Dogs Chase Squirrels 6 - Let Me Finish

(Apologies for missing my original deadline!  This part is a bit longer than the last few, and I took a bit of extra time to get this one down, so I hope that makes up for it.

Also, special thanks to RiotVision for the lyrics further below!  I am terrible at writing that kind of stuff, so I appreciate the assistance!

Anyway.  Without further ado!)

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“ -- I’ll have you know I’ve been a customer for ten damn years -- “

Irene’s attention flittered in and out of the conversation; it wasn’t the first time she had been chewed out by an irate customer, and assuming she wasn’t stuck with an hour of last-minute overtime (she had lost track of how many times she heard “budget cuts” as an excuse at this point), it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

She had also given up on trying to calm the angry voice in her earpiece, too.  If only she could just stomp her problems away.  Or eat them.  Hell, she’d even settle for squirreling those problems away in her tail, lost forever in a sea of fluff.  Pun intended.

The joys of temp-to-hire work.

“ -- and it’s people like you that...damn it, excuse me.  Um, yes.  That’s a #3, please.  Extra ketchup.”

Irene rolled her eyes hard enough that she was sure they’d get stuck that way.  Fucking hell.  At least finish chewing my ass out first before you decide you want to chew a cow’s.

“Ma’am, while I understand your frustration, our return policy is quite clear.  You have ninety days to return a product if it’s defective.  I can’t accept a return on a printer you bought six months ago because you refuse to buy more ink for it.”

“Well, the other lady I spoke to an hour ago said it would be fine!”

“There are only three ‘ladies’ that work here, ma’am, and the other two are off today.  So, no, I still cannot accept your return.”

A series of expletives followed; the squirrel winced her right eye shut.

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this piece of junk?”  the voice shouted in a shrill tone.

I could shove it up your ass, but I’d have to pull that pole you’ve got stuck in there out first.  No thanks.  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but at this point, I can’t give you a refund.  I can offer you 30% off a new printer if you’d like --”

Click.  Irene resisted the urge to bang her head on the keyboard.  She settled for resting her head in her palms instead.

The squirrel woman was no stranger to call center work.  It wasn’t her favorite position to take on when the temp agencies offered it to her, but she couldn’t afford to be picky at the moment.  Besides, it was only for three months, part-time at that, and she was two weeks away from being able to kiss this place goodbye once her contract ran out -- one she would not be renewing.  No amount of money was worth it to get the third degree from angry people who couldn’t tell the difference between a printer and a toaster -- although to be fair, with how fast technology was advancing, a part of Irene couldn’t blame them for the mistake.

She tugged at the hem of her polo shirt as she looked up at the clock.  3:58.  She was only two minutes away from clocking out, and thank God no one had yet to approach her about working overtime.  She already had plans tonight, and the last thing she needed was a stuffy boar in a suit to tell her how important she was to the company, and how big of a favor she’d be doing them to take on some extra hours.  

She didn’t have to worry too much.  Four o’clock came and went, and not a manager in sight.  The squirrel popped her earpiece off, leaning back in her chair as she collected her thoughts.

“Congrats!  You survived another day in Hell,” a voice rang out.  She opened her eyes, looking back at the upside-down image of a raccoon grinning at her.

“Thanks, Rick.  I think.”

Rick chuckled to himself, loosening his tie.  He always overdressed for the occasion; probably an attempt to impress the higher-ups with his professional attire.  To Irene’s chagrin, his outfit was the only thing that qualified as presentable.

“Aw, don’t be like that.  I’m totally serious!  This place has sucked a little less ever since you started here.  You’re from Evershare, yeah?”  Irene nodded her head slightly.  “Knew it.  We’ve always had good luck with Evershare temps.”

“Well, don’t get used to this face.  I’m out of here come November.”

The raccoon feigned disappointment.  Irene was sure he only cared about getting into her pants.  Too bad for him.  She was way more than he could handle -- not that he knew that.  

Irene had to resist every bodily urge to shift whenever her work shift got the best of her.  A day of irate customers made it all the more tempting to use the building as a makeshift seat on more than one occasion.  That might have made the temp agency more than a little upset.  And while being giant had its advantages, keeping a roof over your head and keeping yourself fed (on proper groceries and not littles) were not among them.

“Well, when it comes time to sign on that dotted line, I hope you think about it.  Hey, if you do, you’ll get to see this smiling face every day!”  Rick allowed himself to grin even wider.  Irene lidded her eyes, raising her arm up to shoot him the middle finger.  He let out a quick laugh when she did.  “Okay, okay, I get it.  No one likes being stuck at a call center.  Hey, the guys and I are gonna go out for drinks.  You want in?”

“Can’t,” Irene said, quickly.  “I’m meeting up with an old friend of mine.  Haven’t seen her in three years, and I’m not about to make her wait another three.”

Rick made a quick shrug.  “Suit yourself.  Hey, maybe you should bring her along.  Two lovely ladies are better than one.”  Irene raised her salute up again, pointing at it with her other hand to make her point loud and clear.  This time, Rick frowned, taking the hint.  “Geez, fine, I get it already.  You do you.  Just saying -- you’re missing out.”  With a flick of his wrist, Rick gave Irene a courteous, if not flippant, wave as he turned around and made his way to the elevator.

Irene sighed quietly.  Despite his demeanor, Rick wasn’t a terrible guy.  Usually.  He had a sense of humor, something call centers desperately needed when dealing with customers for several hours a day.  But his overbearing attitude and determination to hit on her every chance he got rubbed Irene the wrong way.  He was the kind of person she’d dangle by the tail if given half a chance, if it meant they’d stop pestering her.  She admitted to enjoying the attention, but there was a fine line between complementary and creepy.  Rick crossed that line on more than one occasion -- so no, she wouldn’t miss this place, and she wouldn’t miss him, either.  Maybe she’d dangle him by the tail on her last day anyway, just for fun.

Irene chuckled to herself, rising up to her feet.  She couldn’t wait to get out of her work clothes -- khakis and a polo shirt were not her style.  Neither were dresses or blouses, but she could tolerate looking like a pro golfer for a few days out of the week.  Thankfully, she’d have time to change into something more appropriate back at her apartment -- she’d need to, considering where she was heading in a couple of hours.

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A short walk through the alley brought Irene to the entrance of a run-down dive bar, its dimly-lit sign reading “Firewater” in flickered red lights near the edge of uptown Denver.  While much of the area had seen sweeping renovations, Firewater and its neighbors had not.  Whether it was due to a lack of funds, or the owner simply not giving a shit (or as Irene guessed, deciding the bar’s grungy appearance was a selling point) was anyone’s guess.

A gruff-looking bulldog leaned against the wall near the rusted entrance door, giving Irene a once-over.  It may have been her first time coming to the bar, but she was good at dressing the part, wearing a long coat over a black t-shirt and matching tattered black jeans.  With a grunt, he nudged his head toward the entrance without bothering to check her ID.  She wasn’t sure if she just looked her age -- already ripening at 24 -- or if security didn’t care as long as they looked old enough.

She wasted no time heading straight for the front bar, navigating through a small crowd to do so.  The building looked small on the outside, and felt much smaller on the inside, consisting of the bar (and an equally rough-looking wolf on the other side, looking more bored than anything else), a small serving area with a few stools and tiny tables shoved aside to make room for the audience -- all capped off with a tiny wooden stage on the far end.  Stickers and labels from a wide variety of indie bands covered the walls and columns keeping the roof up, while robbing the place of valuable breathing room.  Irene recognized a few of the band names -- Metalhead, A Week in Downton Abbey, and Scream at the Abyss in particular -- but she specifically came to see one band tonight.

She waved the bartender down, who gave her a brief glance.  “Whatcha want?” he growled out.

“Jack.  On the rocks.”

The wolf wordlessly reached below the bar, pouring sloppily out of a half-filled bottle of whiskey and chucking a couple of ice cubes in, before shoving it toward her.  “Eight.”

“Eight?”  Irene’s face scrunched at the price.

“Dollars.  Or did you think I was talking about unicorn farts?  You got the money or not?”

“Yeesh.  You must be a hit at parties,” Irene said before reaching into her pocket, pulling out a few wrinkled dollar bills, which the wolf took without saying anything else.

Irene brought the messy cup to her lips, taking a short sip as the band took center stage at the back of the bar; a panther, a deer and a fennec respectively.  The first two took up a guitar and bass, and the third sitting behind a drum set, all worn from heavy use.  Each of them were properly dressed in retro punk attire, from worn black leather jackets and tattered jeans, to loud striped shirts underneath.  The fennec differed from her taller companions by wearing an ostentatious pair of leopard pants, which blended perfectly against her sandy fur.  They took a few moments to tune their instruments, the panther dragging his claws against the strings of his instrument to produce a rough, almost grating chord, made all the more abrasive by the bar’s lack of proper acoustics.

The last to walk through the stage door was a dingo, idly brushing a strand of screaming pink hair out of her eyes.  One side had been cut and nearly shaved down so that her long locks only obscured the right side of her face.  Her ears, dotted with ring piercings, waggled as she looked at the crowd, a wicked grin on her face.  A tattered t-shirt, torn just below her chest, showed off a firm body, along with a pair of black jean shorts torn in much the same way as her top, revealing miles of long legs packed into a tight set of fishnet stockings.  A pair of large black leather boots completed the package.  Her short toes were left exposed, revealing a set of painted purple claws, each tip lethally sharp.

Irene hollored as the dingo took to the stage.  Equal parts striking and authentic, she was the textbook definition of a punk rocker.

The fact she had to duck down to avoid hitting her head on the top of the door frame wasn’t lost on Irene, either.  God, she had to be seven feet tall, at least -- easily towering two-to-one over the fennec, who paid her height little mind.

Taking her guitar by the neck with a meaty hand, the dingo slipped on her neck strap.  The instrument looked a touch too small for her, yet the moment she took to playing the strings, it sounded as if she was born to play.  She reached out for the microphone, bringing the mic to her lips -- it looked comically small in her grasp.

“How are you assholes doing tonight?” the dingo shouted.  A series of cries and shouts followed, making her grin widen.  There was an accent to her voice -- Australian.  “Damn right!  It’s Saturday, I’m ready to get pissed off my ass and tear the roof off this shithole.  How about you?”  The shouting continued, even as the band began to play, Zara taking the lead as she belted out her lyrics.

Preaching from their sacred pulpit, telling us to be ourselves

Yet any time we try to show, we're put through fucking hell

Sanitized tuxedos and bleach-white standard homes

Where the fucking backbone went, no one fucking knows

Forced out of the spotlight, can't show who we are

We break our voices to protest, they've got us seeing stars

Put under the microscope, all over fucking town

Give me a shot, I'll step outside and tear the fuckers down

The best way Irene could describe the band’s aesthetic was “rough.”  Chords sounded off and out of key, and the dingo’s shouting nearly drowned out the band’s best efforts to play, but damn if they didn’t make it work.  It wasn’t long before Irene was shouting along with the rest of the audience, caught up in the energy.  Having alcohol on hand didn’t hurt, either.

Thirty minutes later, and their set was done.  The dingo’s brown eyes found the squirrel’s in the crowd once the set finished, her expression lighting up.  Placing the guitar back on its stand, the dingo jumped off the stage, the crowd quick to move out of the way to give her room.  She walked up to Irene and wrapped her arms around her, giving her a squeeze tight enough to knock the air out of her.

“Irene, you beauty!  Damn glad you made it!” she exclaimed.

“L-likewise!” Irene wheezed out.  The canine gave her one more squeeze before releasing her grip.  “Shit, you’ve still got that bear hug of yours down, Zara!”

Zara flashed a toothy grin down at the smaller squirrel woman.  “Well, if I’m going to be bigger than life, might as well act the part, yeah?  Still can’t hold a candle to you, though, Miss Giant Squirrel.”  Irene couldn’t help but smile back.  Zara was a shifter, much like herself, but was one of many who couldn’t change their size beyond a few extra feet.  Were she her normal height, the canine would barely come up to Irene’s chest.  And that just wouldn’t do -- so she stayed at her maximum height, much to the shock of everyone she ran across.  

Outfit or no, Zara always stood out -- and she loved every second of it.  “Seriously, mate.  Thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Irene exclaimed, having to shout again over the terrible music that the bar began to blast out from the speakers.  “Buy you a drink?”  She shook her now-empty glass, full of melted ice water.

“Yer my guest tonight.  I’m buying, and I won’t hear otherwise!”  Before Irene had the opportunity to protest, Zara slammed a bill onto the counter, thumbing towards the squirrel woman.  The bartender winced before reaching down to pour two more messy cups of whiskey for the taller woman, who took each cup gingerly into her hands.  She handed one of them to Irene.  “Cheers.”

“Thanks, Zara,” Irene said, taking the wet glass into her hand.

“Anytime.  So, you still playing for that band of yers?” Zara tilted the glass back, taking most of her liquor in one swallow.  Irene nodded, taking her time with hers.  “Heh.  Still never took you for a jazz girl.  I’d say you’d gone soft, but hell if those fingers of yours don’t put mine to shame.”  She nudged her head in the direction of the cobbled stage.  “Speaking of, there’s still room if ya change yer mind.”

“Thanks, but no.  I love my band, and you and I both know keyboards don’t exactly scream ‘punk’.”

Zara jabbed a finger at the squirrel, hand still wrapped around her glass.  “Now that’s bullshit and ya know it.  Punk isn’t about exclusion.  It’s about freedom of expression!  Wading through all the shit and coming out the other side mad as hell --”

“-- and sticking it to The Man.  Yes, I know, Zara.  Three years and I can still read you like the back of my hand.  Also, fuck The Man.”  Irene winked up at the dingo woman, who smirked back.

“Hey, ya wanna go out back?  Shit’s getting loud, and I wanna catch up with ya proper.”  Zara motioned to another door to the left of the stage, a faded “Exit” sign flashing above it.

“Sure.  Lemme finish my drink --”

“Take it with ya.  Bar’s cool, and we’re just going behind the building, anyway.”

Irene blinked once, but watched as the larger woman had already begun to move towards the door.  She was quick to follow behind, her tail swaying as she pursued.  As Zara opened the door, a wash of cool air took Irene’s breath away.  Zara paid the cold no mind as she stepped outside, leaning against a worn brick wall on the opposite end of the alley.  She reached into her pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, offering the pack to the shivering squirrel.  “Want one?”

“Sure.”  Irene took a cigarette out of the pack as well as Zara’s lighter, quick to light it.  She allowed the lighter to flicker for a bit before letting it out, using the opportunity to warm her hands.  As Zara’s grasp was full, Irene helped the dingo to light her own before leaning back against the wall herself.  She looked up at the night sky, letting out a long, smoky exhale.

“It’s really been three years, ain’t it,” Zara said, contemplating.  “Damn.”

“Yeah.  I’m sorry I fell out of touch.  I don’t have a good excuse.”  Irene shrugged, but Zara waved it off with her cigarette hand.

“Enh.  Friendship doesn’t go away that easy.  Don’t stress.”  Zara took another inhale of her cigarette.  “Heh, ya still causing trouble with that jackal of yers?”

“Never a day that I don’t.  Although I’ve actually found someone new since then.”

Zara shot the squirrel a surprised look.  “Really?  Good on ya!  What’s the bloke’s name?”

“Actually, her name is Camelia.  And she’s adorable.”  Irene ran a finger across the rim of her glass, her ears turning red -- and not just from the frigid air.  Zara let out a whistle.

“Oooh, Camelia, you say?  Now that’s a lovely name.”  Zara nodded once, taking another draw from her glass, her cheeks already starting to turn flush.  Despite their difference in height, the dingo was terrible at holding her liquor, contrary to her own claims.  “So?  Second base?  Third?”

Irene chuckled a bit.  “First.  But what a first base it was.”

Zara, however, looked disheartened.  “Aww, come off it!  You’re still at first base?  How long have ya been dating her?”

“Technically, we’ve only been on one date, and that was last week.  I haven’t heard back from her since then.”

The dingo shook her head.  “Man, I’d have done the rounds, and I know ya would have as well back in the day.  Not that I’m judging ya, of course.  But I’m totally judging ya.”

Irene gave the dingo a friendly jab in the stomach with her elbow.  “Ha ha.  Okay, wiseass, when was the last time you got any?”

Zara quickly fell silent.  “Erm...why don’t we talk about something else, yeah?”  This time, it was Irene’s turn to smirk.  “And don’t give me that guff!  You’re not the only one who’s been busy!”

“I didn’t say a thing.”  Irene raised her hands up on defense, but it was impossible to hold back her smile.  Zara huffed before taking another drag, tapping her boot on the concrete.

“So.  Tell me about her.  This Camelia of yers,” she said after exhaling, her face obscured briefly by smoke.

“Well, she’s smart, extremely pretty, has a good job --”

“-- yeah, yeah.  Get to the good stuff.”

“-- and she’s...well, just like me.  A shifter.  And a very tall one at that.  Like, she’s big.”

Zara hummed a bit, nodding once.  “I mean, I’m a shifter too, but we never tried anything.  Not that I didn’t want to --”

“Oh, it’s not like that, Zara,” Irene interrupted.  “You’re more like a big sister.  It’s...more than that with her.  I’m probably doing a shitty job of explaining it, but...I feel something with her, something I haven’t felt with anyone else.  Not even Sy.  Don’t get me wrong, I would pounce her in a heartbeat if she gave me the chance.”

“1 to 10.”  Zara shot Irene a playful glance.

“12.  Easily.”

“Wow, so hot you’re totally breaking the rules to describe her.  I like that.”  Zara grinned.

“Oh, I’d break a lot more than that around her, believe me.”  That comment brought a chuckle out of the punk dingo woman.  “But seriously, there’s more to her than just her looks.  I feel like there’s a connection between us.  I could totally be myself around her, and not get any weird looks or people thinking I’m some kind of scary monster or something.”

“But you like that about being a shifter.”

“Yes, but...ugh, I don’t know how else to explain it.  She just...gets me.”  Irene finished off her cigarette, flicking the butt down the dark alley with two of her fingers.  “I want more than just sex.  I want to do more with her.  A lot more.”

“Really?  Well, that’s good.  What does she do?  She a musician?  Oh, let me guess, she’s a punk chick!”

Irene hesitated for a moment.  “You’re going to laugh.”

“Try me.”  Zara took a moment to finish her drink as she awaited Irene’s reply.  Irene shuffled her feet.

“She’s...a librarian.”

Zara’s eyes shot open wide as she spat out what remained of her whiskey, dropping the glass as it shattered on the ground below.  Flecks of spit flew out as she struggled to catch her breath, the alcohol burning her throat.  She leaned heavily against the wall, pressing her palms flat against the bricked surface, letting out large, heaving hacks.  The moment she caught her breath, however, she did laugh.  Hard.  Irene groaned in distress.

“Fuck, I knew you’d pull this shit!” Irene shouted.

“I’m sorry, r-really!  It’s just...you’re serious.  A librarian?  You’re dating a damn nerd, of course that shit’s hilarious!”

Irene’s tail ruffled as she pressed her arms at her sides, fists clenched.  Despite sharing a staggering amount of interests with her, Zara’s taste in men (and women) differed greatly from her own.  Zara knowing just how to get under Irene’s skin didn’t help.  Despite the flash of anger crossing her face, she had enough civility to allow Zara to recover.

“Okay.  Yes.  She’s a librarian, and trust me, I thought the same thing as you did --” Zara raised her hand as if to reply, but Irene gave her no quarter to do so.  “-- let me finish.  Trust me when I say this, she is nothing like what you see on the surface.  This girl is dangerous, and in the best way possible.”

Zara wiped a tear from her eye.  “Let me guess, she can throw a book at you from 50 yards out?”

“Zara!”

“Okay, okay, sorry!  But do humor me.  What makes a librarian dangerous?”

“She shifted.  In broad daylight.  And no one gave a shit.”

“But you do that shit all the time, don’t you?”  Zara crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her head a bit.

“Yes, but not at 3 in the afternoon, and definitely not in the middle of a park!  I prefer to keep my gigantic excursions a nighttime affair.”

Zara scoffed.  “More like you’re afraid of the cops.”

“Oh, cops don’t scare me.  Their guns are a different story.  You ever been shot at?  It’s not fun, let me tell you.”

“Can’t say that I -- wait, you’ve been shot at??”  

Irene waved her hand dismissively.  “Let’s keep the focus on my date, could we?”  Zara prepared to raise a protest, but sighed, shaking her head in dismissal.  “Anyway, yes.  She made herself huge.  An actual giant, and everyone just passed her by like it was nothing.  Hell, she’s got more balls than I do.  Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about her.  She’s everything I wish I was.  Successful, brave as all hell --”

“You forgot hot.”  Zara shook herself out of her confusion to shoot the squirrel a wry grin.  Another jab into her stomach followed.

“Oh, I’ve got that in spades, honey.”  Irene grinned, before looking down at her feet.  “I’ve thought about owning up to it, like you do.  Being tall all the time, I mean.  But every time I want to, I always think back to Sy, and how worried he gets anytime I tease him about being gigantic.  If it was a complete stranger, I wouldn’t give a shit, but...I can see it in his eyes.  He doesn’t think I notice, but I do.  I terrify him.  And a part of me loves that I do.  But there’s another part that doesn’t.  I can’t pull that kind of crap around Sy without him freaking out.  Makes getting past first base with him a bit of a slog.”  She gently dug the toe of her boot into the ground, falling silent.

“And this Camelia of yers makes ya feel like you don’t have to hide it?”  Zara’s brash demeanor fell away, her voice soft.  Irene nodded in return.

“Exactly.  Not that it’s ever stopped me before.  I do put up a good front with the band, at least.  But with Camelia, I can just be me.  And that excites me way more than having sex with her.”  She spread her fingers apart, as if to pinch the air.  “Just barely, though.”

Zara let out a gruff laugh, finishing the last of her cigarette before giving Irene a firm slap on the back, nearly causing her to tumble forward.  “Heh.  Well, that’s good enough for me.  Sorry about ribbing ya so hard.  You know it was all in good fun.  I’m just glad you’re happy.”

“It’s only because I can dish it out as hard as I can take it that I let you get away with being such a bitch.  But thanks.”  Regaining her balance, she reached into her pocket to pull out her cell phone, swiping the screen as she began to type in a text message.  Zara’s curiosity got the better of her as she peeked over the squirrel’s shoulder easily.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Setting up date number two.  And I know just the place.”  Irene smiled as she finished preparing her message.

“Awesome.  But seriously, though.  You’ve been shot at.  Bloody hell.”

“Happens to the best of us.”  With a smirk, she hit the Send button.