Free Blood Relations by Chris Lynch

brown, square, mean and stupid Rottweiler-Great Dane mix, almost as tall as me. He looks like a UPS truck, and is legend for throwing himself on whatever Augie tells him to, even a moving police car once.
    I turned and walked back to the living room.
    “Where are you goin’?” Terry asked. “Din’ you hear me jus’ tell you it was May Day?”
    “Yo, Mickey-boy,” Augie said from way down in my father’s soft, shredded armchair, “you wanna see what Bobo can do?”
    “No.”
    Terry bellowed. “No? No, you didn’t hear me tell you it was May Day? What are you, goddamn deaf or goddamn stupid? Augie, you hear me tell him, like, pretty goddamn loud?”
    “Heard ya, bro. Personally, I think he’s goddamn stupid, not goddamn deaf.”
    “No. I didn’t say no I didn’t hear you, Terry. I said no I didn’t want to see Bobo’s stupid trick.”
    “Here, watch,” Augie said anyway. He reached over to the end table beside him, took a bottle cap and dunked it into a bowl of onion dip, covering two fingers and a thumb up to the knuckle. “Bo. Yo, Bo,” he said, and flipped the dog the coated metal cap. Bobo snapped it out of the air and chewed on it, crunching and grinding until he’d pulverized it, then swallowing. When he finished, he scooted up closer and sat in begging position in front of Augie. Augie tossed him another cap, without dip, and the dog did the same thing again.
    By now, Terry had walked right up to me. He smelled bitter like vomit even though it was still a little early for that. “So like I said, where are ya goin’?”
    “I’m going out,” I said.
    It was as if he had prepared this, had been waiting for it. “Ya ain’t supposed ta be goin’ nowhere, ya supposed ta be wid us. Ya wid us, Mick?” He spoke low, which was not his way, and with a smile, which was not his way. Slowly, he reached up and unbuttoned the top button of my shirt. “We don’t do that,” he said. “Ya made a mistake, when you was dressin’ so fast.”
    Then he reached down and started tucking the front of my shirt into my pants, never taking his eyes from my eyes. “Yer just such a mess taday, boyo. Ya don’t know which end is up, do ya?”
    I didn’t look away either. I stared right into him as I slowly raised my hands and started buttoning my top button again. “I like it this way. No mistake.”
    “Mistake,” he snarled, and as he tucked, jammed his fist down into my pants. I froze.
    “Now ya wanna see what Bunky can do?” Augie chirped. “It’s even better, ’cause he’s a lot smarter than Bobo. He’s the brains, Bobo’s the brawn.”
    “Get it out,” I said to Terry.
    “In a minute I will. When I’m ready.” He reached up with his free hand and snatched the hat off my head. With his knuckles still jammed against my balls, he tossed the hat into the middle of the floor. “Get it, Bobo,” he said, and when after a few seconds Augie repeated the order, Bobo set himself on the hat. He pressed it to the floor with his big paws and with his mouth tore at the felt like it was wet paper. First he made about a dozen jerky strips, then swallowed each one.
    Terry yanked his hand out of my pants, stepping back and smirking. “I had ya. I let ya go. I can have ya again, anytime I want. Remember.”
    I gave him no reaction, except to untuck my shirt again.
    “So, pull up ya chair, boy,” Augie said, uncapping a Ballantine short-neck bottle and aiming it at me.
    “No,” I said.
    “Why no?” Augie was genuinely puzzled.
    “Because I don’t want it,” I said.
    He stared at me, head tilted to one side. “Your hair’s gettin’ pretty damn long there, kid.”
    “I know it is.” I was starting to feel it, starting to feel the closing in all around. I started to sweat.
    “I ain’t seen him take so much as a sip lately, Augie,” Terry said, snatching the bottle from him. He brought it to me, stuck it under my nose. “Lost the taste, have ya, Mick?”
    It was then I realized that I hadn’t.