws reach the gas pedal and how did a dog get a driver’s license in the first place? I wasn’t here to enforce Wyoming’s traffic laws so I sat back and gazed at the mountains that rose from the horizon like scores of high-rises made of Precambrian metamorphic rock. Snooterbox drove well for a dog except for his habit of sticking his head out the window.

When we turned onto the Belvedere’s access road, I was looking forward to a hot shower, a steak, and a little cable TV. Imagine my disappointment when Snooterbox passed the lobby and parked in by a doghouse in back. It was a wooden structure with a sloped roof and covered patio. Being built for a massive dog, there was plenty of room for an elephant or a blue whale but with Snooterbox inside it was too cramped for the two of us.

“We need to set out while we still have daylight left.” He saddled up with a backpack and pointed to mine.

I swapped my rubber-soled shoes for a pair of hiking boots and shouldered my pack.

“Better take this.” Snooterbox handed me a 10 mm Smith and Wesson. “That lentil shooter of yours will only make the bears angry.”

I holstered the pistol even though its recoil would make it impossible to hit the broad side of a zeppelin hanger even from the inside. At least, the noise might scare the bears away.

After a thirty-minute drive, we parked at the trailhead for Mt. Dagger. As soon as we stepped out, a group of sage grouse surrounded us

“Guard your car, mister?” the largest knucklehead asked. “Be a shame if your windshield wipers were gone when you came back.”

“Thanks for looking out for us.” Even though I hated getting shaken down, I handed him half a granola bar. “You’ll get the other half when we return.”

Not long after we started walking, we approached a chipmunk sitting by the path.

“Spare some cornflakes, mister?” When I shook my head and walked past, he said, “God bless.”

My hiking boot started chafing my heel. I sat on a rock, took my boot off, and covered the blister with a band aid. Wyoming had pretty scenery if you go for that kind of thing. Dogwoods and sagebrush had proliferated as ruthlessly as burger franchises. Only the aroma of bacon, eggs, and coffee could make the clean air smell better. Snooterbox rested his chin on my thigh and I scratched him behind the ears. When I stopped, he batted me with his big paw demanding more.

“See that?” I pointed to a turkey vulture circling like a police helicopter. 

“Yeah. He’s been tailing us for the past half hour. Nothing to do for now but keep going.” Snooterbox set off at a quick pace.

The trail grew steeper and sweat soaked my shirt under the backpack. The dry air was thinner than I was used to and I stopped frequently to drink water and catch my breath. I heard a godawful racket.

“My name is Zeke and my beak is orange. My voice it squeaks like a rusty door hinge.”

I looked up at a Steller’s jay beatboxing in a lodgepole pine. He wore blue, had his feathers cut in a mohawk, and had pierced his wing with a safety pin. 

“Better get your asses out of here. This is Sky Reapers’ turf. Yeah, I’m talking to you! Don’t you walk away from me!” the jay yelled at my back. “Hey, 1946 called! They want their trench coat back! Squawk! Squawk!”

Squadrons of jays leapt from the trees and commenced their bombing runs. Each dove at eighty degrees from the horizontal and pulled up with feet to spare as if Snooterbox and I were the aircraft carriers Akagi and Soryu. We had no choice but to retreat. By the time we made it back to cover, I looked like a statue covered with pigeon droppings.  

“If we can get past that clearing and into the tree line, we’d be okay,” Snooterbox said. “But we’re going to need help.” 

***

A dozen bald eagles turned and a lone osprey dropped a trout fillet onto the campfire’s embers when we approached.

“You boys look like you fell into a vat of organic fertilizer,” the biggest eagle said.

“Smell like it, too,” the osprey added.

“Maybe you’d better head off somewhere downwind,” the biggest added.

“Sorry.” Snooterbox lowered his head. “We were just trying to defend the reputation of America’s national bird. The jays said that you couldn’t stop a French grandmother with one leg from cooking you in orange sauce only you wouldn’t taste as good as a duck.” 

“Yeah!” I responded to Snooterbox’s cue. “They said they want to ban pickup trucks, serve vegan burgers in school, rename the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan after Nancy Pelosi, change the national anthem to ‘Born This Way,’ and put RuPaul’s picture on the twenty-dollar bill.”

The eagles’ white feathers turned crimson with rage.

“Let’s go!” The leader and the others took off.

Snooterbox gobbled the abandoned trout and we followed.

The eagles were powerful birds that could overpower anything in a dive but they were big and slow. At low altitudes, the jays outmaneuvered them, pecked them on the backs, and sent them fleeing like Huey helicopters from the U.S. embassy in Saigon. This was no concern to Snooterbox and me. The distraction was all we needed to slip past and continue on our way.

***

“Now Jade, I’m going over your performance review.” The bull elk examined the document he held in his hooves. “Appearance – good. Grooming – good. Customer satisfaction – poor. You know what I want you to do now, honey?” He waited for the cow to shake her head. “Get your ass out there and don’t come back until you earn me some tree bark!” The cows in the bull’s harem cowered while he threatened Jade with a diamond-tipped cane.

The bull called himself Hundred-Point Slim but he was neither slim nor had he a hundred points. He wore sunglasses, gold chains, platform shoes, and a purple, ankle-length coat made of velour. A homburg with a leopard-skin hatband perched between his antlers. 

“Snooterbox! Haven’t seen you since we ate those fermented gooseberries. Passed out in some camper’s tent. She scared me as much as I scared her.” Slim scratched Snooterbox under the chin. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Morris Pillbottle. He’s a private detective.”

“Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Need a little female company? It’s on the house.” Slim motioned to a cow in shorts and a bustier. “Hey, Cocoa! Come over here and show my friends a good time!”

 “Lovely though she is, we have other business.” I showed Slim Amanda’s picture. “Have you seen this woman?”

“Oh, yeah. She and a bunch of hippies camped out about a year ago.” Slim lit a cigar and exhaled the smoke. “Couldn’t stand the winter, though. After the first snowfall, they headed home.”

“Thanks,” Snooterbox said. “We’d better check it out, anyway.”

“Much obliged.” I touched my hat brim and followed Snooterbox up the trail. 

After hiking for fifteen minutes, I heard a rustling in the bushes.

“Psst. Over here.” Jade called from between black hawthorns. “Slim’s lying. I saw that girl just days ago.”

“Where?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you if you make it worth my while.”

Snooterbox clawed some bark off a maple and returned with it in his jaws.

“Slim sent me and the others to their camp about a day’s walk up the trail. That girl and her friends made us do things, terrible things.” A branch cracked close by and Jade sprinted away.

***

Startled out of a dream, I sat up in my sleeping bag. We’d camped by a stream and dined on cowboy coffee and a trout that Snooterbox had caught in his jaws. I unzipped the tent flap and looked outside. The Milky Way gleamed like a Las Vegas casino in the crisp, cool air and our campfire had burned to embers. More disturbing were the yellow eyes gleaming from the shadows. Hackles raised, Snooterbox stood and let out an earthshaking bark. A gray wolf stepped forward to challenge him.

 “I like those backpacks.” The alpha wolf snarled showing a gang tattoo on his gums. “Give them to me and I might let you live.”

I reached into tent for the pistol.

“Leave it, Pillbottle.” Snooterbox snarled. “I got this.”

A half-dozen wolves emerged from the dogwoods to back up their ringleader.

“Stay out of this. He’s mine,” the alpha said.

“So, we meet again, Drool Follower.” Snooterbox circled the alpha. “Haven’t seen you since I sent you crying from your momma in Bozeman.”

“You don’t have a posse of ranchers to help you this time.” Drool Follower juked left and went for Snooterbox’s neck.

The big dog dodged and Drool Follower’s three-inch fangs closed on empty air. This gave Snooterbox an opening to snap the wolf’s spine by clamping his jaws behind Drool Follower’s neck. The wolf sidestepped but not before Snooterbox tore off one of his ears. Howling in rage the wolfpack advanced toward Snooterbox.

“I wouldn’t!” I leveled the pistol at the wolves and they cowered.

By now, both combatants were wounded. Blood smeared Snooterbox’s white fur and he limped on his left foreleg. He turned as if in agony. Sensing an easy kill, Drool Follower rushed in. Snooterbox evaded, knocked Drool Follower to the ground, and snarled, fangs ready to tear the alpha wolf’s throat.

“All right. All right. You beat me.” As Drool Follower and his crew slunk away, he muttered, “Next time, Snooterbox.”

***

“Give it to me, baby!” a woman moaned up ahead. “Give it to me!” 

Snooterbox and I crept forward and peered around the bend at the porn set in the clearing. A guy in overalls hitched his thumbs through his toolbelt as two naked women rolled around on a zebra-skin rug. 

“Somebody here have a clogged drain?” He dropped his toolbelt and then his pants but his pipe wrench was not up to spec. “Sorry, I need to understand my character’s motivation.”

“Cut!” eco-activist, Junichi Radler, yelled in a voice that would be at home in Berlin’s Little Tokyo. He had a nose like a schnitzel and skin the texture of vegetable tempura. “Your sadness about the plastics in the ocean causes you to seek comfort in women’s bodies.” He sighed. “Get the fluffer.”

Snooterbox and I stepped into the clearing and a half-dozen porn stars, Amanda among them, turned.

“Is this a bad time?” I asked. 

“We’re not auditioning right now,” a red fox holding a clipboard said before regrading Snooterbox. “Although I could make a personal exception for you, big boy.”

“We’re not here to audition.” Snooterbox hunched his shoulders and looked at his feet.

“That’s right.” Figuring the honest approach would get us nowhere, I put a hand on Snooterbox’s head to keep him quiet. “You’re not auditioning but I am. Let me introduce myself. My name is Pugsley Vauxhall and I produced such films as The French Erection, Sound of Pubic, and The Importance of Being Harnessed. I’m a fan, a big fan. Like you, I want to save the planet so I’m starting a venture in the Southern Hemisphere. It will be a reality show where the challenges are sexual in nature. We have local contestants lined up but a few cameos by your performers would give us major street cred. The lucky few will leave the winter cold to spend the southern summer on a tropical island by the Great Barrier Reef. Of course, we will compensate Boink for Biodiversity with a generous share of our profits. If there’s someplace to meet privately, we’d like to hear each of your reasons why you should appear Eco Porn Island.”

Radler escorted us to a set of camping chairs by some spindly tomato vines and a few emaciated corn stalks. The sound man brought some water and a bowl of kibble for Snooterbox. The first interviews were unimpressive. Male talent with stage names like Rod Cox and Dick Long bragged about their prowess. The women weren’t much better. While my erotic tastes ran vanilla, they described sex that brought chicken sashimi and sauerkraut ice cream to mind. After nine of these, it was Amanda’s turn.

“So, what’s the prize?” Amanda asked. She was short with wide hips and wore a sleeveless sweatshirt that gave generous glimpses of her tiny breasts. Acne decorated her cheeks, a nose ring pierced one nostril, and her dirty-blonde dreadlocks hung a little below her ears.

“The prize?” I replied.

“Yeah, what does the winner of your reality show get?”

“We haven’t decided between a Tesla or installing solar panels on the winner’s home,” I said. “I’m going to let you in on a secret but don’t tell anyone else. The real reason I’m here is that Quentin is making a movie about an eco-activist’s trial for torching a bunch of SUVs. Brad and Leonardo are already on board. Anyway, the casting director wants real activists for authenticity and your name came up. Maybe you could recite a few factoids about the climate crisis off the top of your head so we hear how you sound.”

“There will be more plastic than fish in the oceans by 2050. A third of arable land has been lost in the pat forty years. Ninety percent of large, predator fish are gone.”

“Convincing.” I looked at Snooterbox. “What do you think?”

“She might work,” he said.

“Here’s the thing.” I turned back to Amanda. “Quentin wants to get this project moving so we need to fly you out to Hollywood right away. There will be lots of preparation but don’t worry, Helmut is the best acting coach in the business. Now, this is just a supporting role but it will be a great stepping stone for a film career.”

“I don’t know,” Amanda said.

“I suppose we could try Greenpeace.” I sighed.

“Or Earth Liberation Front,” Snooterbox added.

“Well, thanks for your time.” I stood.

“All right. I’ll do it,” Amanda said. “But first you have to shoot a porn scene with me to prove you’re not a narc.”

***

“Honey, I’m home.” I let the elk carcass slip off my shoulder. Unfortunately, it belonged to Jade, the underperforming cow from Slim’s harem. “I brought us some meat.”

“I’m more interested in this meat.” Amanda stripped off her deerskin robe and reached between my legs. 

A typical amount of grunting, orifices, and fluids followed until Junichi Radler yelled, “Cut! It’s a wrap.”

The Boinkers roasted poor Jade over a campfire as a farewell feast for Amanda. The smell of wood smoke and barbecue in the clean, mountain air convinced all who’d known the elk to abandon their qualms about consuming the leftovers from a bestiality snuff flick. Claiming post-coital depression, I retired to my tent and ate a few saltines to settle my stomach.

***

The trip down the mountain beat up my knees up more than climbing it, probably due to using my legs to brake against gravity. In any case, Snooterbox led, Amanda followed, and I took up the rear.

“How does Quentin come up with such great dialog?” Amanda asked.

“Sounds like a bunch of stoners sitting around smoking dope. Doesn’t it?” I replied. “I think he comes up with a goofy idea and bats it around.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Like, I once dated a girl named Anne Hedonia.”

“What did you two do for fun?”

“I drank beer and watched her do my taxes.”

“That’s enough!” Snooterbox shouted.

I looked up from my hiking boots and saw the .44 magnum revolver in his paw.

“What gives, Snooterbox?” I inched away Amanda to make shooting both of us harder.

“It’s the end of the line for you and little, miss heiress. Here’s how it’s gonna go down. Washed-up detective Morris Pillbottle murders Amanda in a fit of rage after learning she taped their sexual encounter and then kills himself out of shame.” Snooterbox turned to Amanda. “That’s right, honey. Morris isn’t a bigshot producer. He’s a private eye your aunt hired to take you back to the looney bin. Only, with both of you dead, she doesn’t have to worry about a sympathetic shrink letting you out some day.”

“But why, Snooterbox? I thought you were my buddy.”

“I’m nobody’s buddy. Sure, I liked humans once. I even put up with the doggy booties and sweaters. Then my owner had the vet replace my manhood with a pair of Ping-Pong balls as if I wouldn’t notice them clicking together when I ran. Since then, I’ve been out for revenge. Once the rich lady pays me off, I’ll hire a human to sleep on the floor and eat kibble while I dine on filet mignon. Say your prayers, Morris Pillbottle.” Snooterbox aimed his revolver at me.

I drew the 10 mm pistol and squeezed the trigger. It went click.

“Replaced the gunpowder in your bullets with jeweler’s rouge.” Snooterbox chuckled.

A howl came from the trees. Snooterbox turned as Drool Follower lunged. The revolver dropped from Snooterbox’s paw as wolf and dog merged into a flurry of fangs, fur, and blood. I scooped up the revolver, aimed, and fired. The bang startled birds out of the trees and I could feel the concussion of the .44 magnum’s blast wave in my chest. Snooterbox didn’t feel anything after the slug tore a fist-sized hole through his heart and lungs. Staring at his corpse I questioned my life choices. I was weary of trolling society’s seedy underbelly where even a dog can betray you. Drool Follower wiped Snooterbox’s blood off his muzzle, licked his paw, and loped away.

“He was right. Your aunt hired me to find you but I consider trying to murder me a breach of contract,” I said. “The way I see, all you have to do is stay out of sight for a few months until you get your inheritance. You can either go back to the Boinkers or hide out with a librarian, I know.” 

“If you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t find you very trustworthy.”

“Fair enough.” I handed her the revolver. “This will persuade anyone else who comes for you to go away. Good luck.”

***

The wind buffeted my office window and I poured the last of the rye whiskey into my coffee. As usual, my bank account was empty as the bottle. Elizabeth Huffington-Huffington had refused to pay because I hadn’t fulfilled my task of dying in a fake murder-suicide. I’d sued her small-claims court but she’d spent several times my fee on lawyers to defend the principle that the rich shouldn’t have to pay their employees. The mail slot rattled. 

I picked up the buff envelope addressed to Morris Pillbottle and slit it open. Inside I found a check for twenty-thousand dollars from Amanda.