Splattered-Out, Ch. 1, pt. 3

The dogs -- there were five of them -- were a truly mangy pack of God-forsaken, alley-skulking, ne'er-do-well creatures. Their fur was matted, their eyes encrusted. The entire lot of them looked sickly and desperate, tongues dangling languidly from their mouths.

The dog at the forefront of the pack snapped the brief silence: "Oi. Got a live one 'ere, eh boys?"

"Yeah," panted a second, "Looks tasty to me, yeah."

Callus hissed, "What do you want, dogs?"

"Oh, just a little fun," the first replied, scratching his ear with his hind leg.

"Just a friendly little game of cards, that's all," said another, with a peculiar doggish casualness. Needless to say, Callus was agog.

"We're the sporting type, you see," added a third.

"Here's the deal," said the first. "One game. If you win, we let you pass. If you lose, you become dinner."

"The cards, Frankie" barked the leader, and before Callus could protest, a particularly scraggly mutt hobbled into view. With a pathetic wheeze, the dog coughed up a deck of playing cards, which landed with a wet splat onto the filthy ground.

Callus turned and cast a dire look backwards. Any minute his pursuers would come storming into the alley, guns blazing. And, in spite of their condition, these dogs were an obviously crafty lot, quick, razor-toothed and ready to pounce. There were too many at this close range for Callus to take out all at once, and even a nip from one of them would surely bestow upon Callus a generous collection of disease and pestilence. His only choice was to play. Fortunately, Callus had some tricks of his own.

He reached out, and, with severe distaste, grabbed the wet, slimy deck. He quickly thumbed through the cards, ensured the deck was complete, shuffled twice, surreptitiously palmed four aces, and proceeded to deal two hands -- one to himself, the other to the pack leader.

Now, two things should be noted here. The first is this: most civilized cultures are known to play one or another form of the game popularly known as Blackjack. In Og Pog's grimy back alleys and side streets, thousands of games can be found at any given time -- indeed, this is how most of the cursed denizens pass their time. Cheating was encouraged. Indeed, for most players, cheating was the main objective.

The other thing that should be noted is that Callus was a proficient card handler, having perfected his sleight of hand early in life. He dealt the cards smoothly -- a jack and queen to his canine opponent, a ten and seven to himself.

The dog liked his odds. "Twenty is good," it said. "Stand."

Callus eyed his adversary with faux distrust, and said, "Well, guess I gotta hit then, no?"

He dealt the first of the palmed cards with machinelike precision. "Ace," said the dog, grinning a maniacal canine grin.

"I'll hit again," replied Callus nonchalantly, and dealt the second of the four aces. "Ah, ace again!"

The dog's grin grew wider; a meal appeared imminent. "Nineteen. Better hit again, boy."

Callus smiled and followed the suggestion, flipping the third ace to the ground. The beast's eyes goggled as it pondered the odds of three consecutive aces.

"Well then, I guess we push, eh? Deal again."

"Nope," replied Callus, "I play to win. I'm gonna hit."

The dog was taken aback at Callus' suddenly businesslike attitude. His face quickly returning to a menacing glare, the dog said, "then prepare to become chow for me and my mates, yeah?"

Callus simply smirked and slowly revealed the fourth ace, staring with complete confidence into the dog's dumbstruck eyes. "My lucky day," Callus growled coldly. "Let me pass."

The dog snarled and sprung forward, teeth bared -- Callus deftly caught its throat hard in mid-flight, clutching its neck forcefully, raising it into the air. He could feel the satisfying crunch of the animal's larynx in his grasp as he pivoted in one swift motion, swiveling, simultaneously dodging a leaping attack from another beast. As Callus pirouetted, he released his grip, hurling the first dog forcefully into the alleyway's brick wall, and, with his free hand, raised his weapon to blast a third dog directly in the face. The shot, traveling the length of the pouncing dog's airborne body, split the animal wide open in a profoundly disgusting spray of blood and decimated entrails -- and, before the ragged chunks had even fully separated and splattered across the walls, Callus was dashing forward urgently through the muck, catching another of the pack mid-stride with a full kick to the jaw, snapping its neck and sending it careening lifelessly into the side of a nearby dumpster with a metallic thud. Sprinting now, the two remaining dogs in pursuit, he ran unobstructed to the opening of the alleyway, now thirty feet away, now twenty, now ten...