Disclaimer: The Lost Boys belongs to Warner Bros. I'm just having a bit o' fun with the characters.
Author's Notes to the Gentle Reader: The idea for this little story came from a conversation I had the night before about taking care of a friend's dog for the summer. Any mistakes and omissions are entirely my own. Constructive criticism is always welcomed.
This story takes place long before the recruitment of Laddie and Star. Enjoy the romp!
Remember, it's not Hellhound, it's "Hello, hound!"
It all began like any other night. The amusement park was busy with tourists in all their gaudy finery; the Boardwalk teemed with strolling couples, street performers, and hungry families searching for that nice, but cheap restaurant. As for me, I was looking forward to a lovely twilight walk along the beach before returning to my usual place behind the counter at the video store. It was easy to forget about all the bad things that could happen if one had been well groomed and his toenails trimmed; I was one lucky Hound of Hell, living in the Murder Capital of the World, and everything was going so well on that lovely summer night. I should have known nothing good ever happens whenever David and his crew show up.
I could have blamed Max for the nights that followed, but who am I to complain; he feeds me, houses me, and takes me out for walks when he has the night off. Most of the time, he lets me wander in the evenings. For my part, I work during the day, watch over Max while he sleeps the sleep of the undead, and guard his home from curious neighbors, determined Girl Scouts, and the infrequent religion pushers with their pamphlets. Between you and me, it may sound like a boring life, a typical dog's life you might say, yet it does have its perks.
Other than being Homicide Central, Santa Carla was actually a lovely place. I spent my free time roaming the beaches, checking out interesting female hounds, and exploring the forests of redwoods, madrones, and live oak that crowded the coastal mountain slopes. Sometimes I'd sit on the porch and watch the evening fog roll in as I breathe in the cool ocean breeze, detecting the distant odor of skunk and raccoon in the night air. Santa Carla may be a nightmare, but it was a beautiful nightmare.
xXx
Now I've always considered myself a good Hellhound, but there are times when I wonder what I did in a previous life to deserve my brief stint with Max's Boys. As I said before, I work during the day while my nights were spent relaxing at the video store, watching the people stroll in to rent or peruse Max's fine collection of videos, sniffing the other dogs that accompanied their owners, and growling at the Boys when they came to visit.
On that night, I knew something was afoot when the Boys came in all sullen and silent instead of swaggering in with their trademark shit-eating grins, so I did what I always did whenever they made their appearance: I growled and bared my teeth.
"Oh good, you're right on time!" Max was leaning over the counter, tallying the day's profits and cashing out the till. I've never seen Max so cheerful, except that time when he sicced me on an annoying mime.
"Are you sure about this? We have a reputation to keep, you know." The spiky blonde, David, spoke first. Judging from his menacing looks alone, he would have made an excellent interrogator for a late night torture session complete with music videos.
I could also smell the underlying metallic scent of fresh blood and carrion on him. The rest of the Boys had that same scent in varying intensity, but what was most interesting were the other scents that mingled with the blood scent of their victims. Spiky blonde liked his cigarettes, and that pungent tobacco often preceded his appearance. "Listen to me, Max: We're vampires, not dog sitters!"
"Technically, Thorn is a Hound of Hell, so you'll be hellhoundsitting," said Max. "We've talked this over, David. There's nobody else, and the pet hotel has refused to let Thorn stay ever since the incident with the Chihuahua. I think there's a restraining order or something floating around."
Max always understood my idiosyncrasies. Very small dogs annoy me, especially the noisy ones. But dog sitting? This was something new.
"This is only for a short time. Before you know it, I'll be back from my vacation and everything will be back to normal." When Max said vacation, I felt my stomach drop. Oh no, please don't leave me with these bloodsuckers.
"Is he housebroken?" This came from the shortest of the Boys. His curly blonde hair and innocent, wide-eyed look was all a ruse to get his victims to trust him, and that grin he wore made my hackles rise every time he sauntered into the store. He was the only one I could never trust completely. Perhaps it was the chaps he wore over his jeans or the scent of food on him, especially the stench of cotton candy and candied apples. I can only assume the gang was using him as the delivery boy for their infamous initiation dinners, but the hint of cotton candy and candied apples spoke of darker things.
"Of course he's housebroken, Marko!" snapped Max. "Now I'm going to leave instructions for all of you. My house is off limits, especially to you, Paul. The video store will be closed during the night, and if there's an emergency, don't call me. It would be better if all of you just hid and waited until I get back."
"Can't we hang out in your yard during the night?" All eyes shifted towards Paul, the tall blonde in the frock coat and tight pants, and the wildest of the bunch when it came to partying. I swear an odorous cloud of pot and beer seems to follow him everywhere. If ever there was a lost soul who desired to dress me in all manner of pet clothing and shit, Paul would be the one. I made sure to keep an eye on him.
"No, you may not, Paul. What? The cave's not enough for you? I told you boys before: keep a low profile. Follow Dwayne's example; you guys can learn a lot from what he's not saying."
Now Dwayne was a piece of work. I thought he was mute when Max first introduced me to him. Silent and dangerous, he was the only dark-haired one of the bunch and the one most likely to pass for a werewolf with his hair and wolfish good looks. I can always smell the lingering floral fragrance of his last female victim on him, plus an elusive animal scent. Now that was something I couldn't wrap my head around, and it made me curious to know what else Dwayne did while out hunting. His quiet demeanor also gave me the creeps; I'm sure that guy could out-silence the dead. Max confided once that he only heard him say about twenty words throughout the years he's known him, and the majority of those words consisted of 'you' and 'suck.' He was truly a man of few words, our Dwayne.
I must admit though that among the four of them, Dwayne's name was the silliest. If I had a pet of my own, I'd be a cruel son of a bitch to name it Dwayne.
"I bet he's not fixed. Anybody know of any veterinarians in the area?" muttered one of the Boys.
"Who said that?" Max was furious as he looked around, trying to figure out which one of his Boys uttered the f-word. "No one is going to take Thorn to the veterinarian to have him neutered while I'm away."
The Boys were finding it difficult to contain their laughter while Max could only fume and glare, but I knew who uttered the f-word. Silent Dwayne wasn't so silent after all. What a bastard.