FIFTEEN
WE’VE already had Chapters 14 and 13—so 15, right? Look, just read the damn thing in page order, okay? It’s all one story, more or less—with a subplot or two. Stay with me. One sentence after another. There you go!
Sun creeping up behind me like a big bald head, I stand on a flat roof, listening to the vents rattle as I give Mr. Snuffles a look-see. Like all Labradors, he’s got this floppy skin a size too big for his frame. It bunches into small wrinkles when I hold him up, making him look newborn and a million years old at the same time. He’s still lightweight, like a puppy should be—and also still asleep. I can tell he’s not faking. His eyeballs are moving beneath his furry lids in doggie-style REM.
Can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s feeling as free and happy as he looks.
Awwww! He is special!
No! I will not lose myself in warm fuzzies. I will not nuzzle him. I will not bond. I will not bond. I will not bond.
I should dump the mutt with S.H.I.E.L.D. like I did the collie. Their biochemists are the ones who’ll have to figure out what to do with the duds. But this hit went down so fast, Preston’s probably still on cleanup duty in Queens, and she’s the only one I trust there. Can’t have Mr. Snuffles wind up in the hands of some raging infomaniac whose rallying cry is, “Hey, how does this life-form work?” Having gone through that myself in the Weapon X hospice, I wouldn’t wish it on—yep—a dog. But I can’t keep him, either.
“Can I, Dad?”
It isn’t real Dad I see. It’s imaginary Dad, better Dad, Dad who might have let me have a dog. Hey, not all the fantasies can be basketball games. Sometimes you have to keep even the dreams real.
It’s a narrow galley kitchen. He takes up most of the table. Rest of the place is small like that, too. He fills every room he’s in. Everything is always underfoot. Ice clinks in the glass as he shuts his bloodshot eyes.
With his head bowed low over the broken Formica surface of the table, most of what I see of Dad is the top of his military crewcut. That’s pretty much how I really remember him—in pieces. Top of his head, his arms, his belt. To remember his eyes or his face, I’d have to look at pictures of him. (Same with Mom. Back then I’d have to be sure he wasn’t around while I was looking at her photo. Mom died of cancer, like maybe I should have, and any reminder—like a photo, or me—put Dad in a bad mood.)
“That thing craps or sheds anywhere in my house, I’ll put it to sleep myself.”
Imaginary Wade is much more eager to please than I ever was. Half the beatings I got, I asked for. Half.
“You won’t know she’s here. I swear it.”
When Dad stops moving, I think he’s some version of asleep. But then he starts cursing. Not at me—at nothing. He slams his fist so hard into the table, his glass spills—even though there’s barely anything left in it. He hits the Formica again and again with one hand, but the slams fade out like he’s losing a boxing match. The arm twitches and settles. He takes a few deep, rattling inhales and starts to snore.
Sometimes I have trouble remembering who’s who in these things. For a sec, I’m the one with my head down on the table, smelling old food stains mixed with scotch, ready to pick a fight with the air. But it’s my delusion, so I force myself back into being good little Wade, watching the top of his head. I mop up the booze so he won’t mistake it for dog piss in the morning. I try to imagine leaving him there like that, drooling on himself, but I can’t seem to exit the room.
And there’s no dog. No dog anywhere. The place is too small.
A wet belch (his or mine?) takes me halfway back to the rooftop. Mr. Snuffles is still breathing peacefully in my arms, every bit as alive as Eternity or an amoeba. But some delusions are stickier than others.
“I’ll put it to sleep myself.”
Given the way the world is, maybe mercy killing is the only kind there is. What with Snuffles likely a monster, where he’s at now could be as good as it gets. I raise him a little closer and whisper, “Oh, Mr. S., one day, one way or another, sooner or later, you’re going to die. Would it be more merciful to put you down now, before the world steps in and ruins you?”
It’s funny because it’s true.
He makes a little growl, almost like a snore.
“Damn it! Who am I kidding, Mr. Snuffles? I could never hurt you!”
I give him a hug. Nothing big—just enough to let him know I’m sorry.
Thought you weren’t going to bond.
It’s not bonding! It’s an apology. The hallucination weirded me out, okay? It’s not like I’m going to adopt him. I’ll pass him on to Preston as soon as I can. Watch.
I prop the esteemed Mr. S. behind my back to make it look like he’s photobombing me, take a selfie with my cell phone, and shoot it off through the intertubes.
Takes a sec before my cell rings.
“Did you mean to post that shot to Pinterest?”
It’s good to hear Em’s voice. “New phone. Really got to change the defaults on this thing. I may have tweeted it, too. You still in Queens?”
“Yeah. Where’re you?”
“Upper East Side rooftop. Got a nice view of the FDR and the sweetest little Lab y’ever did see. Goes by the name Snuffles. That’s Mr. Snuffles to you.”
“Wade, don’t name the dogs.”
“Why not? So I don’t bond with them?”
“No, because Mr. Snuffles is a ridiculous name.”
“Tell that to the precious little girl who gave it to him.”
“Little girl? Tell me that’s one of your multiple personalities.”
“No, she’s real—I think. I really need to start wearing a bodycam when I work. Gonna yell at me for the mess in Forest Hills?”
I can tell from her tone she won’t. “Tough call. You’ve actually got a busload of nuns as fans. By the way, they want you to know there’s forgiveness to be had. The big problem this time is Spider-Man’s involvement. How’d you manage that?”
“It’s not like I invited him. Why’s that a problem?”
“Because fights between costumed types attract attention. The media was already all over you after Midtown—now some stringer named Peter Parker snapped you and the wall-crawler fighting over a puppy. Not like I’m your PR manager, but this isn’t the best time for you to be posting a selfie with another stolen dog. You never know who’s gonna see that.”
“That was the idea, wasn’t it? Don’t blame S.H.I.E.L.D., blame me?”
“All I’m saying is, get ready for some blowback. I’d suggest you keep out of sight, if I thought you knew what that meant.”
For a moment, the world gets the shakes.
THUD!
“Em, could you speak up? Sounds like they’re blasting for the 2nd Avenue subway again.”
“Right. And you’re losing bars ’cause you’re driving into a tunnel. Don’t BS me. I’ve got your location right in front of me. The readout confirms there’s no construction going on for blocks.”
WHAM! The rooftop vents rattle like tin cans.
“Really? Maybe I’ve got a headache?”
Nope.
Nothing in here.
THUD!
I wonder if I’m imagining Dad punching the table in the kitchen again, but even Mr. Snuffles picks his head up at that last one. We scan the roof, the buildings. Nothing.
“Deadpool! Pay attention. I’ve got some news for you on Goom, Googam, and Gorgolla.”
“Cheeses, right?”
“No, that’s what the creatures called themselves.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“They’re also the names of real monsters.”
KWOOM!
Mr. Snuffles barks, but I ignore it. “Real monster names? Puh-lease. Frankenstein—now that’s a real monster name. Come to think of it, actually, it isn’t. It’s the name of the doctor, not his creation. Though in the original James Whale film, he does refer to the monster as his Adam, so technically you could say the monster’s name was Adam Frankenstein—but I think that’s a stretch. How about you, Mr. Snuffles?”
“Focus!”
BOOM! Mr. Snuffles’ ears go straight up.
“Hey, Em? Sounds like my fake excuse to get off the phone is getting closer.”
“Huh. I heard it that time, too. Let me get some sat data.”
“Focus yourself, Agent P. You were saying about the monsters?”
“Had to have my security clearance upgraded to get this information, but S.H.I.E.L.D. used to work with a whole team of…well, monsters, to assist in paranormal containment.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Stop. Rewind. S.H.I.E.L.D. worked with monsters?”
“Hired you, didn’t we? The group was codenamed the Howling Commandos…”
“And you have trouble with the name ‘Mr. Snuffles’?”
“While the Commandos were active, we ran tests on all the members, took samples. The servers storing their DNA patterns were breached a few years back. The working theory—and it’s a good one—is that their data wound up in the Weapon X lab and was used to create these creatures.”
“Did the originals eat people?”
“No. That seems to be a bioengineered response peculiar to these cloned versions. Maybe it’s meant to compensate for all the energy the transformation consumes. Whoever designed them probably figured that the nearest food source available in large supplies would be…people.”
WHOOM!
It’s real close this time—like right in front of the building. Mr. Snuffles and I peer over the side. Both our hearts go pitter-pat. “Don’t worry, fellow, I’ve got you. Oh my. See that down there, Mr. S.? A big hole in the street, a crushed car, and a fallen lamppost—all making a line headed our way? Uh, Preston, has some doggie monster maybe done the change thing without me?”
“Hang on. Sats out of range. I’m accessing the street cams nearest your location, and…”
In the background, an excited voice calls out. “Agent Preston, I think I’ve got something!”
“Is that Carl? Say hi, will you?”
“Wade, get out of there, NOW!”
“Chillax. If it’s another monster, I’ve got the ADD. One spray and…”
“It’s not one of the monsters, it’s…”
KROOM!
The building shrugs. The dog yelps. The phone nearly flies out of my hand.
“Em? Hello? Don’t tell me you went into a tunnel? Hello?”
I look down again. A blur flies up toward us. I want to say it’s moving impossibly fast, but it’s not only possible, it’s also crazy thick and crazy muscled, with green skin and shredded purple pants. I stumble back barely in time to give it the space it needs to land in front of me. The impact nearly throws me off my feet, and its weight almost collapses the roof.
Mr. Snuffles clings to me. Aw!
Our next surprise guest star isn’t Goom or Gorgolla big, but he feels bigger—a massive powder keg perpetually ready to blow. Worse than Dad. Especially when he starts yelling at me, too. It’s like…like… y’know how all caps in an email or text makes you feel as if the writer is shouting at you? This is kind of like that, only more, so I’m going with boldface, too:
“HULK NOT WANT SEE PUPPIES HURT!”