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“Relics, Rabbits and Tuscan Reds” by Slip Wolf (read by Dirt Coyote, part 2 of 2)

Intrepid weasel reporter Nancy and reformed computer hacking rabbit Updike have played a game of weasel-cat and rabbit-mouse through the hallowed tourist traps of Sienna, and are now in mortal danger from a coyote assassin who is hot on both their tails.

Today’s story is the second and final part of “Relics, Rabbits, and Tuscan Reds” by Slip Wolf, who has published a few dozen works in the Furry Fandom and is now just a little bit further on with editing his first novel. This particular Story was originally published in Roar Volume Six, published by FurPlanet.

Last time, intrepid weasel reporter Nancy chased down a reformed computer hacking rabbit named Updike who has a rather large price on his head. They played a brief game of weasel-cat and rabbit-mouse through the hallowed tourist traps of Sienna and are now in mortal danger from a coyote assassin who is hot on both their tails. 

Read by Dirt Coyote, lately of twitter dot com.

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https://thevoice.dog/episode/relics-rabbits-and-tuscan-reds-by-slip-wolf-part-2-of-2

Transcript
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You’re listening to The Voice of Dog. I’m Khaki,

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your faithful fireside companion,

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and Today’s story is the second and final part of

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“Relics, Rabbits, and Tuscan Reds”

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by Slip Wolf, who has published a few dozen works in the Furry Fandom

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and is now just a little bit further on with editing his first novel.

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This particular Story

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was originally published in Roar Volume Six, published by FurPlanet.

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Last time, intrepid weasel reporter Nancy chased down a reformed computer hacking rabbit named Updike who

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has a rather large price on his head.

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They played a brief game of weasel-cat and rabbit-mouse through the hallowed tourist traps of Sienna

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and are now in mortal danger from a coyote assassin who is hot on both their tails.

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Read by Dirt Coyote,

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lately of twitter dot com.

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Please enjoy “Relics, Rabbits, and Tuscan Reds”,

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Part 2 of 2 I can tell from the way Updike’s voice drops,

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from his narrowing eyes,

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the way his legs part to widen his stance —

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the assassin is here.

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Correction, ‘his’ assassin.

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“I’m the big money, my face in every hired gun’s wallet.

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Lucky me,” Updike observes with a dry chuckle as I step away,

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hurrying ten paces over to the security desk of the Duomo chapel museum.

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I knock the counter for the agent’s attention.

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The badger looks up from the action film on his tablet,

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ears rising in question as Updike

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hops the turn-style,

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bag setting off the security alarm,

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and hurries past a shocked terrier couple to the stairs.

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A tan-furred coyote in a dark checked shirt and slacks leaps the turnstile.

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His grey flinted eyes turn briefly to meet mine,

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recognition dawning for one cold dispassionate second

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as he sees the security at my shoulder.

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He’s off through the crowd,

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my presence filed away for later.

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The badger security guard shouts Italian imperatives in hot pursuit of both of them.

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I’m out the front door,

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pulse pounding, every shadow a phantom as I hurry around a corner,

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down the nearest alley and find cover, my bag

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dangling at my waist.

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The tools of my trade bounce against me as I settle my frayed nerves with clinical practice,

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honed in countless tight spots the world over,

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and truly process what just happened.

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Updike has led the assassin away, having gotten away from me for the second time.

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And I let him go again.

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I imagined I could do something good with my talents and went for it,

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made a difference that mattered to people under the gun.

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I haven’t felt an ache like I’m now feeling

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in a very long time.

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It’s a strange thing to feel guilt while doing what you’re good at,

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after so many years.

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This is just another job.

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What the hell is wrong with me?

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I open the napkin of the rabbit whose second act of sacrifice in my name

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could very well mean he’s dead at this very moment.

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In it, under a cartoon scrawl of his own whiskered face and ears,

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is an address west of here,

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so close and yet so far in regards to Siena’s winding streets.

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He has a safe-house right here.

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Was that genius or foolishness?

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I realize that I have to get there fast,

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in case the assassin finishes Updike off.

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There’s that worry again.

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I frown as I double-time it.

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I duck into a souvenir shop, buy clothes off the rack.

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I won’t return to my hotel for the meager disposable things I’ve left there.

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I change in a public washroom and put on a University of Siena hoodie which I cover my head with before ducking outside.

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It’s a hot ten minute jog to the address,

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up a flight of stairs that seem to have plenty of ins-and

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-outs and then into a tiny, almost dormitory

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-like apartment with a key under the matt where the napkin said it would be.

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Other than the bathroom and kitchenette

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it appears to be just one room,

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less than three yards from door to window.

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There is a computer here,

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a laptop running some sort of script.

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I see an airline website come and go, and I leave the machine alone to do what it’s doing.

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Next to it is an open bottle of wine,

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then another one that isn’t.

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A takeout container with pizza crusts sits open next to it.

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Three bottles of high priced scotch are holding up an adult magazine like an improvised reading rack

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and across from this mess on the desk there’s another fur-mag on the bed,

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open to a vixen lounging naked on a yacht’s white-waxed deck.

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An unspooled yo-yo rests on the nightstand.

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With only a few randomly-strewn props,

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it’s the most stereotypical guy’s apartment I’ve seen

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anywhere in the world.

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I feel I’m no closer to understanding this rabbit,

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or what any story about him can accurately say.

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I wonder if he knows he can’t go on,

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that his clock is running out and that all the wrongs in the world he’s righting

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are going to bite his tail off.

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I’m just sitting on that bed,

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watching his computer wander aimlessly through websites, doing whatever its doing,

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a shadow of Updike at play even though its master may be dead,

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and I don’t have a thought in my head,

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not one, when the door-handle turns.

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My hand has my camera bag unzipped as the door opens carefully,

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and I see a white foot step messily into view.

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Updike peers around the door,

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his fur matted by moisture as he slips into his own apartment and shuts the door behind him.

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“Losing that guy was a bitch,”

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he says by way of conversation, all but wheezing.

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“Good thing I took a way up that hides dripping water well.”

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I remove my hand from the bag,

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zipping it shut over the camera there.

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I’ve wasted a chance to photograph his living environment.

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I don’t care. I’m on my feet and moving over to him.

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I’m somehow not even surprised at myself when I give him a quick hug.

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It’s brief; I’m not one to do that kind of thing,

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and I could almost laugh at myself.

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I gather his scent,

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and he stinks a bit.

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He sees my nose wrinkle.

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“Yeah, the catacombs in Siena are all off-limits,

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but if you know where maps can be obtained…”

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He gives a long sigh.

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“Too bad our canine friend didn’t have those maps.

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If he’s lost down there, it could be awhile.

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He certainly won’t smell his way out.

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Did you see what kind of gun he had?”

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“No. Sorry.” His wet whiskers twitch.

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“Oh, well, it was an impressive looking gun.

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I bet it could have really messed me up.

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He was a scary guy. I’m serious.”

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I grin and laugh, pushing my camera bag away with a foot.

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It’s not just so he won’t drip on it.

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I just don’t think I’m going to need anything in there.

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I don’t want what I came for anymore.

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The realization of that is a strange thing,

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considering all I’ve done to find him.

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“What’s funny?” he asks. “Besides you?” He reads my tone and seems pleased with himself.

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“Honestly, Updike, I came here to find you,

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catch you just like every other fed and crook in the world so I could get famous.

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That’s literally all I had planned.”

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“Well, getting interviewed and maybe photographed is a lot less grueling than being shot,

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stuffed, and mounted if you want to know the truth,” he snickers.

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“You went out of your way to save me.”

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I chuckle. “I don’t know how I can even repay you.”

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He nods sagely, his paws around my shoulders as he whispers.

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“We could have sex.”

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“What?” I push him away.

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“No!” His ears splay,

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blushing as he points.

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“Well, not smelling like this.

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I’ve got a shower right there.”

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I grit my teeth to keep from shouting.

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His charm is laid on thick,

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but as fun as he is he’s got a long, long way to go.

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“Seriously, we could be

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dead right now!” “That was the very line

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I was going to use.”

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He says, grin parting his face like the dawn.

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I can’t help laughing out loud.

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It’s the first time I’ve felt this light-hearted while this deep in mortal danger.

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It’s a foreign emotion for me to feel in a situation like this.

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I like it. With effort, I get serious.

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“Shouldn’t we get out of here?”

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He searches for the next words to implore with,

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sighs expansively.

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“I guess you’re right.”

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He looks at his scotch and wine collection.

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“Too bad I was getting settled here.”

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Silence passes for a few moments as we stand there and he drips.

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“Why did you do it?

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Why did you risk your life for me?”

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He lets go for a moment,

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steps past me to his computer.

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There’s a little trail of water from the door to where he’s standing,

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shining on the cool floorboards.

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He watches it cycle through another website.

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“I told you; I’ve done bad things.

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Thing is, it’s a bit more than just being sorry for what that FBI

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data was used for.

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I was lied to, Nancy.

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They told me they were going to break in and steal some papers or something.

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The news said the killing of that staffer was deliberate.

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They murdered somebody,

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with my help, and I was lied to.

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And for all I know,

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they did a lot worse I just haven’t found out about yet.

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So I owe them. I owe every evil bastard in the world

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who tries to use people like me to do things nobody

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should ever have to live with.”

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He turns and faces me,

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looking smug again in a way only he can pull off.

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“How am I doing so far?”

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I swallow. I know everything going on behind those angry, guilty eyes.

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I can’t explain why I feel it too.

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“Why not turn yourself into the feds?

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Get protection while you do what you do.”

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He uncorks a scotch, and the standing nudie mag falls to the desk as he takes a swig.

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“Because the rabbit does his best work while he’s running, Nancy.

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There’s no simpler answer.

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It’s like how you run after your stories,

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taking down bad people with your columns.

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You get hooked and you love it.”

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I had loved it, for a long time.

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But time had taken its toll.

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There are consequences to being as good as I am at chasing

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‘bad people.’ Eventually, you get used for other things… Updike registers the doubts I’m turning over,

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puts an arm around me.

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The touch is not invited

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but not unwelcome.

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“The Congo piece was a doozy.

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Take it as a compliment when I say that I know why they want you…”

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He trails off and looks out the window.

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“Anyway.” I nod shallowly.

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“I think I could make some changes,

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fix some wrongs of my own.”

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I gaze out the window,

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over the roofs falling away into the distance.

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“Wrongs of your own?” Updike splays his ears uncertainly.

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“What kind of wrongs does a reporter

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—“ The door to the apartment

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all but shatters as it’s kicked in.

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The coyote’s voice is rough but genteel,

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like an antebellum crop-sharer come to collect his cuttings.

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“Time to meet the devil, you code-cracking son-of-a-long-eared rodent.”

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His gun is in the air, but so is the wine bottle I’ve already thrown.

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End over end, it collides with his muzzle and shatters,

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dousing the already wet wolf in Tuscan red.

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I take long strides. Ferret-reflexes have me in fight-or-flight as I grab the thick barrel of the wounded wolf’s submachine gun and yank him forward over the wet floor, sliding.

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He doesn’t release the gun, and that’s his mistake.

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A fist to the belly makes him grunt and he goes down over my ducking, waiting shoulder. Updike falls back on his bed as the transfer of the wolf’s weight completes, and the assassin’s back meets the plate glass of Updike’s apartment window,

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shatters it, and keeps going.

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There’s a short howl that rips the air through all three stories down to the alley’s cobblestones.

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The crunch is sickening.

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The bounce and second landing sound worse.

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We are both still for a moment, Updike staring at me with wild eyes from the bed.

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“You killed that guy.”

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A wave of nausea passes quickly.

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“Yes,” is all I can say.

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I’ve killed a guy.

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“How did you do that?”

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I take a moment to catch my breath.

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“I learned a lot about rape prevention in judo class.

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I had a lot of opportunities to use it…

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on assignment.” “I’ll say.”

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Only already-spent adrenaline keeps him from shouting it.

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I have to get myself under control, my reflexes still at breakneck speed.

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I almost died just now,

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and the exhilaration of avoiding that is the most precious elixir ever.

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But at what cost?

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I don’t think of the broken coyote’s body fifteen yards below.

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“We have to go, now,”

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I tell him. “Okay, my program bought six flights out of Italy.

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I’ll decide which ones we're taking on the way.”

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“Train station’s just north of here.”

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I have enough of Siena’s layout in my head to know that.

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“I’ll grab some supplies and meet you at my other safe-house in twenty minutes. Write it on something.”

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“You have another safe-house?”

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“I always arrange for a few places.”

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Despite his cool exterior,

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I can see the stress of the moment starting to crack at him.

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I’m actually going to run away with this guy.

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He’s immature and fun,

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smart and yet self

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-aggrandizing. He kind of looks adorable when frightened.

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I have no idea if I’m even interested in staying with this scoundrel beyond our flight today.

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The future is more uncertain than it’s ever been,

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and it actually feels

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wonderful. Fleeing,

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I feel alive. He resists looking out the broken window and takes me in his arms.

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He smells like the sweet desperation of each moment he lives in,

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and my eyebrows go up as he moves in for a kiss.

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“Too fast, rabbit.” “Right. Sorry.” He coughs.

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“I’ll meet you; I promise.

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promise.” I can still feel the electricity off him as he hurries from the room,

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looking back longingly once, probably for the first time ever in his life.

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He doesn’t hear what I hear as the door shuts.

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He doesn’t hear the groan from far below.

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Moments pass. I head down the stairs, silent as a ghost, my camera bag at my side,

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turning left rather than right so as to enter the alleyway.

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The assassin is there.

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“Hello Sinjun,” I say.

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The coyote rolls on his side, wheezing,

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one paw holding his ribs together.

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Blood haloes the ground around him.

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I kick his gun away,

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far down the alley and the wolf looks after it before gazing at me,

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confusion muddled with pain.

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“You had that rabbit alone.

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When I came up. You beat me to him.”

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“Damn right I did.”

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“Then if you found him first

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why didn’t you… Are you soft headed?

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You draw him out and then,

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what…?” There’s blood on his lips.

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His tan face is shamefully pinkened by red wine.

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“Have you gone crazy?”

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I watch him bleed.

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“No. No, quite the opposite.”

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I feel my heart beat and my tail twitch

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and the cool air on my fur.

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And something else.

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I don’t know what to call it,

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but a certainty settles down around me.

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“I’ve just come to a decision.

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I’m sick of this work.

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I need a change.”

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It hurts Sinjun to laugh but he does.

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I’ve heard from many he has quite the sense of humor.

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“You’re going with him.

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Why? Why walk away from all this?

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You love the chase and you know it.”

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“Not anymore. I love that thrill,

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but I’m going after the wrong people.

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This one doesn’t deserve my…

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attentions.” I don’t know if the wink is a sly joke or if Sinjun’s suffering from the onset of brain damage.

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“Please, you took the contract knowing he was a softie.

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You wanted to lure him in.

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Don’t say it wasn’t what you planned.”

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“Yes. I thought he’d take the money for my contract and try to run,

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but… He thinks you were here after me,

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not him.” “Why should that mean a damn thing?

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You were given a job.

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So was I.” I don’t answer.

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“He’ll find out someday,

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sooner than later.

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He’ll know you planted all those articles you wrote,

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faked those press credentials.

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He’ll discover you put that hit out on yourself to draw him in for the bounty on him,

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and it’ll all come crashing down.

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He’ll learn what you really do for a living.”

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Sinjun takes a pained breath.

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“He’ll run again. So will you.

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And you’ll both get caught.”

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“I’m betting otherwise,”

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I answer calmly. Inside my heart is racing. Sinjun sneers.

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“You don’t walk out on a contract and live to brag about it.

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That doesn’t happen.”

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That last outburst hurts like hell,

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and he groans into silence,

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his muzzle settling against the cold cobblestones

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as he draws shallow breaths.

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I let the weight of his words sink in,

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but I don’t say a word,

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merely walk away.

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He won’t shout for help,

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won’t get a bystander involved.

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That isn’t how things are done.

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And I won’t kill this ‘yote.

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I can’t. My choice can’t start after him,

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stupid as that sounds.

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This decision has to count right now.

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Time to start making amends.

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I turn a corner and descend several steps to arrive at the Fontebranda,

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Siena’s oldest fountain under the Basilica.

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I take a moment by the recessed fountain,

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water dark under the travertine roof, and stop.

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This late in the day,

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there is nobody here,

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and as I gaze into the water’s depths,

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I reach down to my bag.

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The carefully-forged press badge on top of my bag glints back

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in the moonlight.

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I remember what Updike said and make it my wish.

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“Please, let the lie become something real.”

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I’m still alone. The moment won’t last.

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I reach into my bag,

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past my virtually worthless camera,

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and pull out the Heckler Koch

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forty-five pistol I’ve packed for this job.

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Its frame and suppressor tube gleam dully as I pull the magazine,

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clear the pipe, and drop the hollow-point ammo,

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chosen for taking down a fleeing rabbit, into the murky water.

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The copper-heads of ammunition shine like coins for my wish.

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I hear the muttering of late-night walkers approaching as I rise and slip the gun itself down a sewer drain’s gap at the curb nearby.

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A cold flutter travels through me,

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a whole new life beckoning me with celebrations of each passing moment as I lift the lighter bag,

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bearing only a reporter’s camera

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and recorder now,

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and head to the next destination

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to meet the rabbit

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I’ve caught. This was the second and final part of

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“Relics, Rabbits, and Tuscan Reds”,

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Read by Dirt Coyote, lately of twitter dot com.

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As always, you can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,

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or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

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Thank you for listening

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to The Voice of Dog.

About the Podcast

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The Voice of Dog
Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

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Khaki