Free Don't Order Dog by C. T. Wente Page B

stare as he gulped back its contents.
    “Relax, Chilly… it’s just B12,” he said as he casually tossed the empty vitamin container at him. “Keeps me sharp. You don’t honestly think I’m gonna poison this pristine temple of a body, do you?”
    He smiled and shook his head as Tall Tommy briefly assumed the pose of a Romanesque statue, then grabbed the air in front of him and started thrusting his pelvis slowly.
    “Besides, I’ve gotta keep it fresh for the ladies.”
    “Christ, you and Dublin should hang out together.”
    Tommy shrugged and went back to unpacking his bag. “No chance. Dublin would fuck pond scum if it had legs and a pair of breasts. He and I are not exactly playing in the same league.”
    “I don’t think he’s even playing in the same species.”
    Tommy laughed as he pulled a thin manila folder stamped with a 6-digit number from his satchel and flipped it open. “Any surprises for me tonight?” he asked as he thumbed through the pages.
    “Nada,” he replied, his voice low and quiet. “Like clockwork so far.” He watched as Tall Tommy quickly scanned the information, his brow furrowed in concentration. Even though he’d gotten the packet days ago, this was undoubtedly the first time he’d stopped to read it.
    “When did the package show up?” Tommy asked.
    “About seven hours ago.”
    Tommy snapped the folder shut and tossed it onto the coffee table. His eyes danced around the room before settling on the object that sat at the kitchen bar. He walked towards it slowly. “Seven hours, eh?” he said with an edge of awe in his voice before letting out a soft whistle. “Is that how long it usually takes to do this?”
    “Depends,” he responded dismissively. He never liked to discuss the details. His job, like Dublin’s and Tall Tommy’s, was a solo one for a reason. “Each one’s different.”
    “Yeah, no shit,” Tommy whispered, his stare fixed solemnly on the object. “Okay… I’ll take it from here, mate. Our man is doing his cameo in about six hours, so I better get started. Is all of your gear accounted for?”
    He nodded.
    Tall Tommy pulled two latex gloves from his pocket and looked around the room. “Anything off-list get touched?” he asked as he quickly snapped the gloves over his fingers, a cloud of talcum dust swirling in the air.
    “Nope.”
    “Sweet,” Tommy responded, pulling a tiny, expensive-looking pair of earphones from his pocket and placing them carefully over his ears. “Well then , Chilly, don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”
     

12.
     
    “Peace Corps,” the pasty-faced young man mumbled, staring at the wall of the saloon in front of him. “The guy’s gotta be in the Peace Corps.” He turned to his college friends and raised his arm in the air. “Ready?”
    The two other young men raised their arms and the three nodded a silent toast before slugging back the shots of vodka. A brief grimace etched their faces before turning into a conspiratorial grin.

“Whoa – shit!” His long-haired friend gasped, setting the shot glass on the bar before tightening the hair tie of his ponytail and adjusting his glasses.
“That’ll fuck you up!” 
    “We’re doing another one in five minutes,” the third man replied, lightly punching both his colleagues in the chest. He was nearly a head taller than the other two, with thin, tattoo-covered arms. “And don’t even try to pussy out.” He looked again at the ‘shrine’ of letters pinned to the wall inside of Joe’s Last Stand Saloon, his expression thoughtful as he stroked his patchy beard. “H e’s not in the Peace Corps, bro,” he replied. “Peace Corps people don’t move around that much. They stay in the same shithole place for like two years or something.” He squinted at the photos. “Can’t really see him, but I’d also say he looks older than most of those Peace Corps hippies. He’s probably in that Doctors Without Borders group. They’re kind of like the