Wounded Arrow: Part Two
It looked at the big Indian dude who had escorted me to my weekly anger management class. He had super long black hair and looked like he could handle himself in a fight. Maybe he was a biker like Dad and my Uncle Nate, for he had that rugged look about him, like he took no guff off of anyone. He reminded me a lot of Wind in His Hair AKA Rodney Grant from my favorite movie, Dances with Wolves. Only instead of being cantankerous like Wind in His Hair was, this guy was nearly talking my ear off there on top of that garage.
“Know why I want to jump?” I said, checking to make sure he wasn’t sneaking up behind me. “My dad is Stone Holland, president of the Elder’s Den. He and Mom had been fighting. Dad hit her and threatened to drown her in a lake. Gypsy, a member of Dad’s club, pulled him off of Mom. Someone reported the fight to the cops, and they decided to remove me from my home, placing me with a stupid cop and his stupid wife! Three months of living with them drove me completely bonkers. They wake me up every day by shooting me with ice cold water from a spray bottle. They measure out my cereal, making sure I only get three ounces, not a bowl full. And it isn’t Trix or Lucky Charms. It’s Bran Flakes or dry Wheat Chex. Sugared cereal is out for me, since some idiot counselor diagnosed me with ADHD.
“They walk me out to the school bus in the mornings, make sure I get on, and then stupidly stand there in their driveway, waving goodbye. If I get into any kind of trouble at school, I’m grounded when I get home, no playing outside, no TV, no Nintendo, and no computer. The Man Cop said ‘Laws and rules are what keep us all in line. We must all abide by these laws and rules in order to survive in society. If you break a law, you are punished. If you break a rule, you suffer a consequence. You, young man, have had no discipline, no proper instructions on how to behave all of your young life, so you need to be retrained, re-programmed in order for you to succeed in life.’
“The Woman Cop said, ‘You were wired wrong. You have several disorders that we need to manage. These disorders, left unchecked will result in you going to detention one day. Eventually, these chaotic disorders will land you in the State Pen, as well. We are your Guardians of Guidance. We are your Saviors, the only ones who can save you from your mad little self!’”
Twenty long minutes passed as Ben tried to convince me that suicide had nothing to do with “toughness.” I remained fidgety as I clung to the ledge, leaning forward every few seconds to let Ben know I was still serious about taking the hard way down.
There came a sharp crash that startled me out of a sound sleep. I actually whimpered and let out a shrill bark as I leaped up out of my bedding in my crate. I bumped my nose and scuffed both front paws on the wires at the front of my crate.
*Shh! Goblin!* warned Grunge, the big, Brindle pit bull chained to the tire rim in front of my crate. *Keep yourself quiet! Bad trouble has come calling, little dude!*
I hated it when Grunge called me that. I was little, I would admit, having only been born into this world two months ago. I just didn’t like to be called dude, because it reminded me too much of how our master talked, using ghetto street slang to make himself sound cool around his like-minded friends. *Grunge?* I said. *Don’t call me that. Told you before I am a dog, not a dude.*
But by then, Grunge and I were both silenced by a loud crash coming from the front of the junk yard, our home of homes. The metal door at the front of the garage swung open and banged against the wall. Duce Hammer, his dragon tattoo gleaming on his bald head, stumbled into the garage. He was pushed by the Boar, a large black man. Behind the two, Koops reminded me of a lizard, with his slick greasy hair and his pointed nose.
“Where’s the pup?” Koops snapped. “Stealing him was a bad idea. Let me check him with this GPS device, and if it turns out the little flea bag has been chipped, you’re getting rid of him!”
Grunge growled as the Boar moved too close to him. The big black man quickly shuffled away from the pit. “Quiet, Grunge!” snapped Hammer as he slapped at the dog.
Grunge wheeled away just before Hammer’s hand could connect with his scarred head. He was quick that way, moving like lightning when he wanted to. Grunge was a rather large pit who had seen his fair share of the fighting ring, and because of his fierceness and his lightning speed, he had survived, his head and bulky shoulders crisscrossed by the scars those fights had left him with.
Koops instructed Hammer to open my crate and pull me out. The moment Hammer held me up between them, Koops ran the GPS device over the back of my neck. Beep! Beep! Beep! rang out inside the garage. Beep! echoed in my ears as Koops ran the device over my neck once more. Koops growled, “You managed to break into the rescue barn, steal you a pup, drag him here to turn into a bait dog! Some special investigator planted a chip on this pup for the sole purpose of tracking him down in order to bust our operation! Get rid of him, Hammer!”