Greyhound

Murray Compson rolled over and opened his eyes. The red numbers of his alarm clock read 1:40 AM. He reached for the flask of whiskey on his nightstand and took a long hit. He swished it around his mouth to get rid of the taste of cigarettes and sleep and then he swallowed.

He felt the warmth of the body next to him. He didn't remember her name. She was an ugly, burnt out by life kind of girl but who had apparently been kind enough to sleep with him. He dressed, and left what money he had on the nightstand. She wasn't a hooker but she'd feel like one once she woke up. But that was good, she'd be able to get a warm meal and would never come back to visit.

He grabbed his car keys and walked down the dirty staircase that led to the outside of his apartment. He kicked a bum that was sleeping in the stairwell out of his way and walked up to his four door, 76' Chrysler New Yorker that was parked on the street.

The car was a boat with a giant chrome grill that stuck out like an ugly mouth. Most of the car was a dirt tan but two of the doors where olive green; Murray had stolen the doors from a local dump some years earlier. Supposedly, their were only two 76' New Yorkers left in all of Oregon and Murray owned pieces of both. The car was an absolute wreck; it suited Murray just fine.

At 2:00 in the morning, the streets are empty. The transients, homeless, and drunks are all sleeping. Unless you’re in the middle of downtown, you can drive as fast or as slow as you want. It can be somewhat eerie to drive that far and not see another soul. Murray preferred it it that way, alone. Besides it had to be late, didn't want people sticking their noses where they didn't belong. Murray took another long hit from his flask and stepped on the gas.

He needed to get a lot drunker before he could go to work.

*****

Murray woke up slumped over his steering wheel in front of K.C.'s Greyhound Farm. He pushed opened the door of his car and stumbled out. He reached for his flask and found it nearly empty. As Murray drunkenly stumbled down the narrow halls of the farm, the dogs instinctively moved to the back of their cages. Instead of starting immediately, Murray took a right turn down to the men's room. A side effect from the alcohol, he had to piss every fifteen minutes. After finishing, he splashed water on his face without washing his hands and wiped his hands on his sweat stained trench coat.

Trying to orient himself, he took a long look at himself in the bathroom's filth covered mirror.

Like his father, and his father before him, Murray's bulbous nose and cheeks were stained red from years of heavy drinking and a skin condition called rosacea. While drinking didn't cause the disease it did much to make it worse.

He reached inside the deep pockets of his trench coat for the .22 revolver that he knew would be there. The coldness of the metal against his knotted knuckles did much to sooth him. He looked down regretfully at his coat at a deep red stain. He hoped it was wine but realized it was probably blood.

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and and dialed K.C. on his cell. A sleepy voice answered, "Hello?"

"It's Murray."

"It's the six I told you about," K.C. paused coldly, "Oh and add one more too you list. Goodspeed. I want to be there for that one. I want to do it myself. I'll meet you at the spot in an hour."

Murray started loading the truck out back. His large arms and huge potbelly made the work easy; it was as though he was built for it. He shrug the portable kennel, with the dog inside, up to his knees and then up to his gut. He'd rest the kennel there for a second using his gut like a shelf and then heave it up to the gate of the truck bed and slide it in. He worked methodically; to watch the cold efficiency in which he went about his work was almost to admire him.

To catch his breath, Murray stood doubled over in front of Goodspeed's cage. The animal was awake but didn't stir. He lifted his head briefly when Murray arrived but then laid it back down unconcerned by the visitor. Perhaps the dog recognized Murray but was too hungry or too tired to be concerned.

Murray took a moment to admire Goodspeed. Goodspeed had a perfect white coat, a sign of impeccable breeding. The dog, despite months of beatings and malnutrition still had sinewy long muscles. Caged nearly 23 hours a day, the dog still had a regal and gentle face. Admiring Goodspeed, Murray began to sober and a quiet anger crept over him. He said in a hiss, "Fuckin' dawg. Bred to race and you can't even do that. You’re the type of animal that wouldn't fuck to save your species."

It upset him. The dog was engineered for speed but refused to race. It reminded him of all the deadbeats from the track, trying to be something they weren't. Murray was a monster but at least he knew it; at least he didn't try to fool himself. Murray's resolve strengthened; Let’s face it a dog that wouldn't race was worthless to K.C., hell to most of the world. Murray muttered ti himself, "Just like an alcoholic that won;t drink, what's the point?"

Murray picked up Goodspeed's cage and put him in the back of the truck with the others.

*****

"The spot" was a farm with a horse stable off Marine Drive. A friend, of a shady ass friend owned the place. K.C. wasn't there yet. Murray unloaded the truck. When he finished he went behind the horse stable to take another piss. Behind the stable their was a 20ft tall pile of horse shit next a giant lake of horse piss. The mountain and lake served as monument to the sweat of countless Mexicans and poor whites that had cleaned the stalls for the last 40 years. The smell wasn't as bad as you might think and the pile of shit radiated with a kind of inner heat.

Talking to himself Murray said, “I need a drink."

He reached for his flask but found it empty. "Fuck."

And then without warning, for no reason other than he felt like it, Murray threw his flask into the lake of piss. "No getting it back now I guess."

Murray heard K.C. pull up so he zipped up his fly. K.C. was a cold sonnabitch if there ever was one. The worse thing about him was how normal he looked. He was short, squat, and balding with a huge forehead and horse teeth. He looked nothing like the ruthless bastard he was. He looked liked the guy next to you in line at the grocery store. Murray thought that the fucker should stop being Mr. Normal and just get it over: sprout some horns and a pointy tail or something

Murray walked up to K.C. with the hand he pissed with extended in greeting, "Hey K.C."

K.C. shook Murray's hand, "Hey. Lets do this. My wife is asleep in bed. I don't want her to think I'm cheating."

To K.C. it was just business. It was about the bottom line. Morality was measured in the ledger with black and red. Dogs that didn't race didn't make money. Murray picked up Goodspeed's kennel and As set it at K.C.'s feet. Murray opened the cage but Goodspeed didn't move, didn't even lift his head. Murray pulled the .22 out of his deep pockets. "Here. You wanted to shoot him."

K.C. pushed the gun back into Murray's hand, "Actually I decided against it. The dogs caused me enough trouble, why don't you shoot it."

"What?", Murray tried to hide the surprise in his voice.

"Shoot this mutt and then kill the other ones. Bury them like you usually do."

Murray couldn't help repeating himself, "What?"

Spit started to pool up on the corner's of K.C.'s mouth as he yelled, "are you deaf? Shoot the fucking dog you stupid prick!"

"No.", Murray looked down at Goodspeed. The dog remained still; noble and defiant. Murray wonder if the dog understood what was taking place.

"NO!? If you don’t shoot that dog and I'll throw you outta that cushy apartment. I take away the alcohol. I'll stop protecting you from the real gangsters you owe money to and they'll be in that pretty ass of yours."

With that two shots rang out in the cold night air, one right after the other. There was the briefest of pauses and Murray emptied the rest of the chamber.

*****

It took Murray 2 hours to dig. He worked methodically, to see him work was almost to admire him. After digging a hole big enough and deep enough Murray threw K.C.'s body into a grave under the 20ft pile of shit. He knew that someday the owners might dig up the manure to sell it as fertilizer but he planned to be long gone before that. Besides no one was going to loss any sleep over K.C.'s disappearance, probably not even his wife.

Murray loaded the truck back up and dropped six of the dogs in their portable kennels in front of the Humane Society. He then dropped off the truck in an empty field at K.C.'s farm. He soaked every square inch of that vehicle in gasoline. He took his coat off and lit a corner of it on fire. He threw into the bed of pick-up. The heat from the explosion did much to warm his tired hands.

Murray let Goodspeed out of his cage. Murray called the dog's name in a hoarse whisper and for the first time that night the dog moved. He followed Murray to his beat up New Yorker and jumped into the passenger seat. As Murray merged onto 84 east the sun began to rise and filled the car with a soft light. It seemed like hours since his last drink, the rosecea on Murray's face lightened from a bright red to a soft pink.