The goal found
Hey, honey, why so shy? We only want some time with you!”
“Yeah, jus’ ah date, swee’heart!”
“Come out!”
Their voices are muffled though discernible through the glass and you shrink away from their words. They’re crazy, those dogs, let alone the wolf and fox. No way are you going back out. The wolf gestures at the door, speaking quietly so that you cannot hear and you take the chance to dive into the lines of flashy clothes, tail whipping around a corner.
Everything is coming to a head and you rifle through the costumes in a panic, throwing the ones that don’t seem to be ‘right’ to the ground. Of course, it can’t be any costume that you have to find. You think that there must be one with a sign, something marked as obvious to both you and the audience. That is how these shows work, or at least that’s what you tell yourself. Your breathing is shallow and you stamp on a Minotaur outfit that is swiftly followed by a burlesque dancer’s outfit, although there was little to that one. There is a ferocious crack and tinkle of glass; the door has given up under a more focused assault and your stalkers are in the building. Your mouth is dry and you scrabble through plastic wrapped costumes, tearing open the ones that you are unsure of.
“There she is!”
They are coming, the fox and the wolf pushing the dogs aside to reach you. Frantic for your life and sanity, you at first pay little attention to the bird — a blue macaw! — costume, but the scrap of pink paper stuck to the front catches your eye. The wolf races down the aisle, teeth bared in a feral grin and gun at the ready. You read the note.
CONGRATULATIONS CONTESTANT, the note reads in chunky, block capitals, a layman’s scrawl. The wolf slides to a halt, raising his fist back as his eyes flash.
You are reading the last words when an ear-splitting siren goes off, the piercing waves reverberating around the small shop. The canines clap their paws to their ears until it stops, their jaws moving in drowned conversation that quickly becomes apparent. With the siren silenced, they cast furious, sullen looks at you with many a rude gesture to be had. A terrier digs his paws into his pockets, fingering a hole and shaking with contained tension.
“Aw, no way!” He finally snaps, trembling. “We never get the good stuff.”
“Yeah.” The Retriever jerks his head. “This show sucks. It’s not ever good for us.”
“Too right.”
Grumbling, the ‘harmless’ dogs make good their retreat with many sighs and groans, few bothering to look back. The fox shakes his head and passes the gun between his paws, catching your eyes and mouthing the words, ‘next time’. A growl builds in your throat and you stomp your hoof on the ground, staring him down until he leaves, following the alpha wolf’s lead out of the shop and...to wherever it is that they are going. You don’t give a damn.
Written by Amethyst Mare on 29 July 2013
