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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781496965738 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 01/28/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 188 |
| File size: | 182 KB |
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Puppy + Prey
By Trevin Thomas
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2015 Trevin ThomasAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4969-6574-5
CHAPTER 1
"You mean ... in dogs years?"
Serving others can feel like slavery, without the proper compensation. Sometimes a simple reward suffices, but often a lack of gratitude or respect will cause people to crack. Slaves will happily work without pay, if they live in luxury like beloved pets, though paid workers can sink into despair despite their many opportunities. No one sacrifices anything without expecting something in return, whether that's food, money, protection, satisfaction, or love. Without compensation for their efforts, humans are more prone to depression, desperation, and impulsive decisions.
I'm not paid enough for this, thought Ken Inumura.
Ken, already stressed from a late dinner rush, impatiently listened to a guest complain about his steak. Resisting the urge to slap the man's fat, bald, tattooed head, he stood at the plush, burgundy booth grinning like a jackass, folding his hands and bowing in apology.
"Yes, it does look medium-rare to me," Ken said, contrary to his contrite smile.
The man's inked scalp bloomed red.
"Are you mocking me, you little shit?" He scooped a wine bottle off his table and tilted it back, growling when he realized it was empty.
"Please, sir, there are kids here." Ken motioned down the aisle.
Two booths over, a small girl nibbled on a crispy chicken breast like a squirrel, with buttery sauce dripping down her fingers. Her bushy tail brushed crumbs off of her seat, as she savoured her meaty treat. The fat man noticed her extra appendage, and he nearly spat on the floor in disgust.
"A mod? You serve those mutts here, too?"
"Everyone is welcome at À La Mod," said Ken. "Besides, we are a mod themed restaurant ..."
"You know, I've had just about enough of your lip, boy. Where's your manager?"
"I'll get her for you," Ken said eagerly. In his haste to end the unpleasant interaction, he almost started jogging back to the kitchen. "Er, would you like me to make you another steak, sir?"
"Yes, I would," said the guest, but as Ken reached for his plate, he smacked his hand, grabbed his fork and knife, and stole a bite. "And make sure it's cooked properly next time," he said, stuffing another hunk of beef into his full mouth, "or I swear I'll get you fired."
Ken's fake smile melted into a scowl, but rather than pick a fight with an apparent thug in the middle of the crowded restaurant, he clenched his fists and left the man to enjoy his complementary meal. He stormed through the kitchen door, too irritated to bother looking through the window, and slammed straight into one of the servers.
"Whoa!" Ken gripped the boy's shoulders, saving him from a fall. "Sorry, Max."
Fortunately the boy wasn't carrying any plates. Max flashed a cute smile, rubbing the spot where the door hit him—right beside one of his floppy ears. The mod looked about twelve and wore a tuxedo. He was also covered in curly golden hair, except for his face, though his nose was darker than the rest of it, almost black, as if he'd suffered frostbite.
"Don't worry, that was my fault," said Ken. "You okay, buddy?"
Max nodded, gave the thumbs up, and bounded into the dining room.
Ken exhaled and went to find his manager, slowly, to admire the view on the way. For servers, the dress code at À La Mod included a tail, floppy or pointed ears, fur, and in the case of the women, a maid uniform. Shapely blonde and brunette legs stretched out from under frilly skirts, fluffy breasts threatened to spill over their cups, and everywhere Ken's eyes roamed, they found ribbons and lace.
In his white chef's clothes, Ken appeared dull by comparison, with his totally regular almond skin and black hair. His one notable feature, a pointlessly short ponytail that more closely resembled a puppy tail, distinguished him from the other human cooks, yet he felt something like envy for the male mod servers.
He noticed the way their tuxes bulged and their silken manes flowed as they strut throughout the restaurant, and he noticed the way women noticed. He also noticed the pretty redhead bending over to retrieve a fallen spoon. Distracted, he stumbled face first into a pair of warm pillows. A rough cuff to his head forced his eyes shut.
"Watch it, Ken!" a woman hissed, before sighing. "You know, if you wanna confess your love for me, there're better ways to do it."
Ken opened his eyes to find himself peering down a valley of flesh. Startled and embarrassed, he leaped back, tilting his head up to meet the tall woman's fierce gaze. She sneered down at him, hands on her hips. An untamed tangle of orange hair spiraled around her pouty face like flames.
"S-sorry, Sis. I—"
Suddenly she snatched him up and squeezed him into a headlock, crushing his skull between her hard bicep and her soft body.
"How many times have I told you not to call me that at work, huh?"
"It just slipped out!" Ken gurgled, thrashing like a mouse under a cat's paw. "I didn't mean it!"
"What was that?" She increased the pressure. "I didn't mean it ...?"
"Trish! I didn't mean it, Trish!"
Trish finally released Ken. He scrambled away, pressing gently on his head, as if sculpting it back into its proper shape.
"Damn it ..." he moaned, fixing his tiny ponytail. "What's wrong with you?"
"Oh, hush," Trish said, blushing for some reason. "I could've killed you if I tried, so quit crying."
Ken only sighed, knowing she might actually murder him if he called her a bitch, or an ape, or any of the other insults on his tongue. "Anyway, table eight called for the manager, so get going."
"Huh? What'd you do this time?"
"Nothing. The guy's an asshole, you'll see. Oh, and if he asks for something to drink, I cut him off. He's already finished two bottles, and who knows what else he had before coming here."
Trish grunted in aggravation. "Whatever. I'll handle it. Just get back on the grill."
Ken shuffled to his station beside the other cooks, grumbling when he saw the new tickets that had sprung up while he dealt with the drunk thug. Hoping other guests could stomach minor discrepancies of red and pink, he focused mainly on seasoning and searing the thug's steak, carefully counting the seconds it spent sizzling.
Halfway through this process, Ken heard Trish shout from the dining room:
"You've already eaten half! Pay up, or get the fuck out!"
He chuckled, shaking his head. Regulars might have expected these sorts of outbursts from Trish and continued eating, but Ken could only imagine how shocked the man looked as she towered over him, one hand ready to yank his plate away, the other balled into a fist.
The thug must've decided to pay, because Trish stomped back into the kitchen empty-handed, swearing under her breath. She marched straight up to Ken, threw back her head, then spit on his second steak.
"Table eleven has a birthday," Trish said nonchalantly. "When you're finished up here, grab a dessert and go sing."
"But—"
"Mods can't talk, and I'm sure as hell not singing. Hop to it!" With that, she patted his shoulder and strut off, leaving him to gawk at the frothing glob of mucus she left on the grill.
"But ... that wasn't his steak." Ken sighed, tossing the soiled beef into the trash.
After plating the final dish on his tickets, Ken placed it under the heat lamps, grabbed a slice of chocolate cake from the fridge, and headed for table eleven. In case they saw him approaching, he feigned excitement along the way, but when he realized whose birthday it was, he genuinely smiled.
The little girl beamed up at him, her long tongue resting on her lip, while her owner finished wiping down her buttery fingers with a napkin. Ken set the cake down in front of her, and after she cautiously sniffed it, her tail happily thumped against her seat, and she clapped her hands.
Too cute! Ken thought, clearing his throat.
"Happy birthday! And what's your name, honey?"
"Honey, actually," her owner chuckled, a plain middle-aged man. "She's eighteen today."
"Eighteen?" Ken blinked at the girl, as she sipped at her wine. "You mean ... in dog years?"
"Sorry," the man laughed again. "It can come as a bit of a shock to some people, but they don't call them mods for nothing, right? I had her growth capped, so she'll stay my sweet little girl forever. Wonderful, isn't it? Genetic modification truly is a miracle ..."
Ken hesitated, inadvertently staring at the girl. She drained her wine and picked up her cake, nibbling off the frosting and giggling.
Her owner sighed. "I just wish she'd use her fork ..."
Suddenly a harsh bang and the distinct clattering of dishes cut the nearby chatter, and gasps rippled behind Ken. Whimpering breached the sea of silence, followed by a belligerent voice:
"So, that hair's not yours, huh? Why don't you take a closer look, mutt?"
Ken spun, and the second his brain registered Max face down in food, he dashed to his rescue, ripping the thug's hand off his head.
"What do you think you're doing, you—!?"
A chunky fist smashed his gut, dropping Ken to his knees. Paralyzed, he tried to chew him out, but all he could manage was a choked, "Bastard ..."
"Don't put your hands on me, punk-ass," the thug spat, sitting smugly in his booth. "Honestly, I've never had such poor service. But that's what you get with a bunch of retarded slaves."
Ken attempted to retort, but his lungs hadn't filled yet. Meanwhile, Max cleaned his face with the handkerchief from his breast pocket. Blood from his nose mixed with sauce from the steak.
"Whatever you paid for him, it wasn't worth it," said the thug.
"Max is a good kid," croaked Ken. "He was just doing his job."
"Job?" the thug snorted. "Last I checked, you get paid for a job. Does he work for treats? A cage to sleep in at night? It's thanks to little shits like him that I can't find any work nowadays. But I get it; why pay a real man when you can get a half dog to do it for free? I swear, this whole country's going to shit because of these fucking mutts."
"Shut up," Ken growled, rising to his feet. "Just shut your mouth! What the hell do you know, anyway? Max is here every day, busting his ass for ungrateful assholes like you! He never sees a cent, but at least he pulls his weight. How do you make your living, huh? Selling drugs? Stealing? And you blame him for this country going to shit? If he's a mutt, then you're even lower than a dog."
"What the fuck did you say!?"
The thug launched out of his seat, literally butting heads with Ken. Ken didn't budge, despite the throbbing ache drilling above his eyebrow. The two men glared head-to-head, seething—
"ENOUGH!" Trish bellowed, making them flinch apart. "You," she stabbed her finger at Ken, "meet me out back. And you," she pointed to the thug, "fuck off. Nobody treats my pup that way."
The thug scoffed. "Are you this blond bitch's master?" he asked, motioning to Max.
"I wasn't talking about him," Trish said, cracking her knuckles.
Ken palmed his own face, as the thug erupted in coarse laughter. "Whatever, lady," he said, pushing past Trish and heading for the front door. "I'm done with this dump, anyway. Thanks for the free booze, fuckers!" Moments later, a motorcycle engine roared, gradually fading into the distance.
Trish turned to berate Ken, but he somehow slipped by her like some morose ghost, dragging his feet and rubbing his temples. Instead she turned to Max and pet his curly head, before addressing the flustered customers.
"All right, people, the fight's been cancelled. Eat, eat!"
At her command, the familiar clacking of steel on plates returned. A surge of restless gossip chased Trish as she lead Max to the staff washroom, careful not to let his blood drip on the floor.
After a while, she escaped the stuffy kitchen through the backdoor, inhaling the humid night air. The sky loomed starless above, its radiance overpowered by streetlamps, digital billboards, and the luminous logos adorning sleek glass skyscrapers. Ken sat slouched on the nearby stairs, gloomy in contrast. She leaned against the railing beside him and ignited a cigarette.
"You cooled off yet?" she asked.
"Why are we out here?" he sulked. "Am I in trouble or something?"
"Trouble?" Trish chuckled, sucking on her cigarette. "Of course not. Hell, I say you should've hit the guy. I just thought you could use a break."
"Oh," said Ken. "Thanks, I guess."
"Why're you being such a baby right now? Is it because Max got a little bloody nose? He's fine. I cleaned him up, and he's already back to work."
"It's not that. That guy in there was just so ..."
"Let it go. Any asshole who would hurt a sweet boy like Max isn't worth losing sleep over. You'll probably never see him again, anyway."
"Not him," said Ken. "The older guy, with the little girl."
"What girl? The birthday girl?"
"Yeah. Her owner said he had her modified so she'll never grow up. She'll just stay a little kid, never knowing any better."
Trish exhaled a stream of smoke. "So?"
"So?" Ken snapped, swiveling. "Eighteen, Trish. She's eighteen years old. She looked so happy, too, like she was perfectly fine being his pet forever. Doesn't it bother you knowing that she'll never live her own life, never be free? I mean, her entire existence is just to be some old man's ... lapdog."
Before responding, Trish dragged deeply on her cigarette, as if it helped her think. "That's just the way mods work, Ken. U-GeneTech cooks them to order, they're pets until they're about Max's age, and then they float around from owner to owner and job to menial job until they die. The rest of the world demanded an end to human slavery, and they're just the solution we have to live with now. Anyway, I don't hear you complaining about those waitresses you drool over all day."
"They're different," Ken stated defensively. "They might be slaves now, but if they were free, I'm sure they could live on their own."
"I doubt it. They'd never survive without humans. They're stupid and obedient on purpose. Leave one alone long enough, and it'll sleep in a corner until you give it a command. If you ask me, they're just slightly smarter dogs with hands."
"You're wrong," Ken said, rising from the steps and locking eyes with Trish. "They're human, just like me and you. They just need someone to lift them up, you know? Someone to teach them and give them some support. Weren't you the one saying you'd start paying them if you owned this place?"
"Not with money. What would they even do with it? I just think they should get some sort of reward, that's all. Not just somewhere to sleep and enough to eat, but ... I don't know, treats or presents or something." She dumped her ashes over the railing. "Anyway, I don't own this place or those mods. They're company property, so it doesn't really matter what I think, does it?"
"Of course it matters," said Ken, leaning against the wall across from Trish. "You know what it's like to live like a dog, working and waiting for nothing. That freedom we felt when we finally ran away from the orphanage ... Don't you want that for those people in there?"
Trish took another puff. "They're not people, Ken. The sooner you cope with that, the better. Besides, I certainly didn't feel free, working at twelve to support your ass."
"You know what I meant," Ken said, folding his arms.
"Why do you suddenly care so much about mods, anyway? Pretty soon, you won't even have to worry about them anymore."
"Huh?"
"Huh?" Trish mocked him. "What do you mean, huh? It's illegal to own mods anywhere else, and aren't you leaving the country soon?"
"That was the plan, but ..."
"But ...?"
"I dunno. I guess I feel like I'd be ignoring the problem or something, like I'd be abandoning all the mods if I left, you know?" Ken exhaled. "That sounds pretty dumb, right? What could I do for them, anyway? That said, the kind of house I want is pretty expensive. Maybe it'd be best if I stayed. I mean, I've been saving up for a few years, and I think I know where I want to move, but—"
Trish laughed inexplicably. "Say no more. I get it. You don't want to leave me behind, eh?"
"W-what?" Ken stammered, turning away and turning red. "No. It's a huge decision, that's all. I mean, I'd still miss you. I care about you, obviously, I just—"
Trish gripped his shoulder firmly, not hard enough to hurt him, but tight enough to convey her concealed feelings.
"Relax. I was teasing," she smiled. A breeze tousled her orange tangles. Ken rarely considered it, but with her smouldering green eyes and full feminine figure, Trish was quite beautiful. "It's been a pretty rough shift. Why don't you take the rest of the night off, all right? I'll cover for you."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Puppy + Prey by Trevin Thomas. Copyright © 2015 Trevin Thomas. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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