5th October 1795: Protesters marched through Paris, they wanted the current government to sign off. Furthermore, they were willing to use any violence necessary to reach what they were aiming for. The mob, peasants, armed with pitchforks and other arsenal used for the harvest, in a high number were marching towards this tiny, tiny man. His physique, wasn't of any strongman, not to mention any kind of nobility. His clothes were dirty and torn. In Addition his face looked sick, slightly yellow, and covered with gunpowder, dust and showed an expression only a General of War could have, so cold and without any emotion. Destined to Greatness! No one could interpret anything in this certain fellow, but if you knew him better, you'd know that everything you think he wants to do, was carefully placed in your mind by him. This is psychological warfare. Like an US-Soldier in the Vietnam war, he was having the Ace of Spades in his pocket, to carefully thrive you nuts. That doesn't mean he was playing dirty. Quite the opposite, he played with the rules, the rules of war, a form of art not many people can master. Immanuel Kant once said: "A genius gives rule to art." And he was a genius, indeed. With steady steps, the mass was marching towards this small artilleryman. In his right hand a rusty saber reached high into the sky, behind this Frenchman canons, prepared to fire, were standing line in line. Behind them, his soldiers waited for his command. No one ever used cannons against an angry mob, but there's a first time for everything. For a long time, the blade was up, waiting for the right moment. Some viewers, mainly soldiers, could argue that this would be taking too long. But their commander wanted to wait for the right moment. In order to get maximal outcome, you got to take some risk, especially if you are an expert in risky business. They were only a few meters away and young Bonaparte gave the signal. A few shots. It got loud. Then everything went silent. Everything was over.

"Three of a Kind?"

The Dalmatian maliciously grinned: "Straight."

In a letter he wrote: "Our enemies were attacking us. We eliminated a great amount, now everything is silent. I couldn't be happier."

The sun was already fairly set. Time to bring home the pups, so Dylan used a trigger word: "supper." With that everyone started their way home. Well, almost everyone. Dante wasn't really keen on going home. Fortunately, he was in an age, in which he could walk outside, in the city, all by himself. No matter what the clock said, he would rock all by himself through London's streets. Especially in the night they gave him a more mysterious feeling. His way paved through the almost empty park, the opposite direction his family took. Dante was well-aware, that Mom and Dad would probably tell him again, that he shouldn't have done it and then he had to listen to Dylan again how irresponsible he was. He didn't care. Why should he? Light steps brought him to the cemetery. Usually, he saw Spencer and Portia somewhere there, but not this night. At that time, the moon was already shining down on him. Closing his eyes, the black, white and purple-dotted Teen-Dalmatian sunned himself in this full moon, for a while, until he was relaxed enough. Slowly, he reached behind a tombstone, he was leaning on to get a pack of cigarettes. Thank dog, his secret hideout wasn't found yet, Dante always enjoys it simply sitting there during the night and giving in to relaxation. Long time to think about everything, while a breeze of fresh air hits you and the chirping of some crickets is the only thing breaking this peaceful silence. With his lighter, it was black and had a skull on it, he lighted his cigarette to take the first sip. While the nicotine got into his blood through his lungs, the Dalmatian was just leaning on the tombstone. Beneath him, an old man was resting, Dante knew when he was still alive and before Dante was living in Camden. It was the owner of a supermarket from whom he and his old gang always stole. In fact, he got his cigarettes from this exact store. When time went by, his parents forbid him to meet his friends. Another sip, he inhaled the smoke. "Bad influence?", Dante thought to himself. While scratching his nose, "They were right though, I didn't want to meet them anyway. This all felt so…bogus." With a long breath he took his last sip, then put out the cigarette and buried it next to him into the dirt, to all his other cigarette ends. "Remember the old time?", Dante was talking to the dead beneath him, "You say a human can live through ten generation of dogs, but here I am smoking on your grave. Hehe", With a sad expression he was looking down, "But I don't wanna play the Blame Game" Slowly his paw went to the dirt to touch the ground. "You know, I'd like to take it back. To the old times, you know. Before I dyed my fur black. Before all of this." A sigh left Dante, followed by him watching up to the sky. Suddenly, a voice broke the silence. "Wow-wow-wow, Duuuude. Quit that emo shit!", A sly fox with two gold teeth and a malicious grin was sitting next to him. "Here goes my hideout", Dante thought. The Emo sighed, "What do you want Fergus?" Fast movement brought the fox next to the Dalmatian, so that they both were now leaning against the tombstone. "D-Dog wanted me to cheer you up." Dante's eyes, quite tired and angry, but you could see his appreciation for the company, were looking at Fergus, "Since when do you care what Dylan says, isn't he too tamed for you, you wild little fox." Being slightly offended the fox just grinned at his counterpart. "Listen, you probably don't know that, but there are people worrying about you." Emotionally not able to listen to what the fox had to say, Dante just turned his head away from him to light himself another cigarette. "How long does it take them to kill you", the teen thought while staring at his package. Fergus, having already realized that this pup wouldn't be willing to listen to him, continued staring at him, until he finally broke the silence for another time. "Hey man, wanna share ya cigarette?", With that the Dalmatian looked up again. Quite surprised his counterpart would not only not condemn him for smoking, but wanted to share this moment with him. No authority, no order, it was him asking for a favor, to him? "Yeah, sure.", the young dog answered and gave him the last cigarette from his package. After a few seconds both had a glowing peace of tobacco in their mouth, inhaling the smoke, sharing this moment. During this time, they didn't say a word, they just were sitting there and had a moment. As soon as their cigarettes were finished the Dalmatian looked back at Fergus, having a facial expression, insinuating that he didn't know what to do now. Having read what the Dalmatian thought, Fergus just grinned. With the words "C'mon, just follow me." the fox just stood up and started running. Hasty steps and the Dalmatian ran behind Fergus. Paw after paw hit the ground. The wind was hitting his nose. He closed his eyes. Opening his mouth. Feeling the air on his tongue. Long time not felt. While they kept running the ground felt like a trampoline boosting them for every step they took. No, they didn't want to stop. Their way went through grass, rocks whole lakes even. Starting to run gave him an emotion to never stop again. Running through the field gave Dante an explosion of pride. Swimming through the swan's lake gave him a feeling of bravery. Climbing on the roofs gave him an emotion of pure storm and drive. Jumping on the cars gave him the appreciation of the moment. On a roof both of them stopped, looking at each other. Astounded, about what he just felt, the Dalmatian just looked at his counterpart. With his look, Dante was asking if Fergus just felt that as well. "That was nuthin pup. Take my paw and I show you heaven … in HELL!" Having stretched out his paw the gold-toothed fox just stared at the white and purple dotted dog. It didn't take long for Dante to accept this offer. Both of them went down the window.