Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Stuck between employed and unemployed and knee deep in the still falling snow, Mike paused shoveling the Stein's driveway to pull his beanie more firmly over his ridiculous fuzzy pink ears, trying not to think too hard about how he'd failed Puck.
No surprise there: he'd been a failure most of his life.
An unwanted child dumped on his grandparents as a toddler, later placed in foster care at fourteen, Mike only enlisted in the Corps after aging out of the Foster system because it was either dog tags or McDonald's once the community college scholarships ran out.
McDonald's paid about as much as the Corps, but at least the Corps supplied housing and medical.
Barely out of training for his law enforcement MOS, he'd been contacted by a younger half-sister he never knew he had.
Guess Ma, who'd been found naked, six months pregnant and dead of a heroin overdose on the side of I-64 one January morning by a snowplow operator when he was eleven, had the condom break more than once.
Excited, he'd shown up at her squalid HUD apartment somewhere in Compton.
Did the rhododendron bushes at the back of the property shake just a little bit? Mike shrugged. Bushes were the least of his problem: Dio, Tepes's lapdog, showed up at their door Sunday night bearing Mike's letter of resignation from Salem's police department.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Surrounded by overflowing ash trays and a swarm of dirty little kids, useless boyfriend sprawled beside her on the filthy couch, Mike's chain-smoking morbidly obese half-sister insisted that Mike owed her his paychecks, access to Tricare, and a Cadillac.
Yeah, something was watching him from the bushes. Well, let 'em!
Mike, lonely and awkward in his stiff new dress blues, almost agreed until the boyfriend jeeringly called him a stupid whitebread honkie for trying to make something of himself when all he needed was claim he had a bad back - the checks would come.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Dio, the tall blonde vampire was polite, but firm.
Inability to control Puck or not, Mike would stay on the force.
Tepes needed him there.
End of story.
Knowing he could easily kill the boyfriend with his bare hands, Mike did an abrupt about-face, legs mechanically carrying him back to the nervous taxi driver he'd bribed into staying.
Had he been thinking clearly, Mike would have herded every last boogery toddler ahead of him and into the taxi to save them from having to go through what he'd had at that age.
Desert Storm distracted Mike, so that by the time he got back, a quarrel over half a kilo of crack had taken out not only his half-sister, but the kids, leaving the boyfriend (a different one) facing murder charges.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Mike argued that if he couldn't control Puck, he had no business being a cop.
Dio, no longer the flirtatious house-husband serving cookies and artisanal beer on the porch but a blandly dangerous mouthpiece for the real ruler of Salem, Oregon, bluntly stated that Mr. Tepes had arranged things so that as of last Friday, Mike was on 30-days of administrative leave; plenty of time to sort things out.
"Off the record, Officer Schmidt, may I remind you that you and your family owe our employer a considerable debt before you resign your position over something as minor as a unruly child throwing a tantrum? And may I also tell you that our son Giorno admires you for how you handled those two… useless miscreants during the regrettable incident in October?
Mike slammed the door in Dio's serene, professional face.
Mike sprinkled the ashes of the little ones into the Pacific not too far from Camp Pendleton, flushing his half-sister's ashes down the toilet where they belonged, not knowing that the two oldest, Maggie and Puck, were still around, but not in the way he'd expected. He drifted through life as an MP, field commission back in Saudi barely registering, realizing there was no real reason for him to exist.
Now he was shoveling snow from the Stein's extravagantly long driveway for the third time this week while a pack of wolves shadowed him through the Stein's expensive landscaping.
Not, wolves, werewolves. This is Salem, remember? Where dogs talk and people bark?
Though life had once more gone to shit, Mike laughed under his breath, muttering, "All right then, y'all wanna play? Well, let's play!"
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Raina changed all that - blasting through a red light right in front of him on Base. Brash, loud, hyper Raina, Navy chopper pilot, daughter of a Top Gun flight instructor, and aggressive as hell. Professional collector of speeding tickets, Raina asked him out while he ticketed her. He'd been so surprised by her brass, he almost dropped the clip board.
They became a discreet item over burgers at an off Base Doublemeat Palace that night.
The ticket still stood. Mike was in love, but he wasn't stupid.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Yeah, it was fast, and it was hard, but Raina was worth the risk. Mike ditched the idea of offing himself and got his money back for the 357 Magnum he'd bought for the job at a nearby pawnshop. A functional alcoholic, Mike stopped drinking alone every night after work and started applying himself because Raina made it all worth it.
Mike got a promotion, started planning how the two of them could stay in if they made it legal while starting courses in juvenile and family law, applied and got into the Dog Handler training program – which he enjoyed, bought an engagement ring and joined the on-Base boxing club because Raina needed a sparring partner.
1-2-3…. There was a fourth one, holding back…
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
It all come crashing down with a stupid off duty civilian bus accident, leading to a medical discharge with little or no compensation, and the inability to sit, stand or walk without pain.
So Mike did the only thing he could think of, he ran; the remains of the life he'd planned left burning in his wake. The last thing Raina needed was a crippled Dependa who couldn't work with a stiff addiction to Hillbilly Heroin that devolved to street meds pretty damned fast because that was easier to get.
One of the dark shapes against the black stems of the rhododendrons and the white of the snow suddenly raised it' head, sniffing before ducking behind the Stein's compost bin.
Mike pretending he saw nothing, continued his way down the Stein's driveway, the sky flat gray overhead.
Still, he grinned.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Eventually Mike pulled his head out of his ass. Broke, weighing well over five hundred pounds from living off of shoplifted gas station garbage, and a dollar short of homelessness, what was left of Mike tried to pull himself upright by taking a part time security job he found in the L.A. Times.
At Fazbear's Pizzaria.
And died a big fat failure the first night on the job at the hands of the two nieces who survived the shootout at their mother's apartment - but only because they'd gone missing two years before, so less-dead their pictures weren't worth putting on a milk carton like they'd never been born.
Not that it would have mattered that he'd found them, they were dea…
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
I.
See.
You.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
You.
See.
Me.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
Gray shapes ghosted in and out of the bushes… a big one, Mike squinted, the twin cameras in his eyes zeroing in on the motion… ah! One, no, two, smaller, followed, the other not exactly shaggy? The fourth, in the remains of a suit and tie, also displayed bald patches… Did werewolves get mange? …trailing behind…definitely NOT Wolf's kids… what are they doing—
"Stranger danger! Stranger danger!" Huge snowflakes whirling around him, Fitzie shot past Mike towards the little USPS vehicle that leaned dangerously towards the driver's side that was pulling over to the side of the street. The dog that was once a man paused, shook his messy head, saying, "Shit, I forgot. What am I supposed to be doing? Oh, yeah, mailman – Bow-Wow! Bow-Wow! Bow-Wow! Bark! Bark! Ummmm… woof?"
Family drama and other things temporarily forgotten, Mike leaned on his snow shovel, laughing. Jeremy Fitzgerald, or what was left of him, was barking hysterically at the mailman like he did every morning snow or not.
Only the last of the human in him had decided to saunter through for the day.
Maybe he'd stay for dinner- mouthier than Fitzie, Jeremy wasn't much for stimulating conversation but was good for a beer in his water dish and a few laughs over poker.
Mike could use a few laughs about now.
The mailman, Tedator and Fredator's dad, rattled something from behind his breathing mask down at Fitzie.
As per the script, Fitzie cowered, whimpering – the mailman lumbered past Mike through the deepening snow and carefully placed a package marked "Biohazard" and "Keep Frozen" on the Stein's front steps before ringing the doorbell and walking back to his little postal vehicle, briefly pausing to clatter his hidden mandibles, pointing to let Mike know that he was being stalked by a pack of flea market grade werewolves, and drove past the municipal snowplow grinding its way up the street.
Satisfied that he'd done his duty as the family dog, Jeremy, or was it Fitzie? jauntily trotted around the back of the Stein's Art Deco monstrosity of a house towards breakfast.
Flea market grade werewolves were Mike's problem, not his.
Self-pity forgotten, Mike resumed shoveling towards Mr. Stein's woodpile and its blue tarp.
Scraaaaape. Flomp.
There was a sharp "Yipe!" followed by hastily stifled laughter – at least two of them had taken cover behind the neatly stacked wood. One step closer closer, and Mike could easily reach over the logs and grab one of the kids by the scruff… "Oh, hey, dude!" A brown face popped over the stacked wood, "Tag, you're it!"
"Narancia, you assHOLE!" The kid's head shot downwards when somebody grabbed him by the back of the head, yanking him down, "You ruined our hunt, fuckwa- sorry Officer Schmidt!"
"Yeah. Right." Mike paused mid-shovel, watching the rest of the pack reveal themselves.
"Sorry sir," A new, lighter brown face topping a dark ruff sheepishly rose from behind the wood pile, "Didn't expect to, uh, see you so early in the morning? (Mom's gonna kill me!)"
"Guido Mista," Trying not to laugh, Mike blew out a large breath, which condensed in the frigid air, "It's 8 a.m. What'cha'll doin' on the Stein's property? I know it's a two hour late start day because of the snow, but do I need to call y'all's parents?"
"Shit, no! Werewolf business? Full moon? Ethnic traditions? Ummmm, nobody cares? Fuck… duuuuuuuude! Officer Schmidt, Ma threw us all out of the house last night because she didn't wanna vacuum again." Guido Mista laughed nervously, curls full of dead leaves and frost before bellowing, "Yo, GiGi, runt! Where's my hat? Or did you eat it like you did the last one?"
Mike watched Giorno's pale, narrow face surface from behind the compost bin, usually immaculate blonde hair and scruffy fledgling ruff full of pine needles and one very large cockleburr.
"GiGi's my baby name, you dick! You left your ugly-ass hat at my place." Giorno snarled, "Dad Dio says he'll wash it for you – it stinks like you wiped your butt on it!"
"What'd you say? Gramma made me that real wool hat for Christmas!" Oblivious to the cold and his lack of trousers, Guido dove at Giorno, the two grappling and snarling in the snow behind the compost heat.
"Okay, okay, enough!" Mike raised his voice, "I said, ENOUGH!" Guido and Giorno froze. Their attention gained, he said, "Now, whatch'all doin' here?"
"We don't like the new officers. They're weird – is it really true you quit?" Narancia blurted out. Easily distracted, he sniffed, eyes slitted, nostrils flaring, "Yo, pendejos! Somebody's makin' WAFFLES!" he exclaimed happily. "And BACON!" Another sniff, "Real BUTTER! You got real syrup too? The stuff that comes out of a log cabin that you get at Costco and not Aldi's?"
Mike sighed, thinking, "Real butter, my ass!" "No," he lied because it was none of their business, "I'm takin' a break." He stepped back, eyes averted, Raina was up – she always made waffles on her day off. Though semi almost unemployed, he'd been looking forward to his once a week sugary meal with her and because everyone but Puck, who was hiding in her room sulking, were gonna be out of the house with friends this afternoon, some rare fun.
Buuuuut… he knew Narancia's home situation – CPS was on the case, but because Narancia was a RAD, there were complications. Uninvited or not, Mike didn't have the heart to chase him or any of them away. "All right. Stay for breakfast, wait," Mike paused, Raina and the girls don't need to see any of this. He gave them all a stern look, "Any you ijits wearin' pants?"
A riotous discussion between the three boys ended with Giorno turning beet red despite of the falling snow. "Ummmm… not really, except for Fuuuu–
"Shut UP, Giorno!" Guido elbowed the smaller boy, saying: "No, Officer Schmidt, we have no pants. We have no pants today." He grinned, displaying teeth too sharp to be human.
"Great. Just great. Okay, then. Do y'all's folks know where you've been all night?" Mike said. Once a cop, always a cop.
"Well, you see," Narancia ventured cautiously, "We are werewolves… and it IS a full moon…" he licked his dark lips, widening his eyes appealingly, "…waffles?"
"He knows that!" Guido pushed the much smaller Narancia. "And don't invite yourself to breakfast. As your pack leader, it's RUDE!"
"Hey!" Naranicia yelped loudly, "I only was tryin' t' score us all free breakfast!"
"No. Pants." Mike stared him down, "Why not?" It was more command than query.
"Ummmm, it's a werewolf thing, you wouldn't understand?" Guido grinned even wider, giving Mike a nervous side-eye, unconciously dipping his head. If the big cop called his folks to complain, and Mom answered the phone before Dad, there'd be Hell to pay, like last summer when they dug holes in Mr. deNile's perfect golf course lawn going after a gopher.
"Aaaaaaaaand?" Mike drawled, raising an eyebrow.
Giorno turned even redder, eyes nervously averted, head dipped almost as low as Mista's, "We don't like the new officers, they're weird. My dads won't tell me why you left, so we thought we'd ask you ourselves."
Narancia blinked. "WAFFLES? And those little sausages like tiny hotdogs from the gas station, only better?"
"Yes, waffles!" Mike replied, "But you'll get bacon and like it. Once again, anyone here other 'n me wearin' pants?"
"Uuuuuh," Narancia asked cautiously, "If we ain't wearin' no pants, does it mean we don't get no waffles?"
"Like, duuuuuuude, y'know—" Jeremy, Fitzie's flat Shaggy-sounding voice came from beneath the little table in the cramped guest house kitchen after trotting in after his morning bark at the mailman.
Um. Mailperson.
Postal worker? Mailthing?
Aw, Hell, don't be racist! Raina and Officer Sargent, along with Mrs. Wolf, bowled together every Wednesday night. Officer Sargent openly identified as female, so as far as Raina could tell, Predator Sargent was… male? Sooooo… mailMAN?
Gender debate aside, what the Hell was Mike doing shuffling around in the liquor cabinet turned dresser in the living room they'd claimed as a bedroom? Like a cartoon character, Mike only wore three outfits on rotation when he wasn't working.
"I have a name, Jeremy. Remember?" Shaking her head dismissively, Raina poured batter into the Belgian waffle iron she'd found in the attic last summer. She snapped the lid of the Stein's hand-me-down shut in a burst of steam, "Begins with R. Ends with A. Remember?"
"Dude, I know. I know. It's RAINA. R.A.I.N.A." Fitzie looked hopefully up at her. If he gave her the right sad-eyed puppydog look, she might, just might, flip him a waffle before everyone else.
Better yet, a piece of bacon.
That way he wouldn't have to steal it.
Stealing required effort, something the man-dog abhorred when he became more man than dog.
Or would have. Abhorrence was also too much work.
"Wait until breakfast, like everyone else. Duuuuuuude." Raina slid a fresh waffle onto a plate in the little toaster oven to keep warm.
It seemed she was the only one who hated when 'Jeremy' decided to pop in, usually at bad times, like when a rare guest or salesman came around.
Or worse, when family drama reared its ugly head.
"Dude. Duuuuude? I HAVE a name!" Ears perked, Fitzie snarked back, "Jeremy Fitzgerald III."
"So, there's three of you out there. Fan-fuckery-doo-dah." Raina poured more batter into the waffle iron. She'd gotten pretty good at waffles, considering the first time she'd tried the damned thing out she nearly burned down the house – black smoke does not equal "done". Who knew?
That, and pieces of paper marked "directions" are more important than you'd think, especially if you have to dig in the big trash bin behind the house to retrieve them.
"Nah, Mom tacked the III on the end to make me sound more upscale than Jeremy Fitzgerald, some pointless dude who bangs his head on the wainscoting when he's not having meltdowns in front of Madonna and a shitload of paparazzi during one of her 1k/per plate Hollywood Autism Speaks fundraisers – y'gonna, like, finish that coffee?" Jeremy pushed his red doggie dish at Raina's ankles hopefully.
Raina paused mid-sip from her big "Chopper Pilots Do It Midair" mug, "No, but you can have your own. Sugar?"
She bent and poured the rest of the carafe into the man-dog's dish.
"How about six cubes of the good stuff? And a shot of that real whipped cream I saw you hide in the back of the fridge?"
"Ya wanna fit the doggie door at two in the morning when you wanna take a shit?" Raina added the creature's requested vice of choice plus a dollop of real cream and put it down in front of the family, for lack of a better word, "dog".
"Duuuuuude, I got opposable thumbs and my own set of KEYS. I can open any damned door I want!" Fitzie, or possibly Jeremy? shoved his muzzle into his dish, messily lapping up the black liquid gold it held, forgetting that long ago what was left of Jeremy Fitzgerald'd been stuffed inside a discarded animatronic dog exoskeleton and never properly fixed because…reasons.
JeremyFitzie wagged his ragged tail, all but dancing in place with excitement. God, even at room temperature, the stuff was delicious!
"Fair enough, my little ding-dong goldendoodle!" Raina, though deliberately discouraged from learning how to cook as a child in favor of having a career, expertly flipped the next waffle onto the plate in the toaster oven and started another as Mike rushed past with a pile of clothes, slamming the front door behind him.
What the Hell was Mike up to? He'd been acting weird since resigning from the force no thanks to Puck's dropping out of school… and worse. Raina frowned, concentrating on the next waffle.
"Goldendoodle. Goldendoodle? I'm a MUTT and proud of it!" Fitzie paused mid-slurp, scruffy ears cocking. "Uh-oh, company!" Tags jingling, he knocked the dish aside with a loud clatter as he raced out of the kitchen and into the living room yelling, "Arf! Arf!"
Puzzled, he paused mid-charge, "Ummmmm, or is it "woof"? Fuck it: stranger danger! Stranger danger!"
Raina attempted to drag Fitzie, who couldn't make up his mind today which it was going to be, human or dog? back by the collar as he scrabbled at the front door with the "Are you wearing pants?" sign posted at the same height as Mike's eyes before that what seemed like half of Salem spilled in, hollering while shaking snow off of their feet and out of their hair.
Looks like Mike had taken in more strays: the Joestar kid, plus two others.
She'd have to make more waffles.
"Michael, mishu, what the Hell's going on and who are all these hairy, stinky boys?"
Hanging up his coat, Mike shrugged, "Students."
Raina rolled her eyes, muttering something very rude in Polish under her breath before asking, "Why the Hell are they here?"
"Teen werewolf pack actin' out, babe." Mike slipped an arm around Raina's waist. She resisted for a second or two before sinking into him just a little. Mike added, "Full moon. Had big fun, crashed in the bushes out back –on a school night!" Mike attempted to kiss Raina. She dodged him, nodding at their suddenly attentive audience of adolescents. He backed off, saying "Feed 'em. I'll drive 'em home AFTER they wash the dishes and take out the trash on my way to Ms. Goode's house to cut up that big branch that landed on her roof last night during the storm and then off to that little demolition job for Wolf along with Puck after lunch." He frowned, asking, "Do the other girls have after school plans with friends, or am I losing it again?"
"No, they— MIKE!" Raina squealed as he suddenly tilted her backwards. Daring their audience to say something, anything, he planted a big loud one on her.
Mista, Narancia, and Giorno stood there, mouths open at this blatant display of adult PDA before breaking into an excited howl of woofing, clapping approval. Planting her back on the floor, Mike muttered in her ear, "Just establishing dominance like the manual says to, babe. Later?"
"Maybe!" Raina laughed, slapping him on the back of the head as she returned to the kitchen, "Okay, you deal with the Wild Bunch, I'll deal with breakfast, and we'll discuss this later!"
"Whoaaaaaahhhhh, you're Mrs. Cop?" Narancia excitedly flagged Raina down with one grubby hand, the other holding Mike's second worst pair of work pants in place, "Didn't know there was a Mrs. Cop. Wow, you're hot, Mrs. Cop, shake!"
Raina politely took Narancia's rough hand. It felt like a dog's paw.
"Hi, Mrs. Schmidt. I'm Guido, Guido Mista, I live two blocks over in the little house with all the cars in the yard." Guido held out a big, hairy calloused hand; Raina took it briefly. Even with his dark neck ruff spilling out of the collar, Mike's Carharts fit Guido much better than they did the emaciated, near hairless Narancia "Sorry about that, we won't shed too much on your couch – just don't tell Mom about this!"
He picked a little pink bow out of Narancia's tangled mop of hair, "Ha, Old Lady Enyaba got you again – last time it was a pink barrette with rhinestones shaped like a ballerina and doggie cologne!"
"Shut up, dude, I ain't nobody's lap dog - que te la pique un pollo!"
"Fuck yo— I mean, DUDE!" Mista exclaimed, dragging a hollering Narancia away by one pointed ear. "Shut your dirty fuckin' mouth. We're in this lady's HOUSE!"
The blond boy with long snarls of hair wearing Mike's ragged workout shorts shifted uncomfortably, "Sorry Mrs. Schmidit, we didn't mean to drop in at mealtime." He looked down at his dirty bare feet, blushing. "Can my dads have you guys over for brunch sometime to make it up? Papa Dio's good at brunch. (mumble mumble mumble) This is so embarrassing!"
"Giorno! Do your dads know where you are? If not, I'm calling them…" Raina paused, distracted, "Wait. There's one more. Come in, and shut the damn door. You're letting out all the heat…and you are?"
A second youth fidgeted in the open doorway like he was about to run at any second, strawberry blond hair spilling over his violet eyes, "Fugo," he mumbled sullenly, slinking barefoot past her, oddly ruffless and wearing a tattered suit and tie that obviously weren't Mike's.
"What's that on your face?" Raina grabbed his shoulder, knowing she wouldn't like his answer.
"Depends. Do you happen to have a pet rabbit?" the new boy asked, pulling away. He sounded almost English. "That perhaps got loose?"
"No."
"Good!" Fugo snapped, "I got hungry!"
"Fugo, shower's down the hall and don't be rude to my wife. Breakfast in ten minutes followed by KP. Then I'm driving you all home." Mike said in a strange, hard voice. Fugo slunk past him into the tiny bathroom. But not before Mike handed him a clean washcloth and towel, "There's something in a dish on the sink. It's called soap. Use it."
The strawberry blond slammed the door loudly behind him, clearly not a morning person.
"Fugo's folks are gonna killllllllll himmmmmm." Narancia sing-songed from where he'd made himself at home by sitting backwards on a kitchen chair, chin resting on skinny arms, eyes sparkling with mischief, "Asshole won't ever take his clothes off."
"What?!" Raina asked, startled by Narancia's casual attitude towards nudity, even with six inches of wet snow on the ground.
"Yeah, goin' wolf does that," Guido smirked where he leaned in the kitchen doorway, "Clothes get torn up, then torn off. So we strip first. Only this time we forgot where we left 'em. Mom's gonna kill me unless I sniff out where I left my new winter coat!"
"Yo, Mrs. Cop! Fugo's family is messed UP. Can't ruin clothes, can't get dirty– always make 'em think you're a normie! The "don't be naked in public" rule is mucho enforced in his house," Narancia crossed his eyes, smirking, "Fugo hates taking his pants off. He's not even s'post to be here – they don't like wolfin' 'round, real buzzkills!"
"My emancipation's final, I can do whatever the Hell I want!" Fugo yelled unseen from the bathroom, "Including scoot my bare butt on my mother's favorite Persian silk carpet or piss on my father's Rolls Royce – this is his best Italian suit – NOT ANY MORE!"
Shocked, the three boys stared at each other at a loss for words– werewolves don't divorce. Werewolves don't leave the pack. Pack is family. Family is pack… what Fugo had done was… unthinkable.
"I see." Raina said dryly. Werewolf mores were too much to think about this early in the morning, so she resumed making waffles as Jeremy sniffed the werewolves down.
Of course Jeremy, or as he was slowly becoming once more, Fitzi, ate the burnt ones.