Paws by Stefan Petrucha

Author:Stefan Petrucha [Petrucha, Stefan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Marvel
Published: 2015-08-18T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

MR. SNUFFLES! We hardly knew ye. Sob.

Still no sign of S.H.I.E.L.D., but with all the big green excitement over and the workday clock ticking, the city’s daily commute gets going. More and more people wander by. Sure, they stare. Can’t help it, I suppose.

They say New Yorkers are unfriendly, but it’s not true. In a hurry? Yeah. Assertive? Sure. And yes, you have to know how to hail a cab. But ask for directions, and any one of them will help you out. Just keep your stupid questions quick and to the point. Haven’t got all day.

The gawking crowd gathering ’round is a perfect representation of the great melting pot: white, black, Hispanic, Asian, male and female, old and young, working class and execs, single parents and same-sex couples. Ignoring their differences, they stand shoulder-to-shoulder, pressing in for a better look.

Not ten feet away, two homeless people are huddled in a doorway, clothes and skin as gray as the street, and no one gives them the time of day. What’s unusual about that? Now, a guy in a red-and-black suit, beaten to a pulp, lying next to a dead Labrador puppy? That’s news.

The smart phones come out like forks at a feast. Memory chips being cheaper than minutes, video is recorded with abandon, despite the fact neither of us is moving.

If any of ’em had really, really good hearing, they might hear my body stitching itself back together. As it is, I must seem pretty bad off, lying here in a stew of my own pureed organics. Mr. Snuffles looks more natural, but that only makes it sadder.

One eagle-eyed gal in a business suit pushes to the front and gets a particularly horrified look on her face. Maybe she’ll finally suggest calling an ambulance?

Nope. That’s the other thing about New Yorkers—they’re full of surprises. She points at me like I came out of the dog’s butt.

“OMG! That’s the dognapper from the news! He killed that puppy!”

“Did not! And he wasn’t just any puppy. Sniff. They called him… Mr. Snuffles.”

Surprised I’m still alive, the ad-hoc group gasps and takes a collective step back. You’d think most people would take a talking gore pile at its word. I know I would, but when assumptions run rampant, the accusations come free of charge.

“How could you do that to a poor helpless puppy, you freaking loser?” says a bike messenger. He takes off his coat and uses it to cover the dog.

“Couldn’t tell you since, like I said, I didn’t do it.”

“Murderer!” the first woman shouts.

“Well…sure, depending on your definition, but…”

A pencil-thin older guy in a three-piece shakes his rolled-up Wall Street Journal at me like he’s gonna swat my nose.

“I don’t believe in the death penalty, but in your case, I’d make an exception!”

“You’re entitled to your own opinion, but not your own facts. I didn’t do it!”

He sneers. He’s heard it all before. “Why would you even say something like that, unless you’re guilty?”

This is worse than talking to the Hulk. Mobs are all about selective hearing.

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