The afternoon began with a hollow, metallic sound that echoed through Ricky's kitchen like a death bell.
Clang. Clang. Thud.
Ricky was standing over his trash can, shaking his blue pastel coffee tin with the desperation of a man panicking for oxygen. A single, lonely coffee ground grain fell out, mocking him.
"You're lying," Ricky whispered to the empty tin. "We had a deal. I bought you on Tuesday. It's only Friday. There is no physical way you are empty unless you're leaking into a parallel dimension."
He stuck his nose into the tin, inhaling the faint, ghostly aroma of what used to be his sanity.
"Don't do this to me," he groaned, tapping the bottom of the can. "I'll give you anything. I'll wash the filter. I'll stop calling you 'generic sludge' behind your back. Just…give me one more cup."
The tin remained silent. Ricky slammed it onto the counter. "Fine! Be that way! See if I care when I replace you with a brand-name canister!"
Ricky turned back and tried the 'growl'. He knew it worked on the coffee maker. He pulled from deep inside.
GRRRRRRRR!
He looked in the can, still empty.
He stormed over to the table beside the couch and grabbed his crumpled pack of cigarettes. He tapped it, it was light. Too light. He peeked inside to find nothing but loose tobacco flakes and a filter that had seen better days.
The Stop-n-Go was only about a mile down Highway 52. A straight shot through the humid swamp-like air. Usually, it was a peaceful walk. He did the same walk every time he worked.
Ricky needed coffee. He couldn't not have his coffee. And if he didn't have a cigarette soon, he was going to chew the end of his fingers off. Checked to make sure he was out of the powdered doughnuts. He had some of the chocolate ones, but he was worse than an addict when it came to the powdered ones. He even kind of looked like one when he was done eating them.
He walked out his front door. It was supposed to be a simple errand, walk to the Stop-n-Go, buy supplies, walk back. He'd done it a hundred times, walking back and forth to work. The gas station was just past the old tire shop and the abandoned theater that now only hosted raccoons and teenagers making bad decisions.
He had checked the calendar before he left so he wasn't even thinking about the full moon. The clerk behind the counter—a guy named Steve who had stared at the same spot on the wall since 1998, Ricky didn't like to work the same shift as him because he never did anything—gave him a weird look when Ricky bought 6 packs of the powdered doughnuts and a carton of milk along with his cigarettes and coffee, but he didn't comment. Small blessings.
Ricky stuffed everything into two plastic bags and headed back out into the humid early evening air.
The walk back was busier than he'd expected. Cars whizzed past on the highway, their headlights cutting through the dusk. Ricky walked along the gravel shoulder, bags swinging from his hands, thinking about whether he should watch TV tonight or finally organize that junk drawer in his trailer that had seemingly gained sentience.
That's when he felt it.
A tingling sensation started in his fingertips and shot up his arms like a static shock from a bad carpet. His skin felt tight, like a suit that had shrunk in the wash. His teeth ached, a deep, grinding throb in his jaw that felt like he was chewing on tinfoil.
"Oh no. Not now."
He stopped walking, setting down his bags in the weeds. When was the full moon? He'd checked the calendar just before he left. It wasn't supposed to be until the 19th. The calendar said the 18th before he left. So today was definitely not the 19th.
Ricky looked down at his digital watch, squinting in the fading light.
SEPT. 19th- 7:34 PM
"Shit."
The transformation hit him like a rogue wave. His bones shifted, compressed, and rearranged themselves with a sensation that was deeply uncomfortable but not quite painful—he'd been doing this long enough that his body knew the drill.
He comes up and out of his clothes like a magic trick in reverse. His shirt collapsed around where he'd been standing. His jeans crumpled into a heap. His shoes sat empty on the gravel.
And where Ricky the man had stood, there was now a chihuahua.
A very small, very fierce-looking Chihuahua with glowing amber eyes that reflected the headlights of passing cars like tiny demonic roadside reflectors.
Paco.
I have to get back. NOW!
Paco's thoughts were still Ricky's, they were still his own—the were-curse didn't rob him of his mind, just his thumbs and the ability to open doors. He looked at the bags of groceries, at his abandoned clothes, then at the long stretch of highway between him and home.
He started running.
Well, running was a generous term. His little legs churned as fast as they could, his paws making tiny click-click-click sounds on the pavement. Cars roared past, the wind from their wake nearly knocking him over. A trucker honked, the air horn sounding like the trumpet of the apocalypse, and Paco's ears flattened against his head in terror.
Come on, come on, just get to the park. Just get home. If I can get to Mira's ramp, I can hide under the deck.
He made it, maybe three blocks.
That's when he heard it; the rumble of an engine slowing down behind him. Not a car. Something bigger. Clunkier. He glanced back, and his glowing eyes widened in horror. The Dog Catcher's Van. The White Whale. The Beast.
"Hey there, little guy," a voice called out. "Where do you think you're going?"
Paco tried to run faster, but his legs were only four inches long and the asphalt was slippery with oil. He heard footsteps behind him, boots crunching on gravel.
NO…No…No…
The net came down over him like a nylon sky falling. Paco yelped–a high pitched, distinctly un-werewolf-like sound—and tried to scramble out, but the dog catcher was already gathering up the edges.
"Gotcha! Poor thing, running around on the highway. You could have been hit."
The dog catcher—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a county employee jacket that smelled like bleach and wet fur—lifted Paco up, net and all. "No collar, huh? Guess we're going to the shelter,"
Paco's glowing eyes met hers. He tried to look as fierce and intimidating as possible. He channeled the rage of a thousand wolves. He bared his tiny teeth and growled from his diaphragm.
"Awe, what a feisty little guy! Don't worry sweetie. We'll get you checked for a microchip, and everything will be fine."
Everything will NOT be fine! Paco thought desperately, thrashing in the net. I'm not a dog. I'm a werewolf having a really bad night! I pay taxes! I have a mortgage! But all that came out was: "Yip! Bark! Yip!"
The dog catcher carried him to the van, where Paco could see three other dogs already in kennels—a beagle who looked resigned to his fate, a pit bull mix who was asleep, and some kind of terrier that immediately started barking insults at him.
"Alright, troublemaker, in you go." She opened a kennel and gently deposited Paco inside, removing the net. The door clanged shut.
Paco pressed his tiny face against the wire mesh, watching as they drove away from Dead End Row, his abandoned groceries and clothes still sitting on the side of Highway 52.
This was going to be a long night.
At the county animal shelter, Paco was having the worst incarceration of his life. His kennel was sandwiched between two other dogs, which would have been fine if those dogs had been literally any other dogs on the planet. On his left was an ancient Basset Hound named Buster (according to the card on the cage) who had gas that smelled like his insides were actively rotting away. Every few minutes, the old dog would let out another silent-but-deadly emission.
Pffffftttt
Paco gagged, pressing his nose into the cold concrete floor.
On his right was a neurotic yellow lab who was absolutely convinced that his own tail was an assassin sent to kill him. The Lab spent every waking moment spinning in circles, growling and nipping at the offending appendage. Every once in a while, he'd actually catch it and let out a startled yelp, then immediately go right back to spinning and attacking it again.
Paco pressed himself against the front of his kennel, as far from both of them as possible, and contemplated his life choices.
The shelter was busy the next morning—volunteers coming in and out, feeding dogs, taking them for walks, cleaning kennels. Every time someone walked by Paco tried to look as human-like as possible. He sat up straight. He tried to make eye contact. Which was difficult when you were a seven-pound chihuahua with glowing eyes that terrified most of the staff.
Then he heard it. That slow, laid-back voice that could only be one person.
"Duuude…where did I leave that broom?"
Paco's ears perked up. He pressed his face against the kennel wire, craning to see down the hallway.
Sure enough, there was Brandon. He was wearing a shelter volunteer t-shirt that was inside out, and he was pushing a broom in slow, meandering strokes while whistling "Twinkle twinkle little star" completely off-key.
Brandon! Thank God!
Paco started barking frantically. "Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!"
Hey! Kid! Down here! It's me, Ricky! From the Row! The vampire lady's neighbor! I watched you drop a toolbox last week!
Brandon stopped sweeping and looked around, trying to locate the source of the noise. When he spotted Paco, his face lit up with that characteristic vacant smile. He leaned down, getting eye-level with the kennel.
"Hey there, little dude. You're kind of cute. Bet you won't stay here very long before someone adopts you."
NO, no, no. NO!
"Bark bark, yip, yip!"
BRANDON! Listen to me! I'm not a regular dog! I'm a werewolf! A were-chihuahua! You have to help me! Go get Vida!"
Why couldn't he change back when he was scared or in a high-anxiety situation? Why did the transformation only work on the lunar schedule? This was the worst curse design ever.
"Bark! Bark! Bark!"
Brandon reached through the kennel wire and gently scratched behind Paco's ears. "Awe, you're a vocal little guy, huh? That's cool, man. Dogs should express themselves. Speak your truth."
I'm trying to express that I NEED HELP, YOU WALKING MARIJUANA ADVERTISEMENT!
"Bark. Bark. BA…."
"You hungry, little dude?" Brandon was already straightening up. "I'll get you some kibble. The good stuff, too. The kind with those little gravy bits."
I don't want kibble! I want thumbs! And pants! And not to be surrounded by the Fart Hound of Death and the Psychotic Lab!
But Brandon was already shuffling away, still whistling and pushing his broom in the wrong direction.
Paco slunk to the floor of his cage and let out a long mournful howl. The Basset Hound farted in response. This was definitely the worst full moon ever.
That same morning, Mira was making her rounds. She made it to Ricky's trailer and stopped. Something felt off. Ricky always came out to greet her. Always. But this morning, his deck was empty, and his door was closed. The coffee maker—visible through his kitchen window—sat unused and cold.
Mira put his mail in the box and hesitated, staring at the quiet trailer. By the time she reached Vida's place, she was genuinely worried.
Vida emerged from her trailer before Mira could even knock on the siding to let her know she was there. She was squinting against the morning sun despite her enormous sunglasses and the floppy hat she'd thrown on.
"Blood delivery?" Vida asked hopefully, holding up an empty thermos. "I really was hoping the mail order would work but I guess it's back to the blood bank."
Mira shook her head. "No not yet," she looked over her shoulder to Ricky's place. "But Vida, I think there is something wrong with Ricky."
Vida waved a dismissive hand. "Full moon last night. He's probably locked away in his trailer, sleeping it off. You know how his transformations are—exhausting. Lots of cardio for a seven-pound animal."
"Could you go check? I'm worried."
Vida let out a long-suffering sigh, but she was already stomping down her deck steps. She climbed up onto Ricky's deck and knocked on the door. Hard.
"Hey, Paco! If you're in there, howl for me so I know to come in."
Nothing.
Vida pulled a bobby pin from her hair and crouched down in front of the lock. Her fingers worked with practiced efficiency—a quick twist here, a gentle push there— and the lock clicked open in about five seconds flat.
Mira watched from the ground. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"Boarding school," Vida said vaguely. "Or maybe prison. The 1800's were a blurry time for me."
Vida pushed open the door. "Ricky? Paco?"
The trailer was empty. Vida came back out onto the deck, her expression dark.
"Ricky's not here. Paco's not here either. And his 'World's Best Dog Dad' hat isn't here."
"What does that mean?" Mira asked.
"It means he wore it out. Which means he left before the transformation." Vida's face went pale. "Shit. If he was out during the full moon…. he could be anywhere."
Vida jumped in her Buick and barely took the time to tell Mira where she was going. She drove down Highway 52, eyes scanning both sides of the road. She made it maybe a half a mile when she spotted them. A pile of clothes on the side of the road, next to two broken garbage bags. Ricky's jeans. His shirt. His shoes. And his 'World's Best Dog Dad' hat sitting on top.
"Shit. Shit. Shit. shit," Vida muttered, gathering up the clothes and throwing them in her back seat. She knew exactly where to go.
The county animal shelter was a squat brick building on the edge of town. Vida burst through the front doors, her rubber duckie robe flowing dramatically behind her, and marched straight up to the front counter.
A middle-aged woman with reading glasses looked up. "Can I help you?"
"Yes. Did you pick up my neighbor last night? Paco? Very small Chihuahua. Very bad attitude and even worse cooking skills."
The lady stared at the pale woman in the bathrobe. "Your…. neighbor? You mean your neighbor's dog?"
"Yes, yes. That's exactly what I meant. My neighbor's dog, Paco."
The woman pulled up the intake photos. "Let me see…we picked up several dogs last night."
Vida pointed at the screen. "That's him! That's him right there!"
The picture showed Paco looking absolutely furious in his kennel, his amber eyes glowing in the camera flash.
Vida laughed, almost giddy with relief. "Can I please have my neighbor…I mean, my neighbor's dog?"
"Of course. I'm going to need proof of ownership, so I'll need your neighbor to come in with his ID, proof of residence, and the dog's vaccination records."
Vida face-palmed herself so hard she almost knocked her glasses off. How was she going to get her neighbor to come down and get his dog, when he WAS the dog? "Right. Great. Fantastic," Vida said through gritted teeth. She turned and stormed out of the shelter. She climbed into her ancient Buick and headed back to Dead End Row. She needed help.
"Emergency meeting! Henderson's place! Now!"
Twenty minutes later, the Henderson place was packed. Mrs. Henderson, the Lawsons, Chen, Inzo, Mira, Dale with his BEER can, and—uninvited but curious—Marcus. Everyone. Vida laid out the situation. "Paco—I mean, Ricky—got picked up by animal control. To get him back, we need Ricky to come to the shelter. But Ricky is Paco."
"We could say he's sick?" one of the Henderson kids suggested.
"He needs to sign the paperwork in person," Vida sighed. "They have rules. Bureaucracy is the real monster here."
"We could break him out," Mr. Henderson offered. "I can rip the door off the hinges."
"Felony," Vida shot back."And we don't need you getting shot with a tranquillizer dart again, Homer. Remember the Zoo incident?"
Mr. Henderson looked down, ashamed. "The panda started it."
Dale pointed his beer can at Marcus. "We could kill him."
"Why?" Chen asked, adjusting his left ear which was listing to the side. "What does Marcus have to do with this?"
"Just seems like a solution," Dale shrugged. "Clean slate."
"Hear me out." Marcus pushed off from the doorframe. "Let's just forge the documents."
The silence stretched for a good five seconds.
"Did the vampire hunter just suggest we commit fraud?" Vida asked flatly.
"Not everyone. Just me." Marcus smiled that easy, confident smile. "In my business, sometimes you need to track a vampire across state lines and the paperwork gets…complicated. I'll fake the documents, say Paco is my dog, pay the fees, and bring him home."
The room was silent.
"That .... might actually work," Mrs. Henderson said slowly.
"It's fraud," Vida pointed out.
"You literally picked Ricky's lock this morning," Marcus grinned.
"That's different!"
"How?"
"It just is. One is helping a friend, the other is…federal crime."
Dale raised his can. "I like the fraud plan better than the murder plan. Less clean-up."
Marcus clapped his hands. "Alright. I need pictures of Ricky as Paco. The shelter's going to want to see proof."
Mrs. Henderson perked up. "Oh! I have one from the Fourth of July party! He has an Uncle Sam hat."
"I've got one from Christmas," Mira called. "He's wearing antlers."
Marcus grinned. "Perfect. Bring everything to my trailer. I'll Photoshop myself into them."
"You can do that?" Mrs. Henderson asked.
"Part of the job. You'd be amazed how often you need to create a fake identity."
Vida stared at him. "You're really good at crime."
"I prefer to think of it as 'creative problem-solving," Marcus winked.
Fifteen minutes later, Marcus's trailer was Command Central. Photos were spread across his small dining table, displaying Paco in various states of Chihuahua dignity. Vida stood behind Marcus as he worked at his laptop. "This is actually kind of impressive," she admitted, watching as he seamlessly inserted himself into a picture of Paco at the dog park.
"Thanks," Marcus glanced back at her. "For someone who broke into Ricky's trailer, you're very judgmental about my forgery."
"I contain multitudes," Vida replied dryly.
Marcus worked for about forty-five minutes, creating a fake ID, vet records, and "family photos." He even took the photo of Paco stealing a sandwich and edited it, so Marcus was the one laughingly holding the sandwich.
"There," he said, the printer whirring to life. "Let me grab my wallet and we're good to go."
"We?" Vida asked.
"You found him. You should be there. Besides, someone needs to make sure I don't accidentally stake him on the drive back."
Vida rolled her eyes but couldn't quite hide her small smile. "Fine. But we're taking my car. Your truck still smells like a garlic festival exploded."
They headed out to Vida's ancient Buick. The entire park seemed to be watching. Dale raised his BEER can in salute.
"Good Luck," they all said.
The duo rushed into the Humane Shelter like they were on a mission. Vida burst through the doors first. "Well, here he is! My neighbor! The neighbor who owns Paco!"
Marcus followed behind, smiling and giving a friendly wave to the bewildered woman behind the counter.
"Right," she said slowly, taking the folder of forged documents from Marcus. She flipped through them. Everything looked legitimate. "These all look in order. Let me go get…Paco, was it?"
"That's right," Marcus said smoothly. "He's a terror, but I love him."
The woman walked to the door that led to the back kennels and called out.
"Brandon! Bring out the funny-looking Chihuahua from Kennel Twelve!"
Marcus and Vida looked at each other. It couldn't be.
But of course, it was.
Brandon shuffled through the door a moment later, cradling a furious Chihuahua. Paco's eyes were glowing with rage and relief. The moment Paco saw Vida, he tried to launch himself from Brandon. He started barking, "Bark bark bark."
Brandon blinked slowly. "Hey, Vampire Lady."
Vida froze. Marcus's hand went to his face.
"This is your….?" Brandon drawled, pointing at Paco.
"No, he's mine," Marcus said quickly, taking the dog.
"Oh. Okay." Brandon smiled that vacant smile. "He's cute. Feisty little dude. He barked at me for like an hour. Good conversationalist."
"Bark bark bark!" Paco screamed in his mind: I AM A WEREWOLF! I AM AN APEX PREDATOR! STOP SCRATCHING MY EARS!"
"Thanks for taking care of him," Marcus said, taking Paco and backing toward the door.
"No problem, man. Later, Vampire Lady."
"Stop calling me that!" Vida hissed.
They made it to the Buick and Marcus carefully set Paco in the backseat.
"Well, that went better than expected," Marcus said, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Brandon called me Vampire Lady. Twice. He knows too much," Vida muttered, starting the car.
"Yeah, but we got Ricky back."
They headed back toward Dead End Row, one cranky were-chihuahua heavier and $150 poorer.
No sooner had they turned onto Highway 52 than Paco jumped from the backseat into Marcus's lap. He stuck his tiny head out the passenger window, finally enjoying a moment of freedom. The wind whipped his ears back. The stress melted away.
And then it happened.
The transformation hit without warning.
One second, Marcus had a seven-pound chihuahua in his lap. The next second, there was a sickening POP, a sudden expansion of mass, and he had a very naked, five-foot-tall man sitting on him.
"WHAT THE—" Marcus yelped, all the air leaving his lungs.
Vida swerved violently. "RICKY!"
"OH GOD!" Ricky scrambled, trying to cover himself with his hands, his face turning beet red. "I'M SO SORRY! I'M SO SORRY!"
"VIDA! EYES ON THE ROAD!" Marcus shouted, trying to push Ricky off his lap while simultaneously trying not to touch anything.
"I'M TRYING!" Vida yanked the wheel back, narrowly avoiding a ditch.
Ricky managed to tumble into the backseat, limbs flailing, finally curling in! "The stress went away and I just—it just happened!"
Vida pulled over onto the shoulder, her hands shaking on the steering wheel. For a long moment, nobody said anything. The only sound was Ricky's mortified breathing.
Then, Marcus started laughing. It built up until he was doubling over, wiping tears from his eyes.
"It's not funny!" Ricky wailed from the floorboard.
"I was sitting on your lap. NAKED."
"Yeah, I noticed," Marcus gasped. "That was…definitely a new experience."
Vida grabbed Ricky's clothes from the back seat and then at him. "Put these on. Please. Before I have to bleach my brain."
Once Ricky was decent, Vida pulled back onto the highway.
"We're never speaking of this again." Ricky said finally, staring out the window.
"Agreed," Vida said.
"Oh, we're definitely never talking about this again," Marcus laughed softly. "But this is definitely going in my top ten weirdest hunter experiences."
Just another day at DEAD END ROW