Red Right Paw

Joe Buckley's hooves made a jarring, clanging noise as he walked over the rusty old bridge. It suited his mood, however, and as he reached the other side, he leaned against the railing and looked out across the skeleton of this once-great city with a gusty sigh. Spread out in front of him was a mass of factories, steel-mills and smoke-stacks reaching for the gray, cloudy skies, while the old railway viaduct loomed behind them all like a destitute backdrop. All of it was like this bridge – rusty, abandoned, and naught but a memory of past prosperity.

Joe knew that most of his peers, when feeling down, would retreat to their rooms to listen to emo music. But he'd always preferred this. The bare bones of the city that used to be made for such a great metaphor for his future – or lack of same. Granted, the weather wasn't what you'd call reliable, as he was reminded by a few errant drops of rain hitting the bridge with noises far too great for their feeble mass. But he didn't mind a bit of rain, really. In fact, it felt nice when the drops hit the fuzzy covering of his still-growing antlers.

But while the raindrops were still few and far between – the kind of drizzle that couldn't really make up its mind as to whether it wanted to make something more of itself or not – the wind was picking up with a lot more determination. Powerful gusts were blowing down the concrete canyon of the abandoned factories, making his clothes flutter on his bony frame. Well, that was a nice metaphor too, he decided – for the winds of progress that had blown away the prosperity of this city.

After all, decades ago, this had been the American Midwest's center of appliance production. Detroit built the cars, but everything else – from washing-machines to hairdryers – came out of Augustown. That is, until all the corporations started moving their production overseas, where wages were low and environmental impact legislation was nonexistent – leaving behind acres of dreary concrete and rusting metal, as well as a city with no jobs, no opportunities and no future. Everyone here wanted to get away. Nobody had anywhere to go, or any way to get there. His friends at the local community college were full of crazy plans for making a quick fortune and escaping this sinkhole of a city – but it was never more than just talk.

He sighed again, gazing out over the river, and then glancing up at the steel-gray skies. The clouds were whirling faster and faster up there. A storm was coming. He should probably start trying to get over his funk so he could head home. The small, run-down apartment he shared with his mother and younger sister wasn't much, but it kept the wind and the rain out, at least. For the most part. Then, a particularly fierce gust of wind blew down the concrete-lined alley, physically forcing his head to the side, and he found himself instinctively glancing back in the direction it had come from as it passed – as if he could see the source of the wind.

What he saw instead was a tall, gray-furred fox wearing a dusty, black trench-coat, walking calmly through the graveyard of industry towards him. Joe blinked in confusion. That road kept going towards the mountains, and the equally-disused ore-mines, far enough that it vanished into a spot in the distance. Last time he'd looked in that direction, mere minutes ago, it had been as empty as always. Even the city's sizable population of vagrants and homeless rarely ventured into the old factory-district – there were enough abandoned buildings in the center of town for them to squat in, and most of them were better insulated. But now, this gray fox was walking towards him like it was the most natural thing in the world, his black coat billowing around him in the wind. A flash of color drew Joe's eyes, and as the stranger drew closer, he noticed that his right paw seemed to be covered in red fur…

His heart started beating faster. The whole scene had a surreal quality to it, like something out of those old episodes of The Twilight Zone that the local TV-station kept running repeats of. The stranger was walking calmly towards him, his face mostly concealed under an old-school fedora that would have looked hopelessly hipsterish on anyone else, but on him merely made him look like he'd just walked off the set of an old gangster-movie. In fact, if it wasn't for the eye-catching flash of red on his right paw, the whole scene would've been perfectly monochrome - gray concrete, black pavement, gray skies, black coat, gray fox. Even the mountains in the background seemed to have had all color leeched out of them by the dark clouds.

However, as the stranger drew nearer, the sudden, overwhelming urge to run began to diminish. Beneath the black fedora, a friendly smile decorated a handsome, gray face. There was really nothing ominous, vicious or predatory about it - it was the smile of someone who spent a lot of time laughing. Taking a deep breath, Joe chased the last remnants of his sudden, superstitious fear away, and nodded at the stranger in a friendly manner. The fox stopped his stride a few paces away, and with his bright-red paw, removed his hat.

His eyes were azure, reminiscent of a morning sky at the height of summer, and mirrored the smile on his lips. His age was indecipherable - he seemed to simultaneously be no older than Joe himself, and far, far older. Perhaps it was because of the trustworthy, almost fatherly look of his otherwise youthful face. "Hello there, young man... might you tell me the way to the nearest city? I'm afraid my car broke down a ways back..." Joe blinked quickly. Well, the guy's mannerisms certainly seemed to suggest a certain age. "Umm... sure. Augustown is just a stone's throw thattaway. Though it's more of a town than a city these days." He gestured back towards it - the parts that were still somewhat alive - and tried not to wince at his own stupidity. 'Twilight Zone' surrealism, indeed. It was just an unlucky guy with a broken-down car. "We've got a good mechanic, too. Ol' Bruin - he can probably fix up your car."

The stranger nodded, smiling even more broadly. "Ah, that's good to hear - I was getting a bit tired of walking, to be honest. I take it your town's got a watering-hole where a weary traveler can wash the trail-dust out of his throat, too?" Joe found himself returning the smile without thinking. The stranger's way of talking was old-fashioned, but it certainly suited the way he dressed. "Of course we do - 's about the only place around here making decent business. Buffalo Bob's Bar and Pool-Hall - just follow the stench of stale beer, and you'll find it no problem... oh, actually! I was just about to head home, and I live right near it. I can show you the way, if you like."

The fox laughed. "Well, that's might generous of you to offer, kid! I guess I'll take you up on it. What's your name?" He proffered his red paw, and Joe took it with only the slightest hesitation, returning the firm handshake. "Joe... Joe Buckley." The paw he was holding felt strangely warm, considering that the guy had apparently walked a long way through the cool autumn weather. "Nice to meet you, Joe. I'm Sirius Heylel Eisenbaum. Just call me Sirius... or Sir, if you prefer." Joe laughed at the joke, turning to walk back towards the town with his new friend - no longer a stranger - beside him. "That's quite a name, Sirius. You Jewish or something?" He would normally have been hesitant to ask such a question so openly, but something told him that Sirius wasn't the kind to be easily insulted. And sure enough, the gray fox just shrugged, making his black coat billow. "Eh, my father is... but me? I don't know about any gods - I prefer just to believe in myself, and my fellow furs."

Sirius' paws made no sound as he walked across the cracked asphalt of the old roadway and, for a time, they walked in silence but for the sharp, clip-clop sound of Joe's hooves. As they crossed the rusting railroad-tracks that marked the unofficial city limits of Augustown, Joe noticed Sirius looking around with a great deal of curiosity, sharp eyes taking in the crumbling, run-down buildings, closed shops and boarded-up windows. "Heh... kind of a modern-day ghost-town, isn't it?" Sirius' voice was light, but Joe still winced a bit. "Yeah. Nothing much here anymore. Used to be something, I hear... but I wouldn't know. It was before my time." The handsome fox nodded, seeming at once understanding and sympathetic. "I can imagine. And lemme guess - you and your family can't afford to leave, since the property-prices around here are measured in empty gum-wrappers, correct?"

Joe sighed miserably. "Pretty much. We're not the only ones, either. Those who don't work with what remains of the local businesses have jobs in neighboring towns, and spend most of what they earn keeping their rust-bucket cars fueled and repaired. Others are surviving - barely - on government benefits. Like my folks." He nearly bit his tongue shutting his mouth. He usually didn't like to talk about his parents. How they'd basically given up. They'd spent years searching for a better life, for work, for opportunities... but they'd found nothing, and for every attempt, they'd looked a bit more tired. These days, they just went through the motions, reading the jobs-section of the paper with hopeless eyes and calling it a day.

Sirius did not reply, and they once again walked in silence, through what little remained of the town, until they reached what passed for the 'city center'. Joe pointed down the road. "Over there's Bruin's Garage. He's got an old tow-truck, so he can probably pick up your car and fix it. Buffalo Bob's Bar is right there, on the corner. Probably won't be a lot of people there this time of day." The fox nodded, his sharp eyes seemingly marking the two locations. Then he turned to look Joe in the eye. There was something vaguely disturbing about the fox's eyes. Maybe it was their unusual color or their nearly unnatural clarity - either way, the gaze made him acutely uncomfortable, and yet unable to look away.

"Thank you for guiding me, Joe Buckley. Let me give you a tip in return... and I'm not talking about money. The system is broken - you know that, don't you? If it was working properly, this city wouldn't be dying, its people wouldn't be living in poverty, and your parents would still have hope. It's rigged, of course. Those who make the rules and set the laws are on the very top, and they have no interests beyond STAYING there. So of course, that's what the system's designed to do - keeping them up there, and you down here. If you want to break out of that... you need to stop listening to what they tell you. Right and wrong, good and evil, moral and amoral - who taught you what those things meant? School? Church? They're all part of the system. They teach you the truths that suit them. The instruments of law do not exist to protect justice, but to protect the wealth and power of their masters. If you let them choose your future for you, you'll always be poor and hopeless. Don't let them. Do what is right for YOU."

The gray fox placed his bright-red paw on Joe's shoulder, and he found himself nodding in understanding. Of course he knew that the system was rigged and rotten. You only had to look around to see that. The government gave his parents just enough money to survive, but not enough to have any chance to escape and better themselves. And they were providing him with an 'education' that would set him up with a future as a menial worker at best. In the end, he was nothing but a serf... but Sirius was right. He COULD do better. He just had to be ready to take whatever opportunities came his way, regardless of those arbitrary rules the system so zealously enforced...

Mind whirring with new ideas, he barely noticed the smiling fox walk past him, towards the garage, red right paw disappearing into the pocket of his dusty coat again. The smile was as friendly as you please, and the sharp eyes were gleaming. Clearly, the face of a man who was always happy to lend his fellow furs a helping paw, or just some sage advice...

'Buffalo' Bob Arnee looked up from the glass he'd been polishing as the bell above the door jangled. The usual afternoon crowd was already all here, so the sound of another potential customer merited at least a glance. One of his thick, bushy eyebrows rose several millimeters as he saw who had entered - a stranger. A gray fox wearing a black coat and a fedora, looking for all the world like he belonged in a 1920's speakeasy, rather than Bob's run-down old bar. Throwing a quick glance over at the table where Sheriff Scrofa was chatting amicably with his waitress, Betty, while nursing his coffee (with a shot of strong whiskey, as usual). Both of them had looked up too, each scanning the stranger in their own way. Betty was obviously assessing his potential tip-value, while Sheriff Scrofa was searching for signs of trouble.

The stranger looked back at them with a friendly smile under his fedora and walked over to the bar to sit on one of the many well-worn, but still sturdy, bar-stools. The eyes that flashed out from under the antiquated hat were bright and filled with mirth. "Well, now... are you the bartender, or the bouncer?" The stranger's pleasant voice made what could've been easily construed as an insult into a fine joke, and Bob replied with a laugh. It was true, after all, that he was somewhat on the beefy side - despite his growing paunch, his stocky water-buffalo frame still had a thick layer of muscle hidden under his slate-gray coat, and he took care to keep it that way. Partially because he enjoyed staying in shape, and partially because... well, he couldn't actually AFFORD to hire a bouncer, and some of the locals COULD get a bit rowdy after they got a few drinks into them. "I've been known to do both. Depends on whether you need a bounce or a drink, I s'pose."

The stranger answered with a laugh of his own. "A drink, for now - whiskey, neat." Bob nodded and pulled a glass and a bottle of his best whiskey out from under the bar. He got the feeling that this fellow wouldn't have any trouble paying for the good stuff, and besides, he already liked him. "Somehow, I figured you'd order something like that. You seem like the type. Yanno, old-school, like from a gangster-movie." The fox grinned broadly, showing off his rows of pearly-white fangs. "Heh, yeah, I like the look. You watch a lot of those kinds of movies?" Bob shrugged as he uncorked the whiskey-bottle and began to pour. "Eh, not really, but my dad used to tell me stories from the old days..."

As he handed the stranger the glass of whiskey, he found himself continuing to talk, feeling far more chatty than usual. "I inherited this place from him, see. It's been in the family for generations, ever since the good ol' days when there was still some life in this town. And, yeah, back during Prohibition, too, when my grandfather was running the place. My dad was just a calf back then, and he thought it was great fun, what with all the secret deliveries from bootleggers and the hidden speakeasy in the basement..." Bob sighed wistfully, remembering the stories he'd heard from his father growing up, and even been told on his granddaddy's knees when he was just a calf himself. Those had been different times. Even the criminals had a sense of style back then.

The stranger chuckled. "I take it THAT place isn't operating anymore, huh?" Bob shook his head, instinctively bending forwards to avoid hitting any of the bottles on the wall with his long horns. "Hah, nah, not for nigh-on 80 years. I just use it for storage-space nowadays. Not that I've got that much stuff to store." The fox nodded in understanding, then threw back the rest of his whiskey before pushing the glass towards Bob, who immediately refilled it. "But you kinda' wish it was, don't ya? Just like the old days. Gangsters and molls and cops on the take, eh?" It seemed a dangerous sort of question, when phrased like that, but they were just talking fantasy, after all, so he shrugged and nodded. "Well, yeah, kinda'. Might've been dangerous work, sure, but at least grandpa made a heck of a profit. I can barely afford to keep the lights on and the kegs stocked these days."

The strange fox chuckled and leaned back, waving one paw through the air. It was bright red - standing out noticeably from his otherwise gray fur and black coat. "Yeah, it's always rough going to be a small business-owner... still, 's funny how we romanticize those days, isn't it? Bootleggers and speakeasies, they were criminals back then. But they operated with impunity because the cops - the very people who were supposed to shut them down - were just as eager to partake of their work as anybody else. Bribes probably seem a lot more compelling when they come with a side-order of hard liquor you can't get anywhere else, eh?"

His head craned a bit and he looked over his shoulder, glancing over at Sheriff Scrofa, who seemed to be dividing his attention equally between the stranger, his coffee, and his waitress - who, as ever, was wearing a short skirt and a tight shirt to encourage tips. Then he leaned conspiratorially forwards over the bar and lowered his voice. "D'ya think it's any different today, though? Looks like you got a tough old boar back there, ready to smack down law-breakers - but suppose he couldn't get that whiskey in his coffee from anyone but a bootlegger. Would he remain incorruptible? Or would he wind up on the take, like his predecessor was when your grandfather was operating?"

Bob couldn't help but hang on the strange fox's words. There was a strange sort of enticement in them, getting him thinking in odd directions. Sheriff Scrofa... yeah, he'd known him for most of his life. The old boar was generally the tough-but-fair type, but it wasn't as if he never 'looked the other way' as a favor to someone. Including, occasionally, a bottle on his desk adding a bit more weight to arguments that it was just 'kids being kids' or whatnot. It wasn't exactly bribery, but... well, it kind of was, wasn't it? Yeah, he could see Scrofa turning a blind eye to a speakeasy back during Prohibition, for the right price. Quickly, he shook his head, trying to clear it. What was he thinking? "I'm sure I can't say... Scrofa's always been a fair and just boar, as far as I know. Besides, it hardly matters - Prohibition ended decades ago."

The fox shrugged and flashed a lopsided smile. "Did it? Well, ALCOHOL-prohibition, sure. But the ol' G-Men are still around, and still eager to stop folks from having fun. Drugs and prostitution and whatnot. You know how a couple of states recently legalized weed? Lots of folks are crossing themselves at the mere thought, but the fact is that it's ultimately less addictive and less harmful than the likes of alcohol and tobacco. 's just 'tradition' that alcohol's fine and weed isn't. And just because of that, lawmen in most states - including this one - are supposed to crack down on anyone partaking in a simple, calming joint... hah. But I'm getting off track. My point was, if your Sheriff is the type who would've ignored a speakeasy for a payout and a drink, what ELSE might he be willing to ignore... and for what price? It's worth thinking about, I'd say..."

Their conversation - or, more accurately, the fox's monologue - was interrupted when Sheriff Scrofa rose from his booth-seat, meandered across the dusty floor with his coffee-cup in hand, and finally landed his broad ass on the barstool next to the stranger. "Howdy there... new in town?" The sheriff's opening line was as subtle as a prybar to the skull, but the fox just smiled pleasantly in reply and reached out his red paw for a handshake. "You could say that. I'm really just passing through, though. My car broke down on the road not far from here - just had Mr. Bruin tow it back to his garage for repairs. He said it might take a day or two to fix it, though... not that I can blame him for that. I get the feeling that he hasn't worked on a lot of Ferraris in his time. He suggested that I call AAA and get it towed to another city instead, but I figured, what the heck - it's not like I'm in a hurry to get anywhere. So I'll probably just crash at the local motel for a bit."

The sheriff, like everybody else in the room, had stopped paying attention to the story halfway through, and asked the question everyone was thinking. "A Ferrari. You drive a FERRARI?" The fox nodded, shrugging it off like it was no big thing. "Well, yeah. An old Ferrari Testarossa from the early 90's. A bit of a temperamental beast, alas. Really, those kinds of sports-cars are barely worth the trouble - sure, they LOOK great, and they sure can go fast... not that I'd ever break the speed-limit, of course..." He grinned and winked at Scrofa, who smiled almost in spite of himself. "...but I swear, they break down if you look at 'em too hard." The fox shook his head and sighed.

The rough-bristled old boar nodded, reminding himself that he should maybe drop by ol' Bruin's place for a drink and a game of poker sometime soon. Or maybe just swing by and say hi. "Right... well, I was just curious, you understand. Lemme know if you need any help or anyone gives you trouble, y'hear? I may be a lawman, but really, I'm just here to help folks." He patted the stranger on the shoulder as he lifted his hefty corpus from the bar-stool, and found his hand held down by a red paw as the fox looked up at him with those almost disturbingly clear eyes. "Oh, I'll keep that in mind, Sheriff, no worries." Then the strange fox released his hand, and Scrofa walked back towards his usual table, feeling slightly unbalanced. He couldn't help but notice, either, that Betty was starin' holes in the back of the guy's black coat, chest heaving under the indecently tight shirt.

Mrs. Shear looked tiredly out across the black, mostly-empty parking lot of the small motel she managed, cigarette hanging loose from the corner of her mouth. It was getting late already, but she was still expecting two more visitors, which would neatly double her occupancy. Ol' Bruin had called earlier, told her that there was a stranger in town and that he'd probably crash at her place - for lack of any alternatives - while getting his fancy car fixed. And based on the gossip she'd picked up on earlier in the day, one of her regular customers would also be coming by.

Her ears perked as she heard approaching voices drifting through the evening quiet, and quickly straightened her headwool - from what Bruin had said, the stranger was a wealthy sort, so he might be inclined to tip. Looking presentable certainly wouldn't hurt her chances of that - she might not have the kind of youthful vivaciousness that Mrs. Lapins' daughter, Betty, used to trick the menfolk out of their coin down at Bob's Bar (the slut), but she still had womanly curves lurking under her wool, and could certainly turn a man's head if she put her mind to it.

Two men rounded the corner, entering her car-park, seemingly deep in conversation. One of 'em she recognized immediately - Doctor Hubert. The tall basset-hound usually looked tired, his wrinkly face giving the illusion of many more years than he really had. No doubt thanks to his shrewish wife who had, as the gossip suggested, once AGAIN kicked him out for the night. She'd seen him tiredly drag his way into one of her motel-rooms many times before, his usual overnight-bag under his arm... but tonight, something seemed different about him. There was an uncharacteristic spring in his step, and the conversation was animated.

Perhaps it was just the novelty of meeting a stranger, she thought. He certainly looked novel enough - a tall, handsome fox, dressed to the nines. His black duster-coat was open, billowing out behind him as he walked, and revealed a nice, equally-black suit underneath it, complete with white shirt and black tie. Even from a distance, his eyes stood out - almost glowing in the darkness, bright and eager. As the two reached her small, neat office, the fox stepped back and beckoned Doctor Hubert through, who nodded gratefully as he stepped inside. "Good evening, Mona." She nodded in greeting. Something was definitely different about him. He was standing up straight, for one thing, showing off his impressive height for once - usually, he walked kind of stooped-over so as not to force others to look up to him.

"Evening. You want your usual room, doc?" He nodded, sighing in annoyance. "Seeing as my 'dear' wife did not desire my company for the night, I suppose so." There was a lot of bite in his voice - rather uncharacteristic of the usually soft-spoken and easily-bullied doctor, and she found herself giving him a second glance as she grabbed the key from the board. She'd never thought of him as a suitable sort of man before - too much of a weakling, much like her own, weak-kneed husband, always going "Yes, dear" when they were together, and then complaining about her while playing poker with his 'mates'. As if every last word he said wouldn't get back to her eventually. But right now, Doctor Hubert seemed... different. Mona wondered if he'd been drinking as she silently handed him his key and gave him a polite nod, her usual affinity for picking up the latest gossip momentarily silenced by thoughtfulness.

As soon as he left, the stranger entered, grinning pleasantly at her in a way that made her suddenly blush. "Mona Shear, yes? Doctor Hubert told me a thing or two about you as we walked over here - he was kind enough to show me the way. I trust you have a room available?" The ewe nodded, and pushed the guest-book over her desk towards him as she got up to grab one of the (many) keys left on the board. "Sure thing, mister. Sign in here, please." The fox picked up the pen and started writing - his handwriting was elegant and neat, she noticed, while she picked a key at random and sat down again. "Okay, then, it's 60 bucks per night - up front, if you don't mind, mister... Eisenbaum."

Grinning, the fox pulled a thick, leather-bound wallet out of his coat-pocket, and withdrew two 100-dollar bill from it. "Well, from what Mr. Bruin said, it seems like I'll be staying here for three days... so I think this should cover it. Keep the change." Eyes widening, she quickly reached out to grab the bill, only to find the stranger's right paw touching her hand. It was red, she noticed. "By the way, Mrs. Shear... I feel I should say, it seems a shame for a woman of your beauty to waste away her years in a place like this. Beauty is a fleeting thing, and yours won't last forever. If you want to use it to get something extra out of life - don't let a chance to flaunt it pass you by." She froze, blushing furiously, and the fox - Sirius was apparently his name - laughed quietly and released her hand to instead grab the key from the desk. "Room 13, huh?" Blinking rapidly, she tried to clear her head. "Uhh... yeah. You're not superstitious or nothin', right?" He just grinned down at her as he turned around to leave her office. "Nah. 13 suits me fine."

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