All conversation and laughter died.

Asshole #1’s head slammed into the ground and didn’t bounce. Sturm clicked the hammer back. Still standing, but bent nearly double at the waist, forcing Asshole #1’s head into the bone dry soil, he said quietly, “I been watching you. Been watching how you touch that little boy. I think you’re a sick goddamn fuck. You’re lower than a fucking worm. The only thing stopping me from putting a bullet through that fucking twisted mind of yours is the sliver of chance that I might be wrong, that you’re just drunk, that you’re just a big, dumb, friendly sonofabitch. I don’t think I’m wrong, but here’s what’s gonna happen. You are gonna get up and get your shit and drive like hell and hope to hell I don’t come looking for you. You got that?”

Asshole #1 was too afraid to nod, too afraid to blink.

Sturm drove the gun barrel deeper. An involuntary grunt escaped Assholes #1’s lips. “I said, do you understand what I’m sayin’?” Sturm asked through gritted teeth.

“Yes. Yes,” Asshole #1 said thickly.

Sturm abruptly pulled his revolver back and stepped off Asshole #1.

Asshole #1 scooted towards the house and stood up, stumbling backwards towards his tent. He was smart enough to keep his mouth shut as he blinked rapidly and tried to wipe the dust off the back of his head. Thick tears seeped out of his right eye. “…completely wrong…” was the only thing he said before ducking around the side of the house.

Sturm’s voice cut into the still air. “I am truly sorry, gentlemen, that something like that…I can’t call that twisted little evil shit a person, let alone a human being.”

“I ain’t never seen him do anything like that before,” Asshole #3 shouted, a little too shrill. “Hell, just met that fucker, really. He’s lucky I didn’t shoot him myself.”

Asshole #2 was too busy looking at his plate and shaking his head to say anything one way or the other.

Sturm nodded slowly, as if making up his mind. “So here’s the deal. Let us put our trust in God, that he alone in his wisdom and eternal grace will iron everything out. Amen. Everyone here,” Sturm saluted them with his glass, “has landed themselves a genuine lethal killing machine.” Everyone took a drink. “Sometimes two or three. At the moment, we have how many cats left, Frank?”

“You counting Lady and Princess?”

“No.”

“Seven.”

“Seven.” Sturm looked at the twenty or so hunters before him. “Guess how many sheep we got?”

“Plenty?” Someone asked hopefully near the kitchen tent.

“Plenty,” Sturm said, laughing. “You’re goddamn right. Any time you fellas want to see what your bullet will do on living flesh and blood, you let me know. It ain’t exactly like shooting a lethal killing machine, but it ain’t bad for shits and grins. I’m saying we got seven cats left. It’s goddamn time we give these lethal killing machines a chance to do what they do best. Tomorrow, gentlemen. Tomorrow. Until then, good night.” Sturm tipped his cowboy hat at the hunters and pulled on a long-sleeved shirt as the sky grew darker. “Frank, Theo, Jack. Like a word, inside.”

Frank felt the last bite of lion steak catch in the back of his throat. Theo, on his right, stood immediately, holding his plate as he rose, shoveling food into his mouth. Zucchini fell on the table, Frank’s plate, and the ground. Theo kicked his chair over, dropped the plate upside down on the table, and followed his dad.

* * * * *

Jack was already waiting up at the back door, holding it open when Frank got there. Frank stepped into the air-conditioned bliss and knew without asking that they were meeting in Sturm’s office. Frank and Theo sat, while Jack found a book, leaned against the bookshelf, and started reading.

“Fuck me,” Sturm said, sinking into his chair. He took off his cowboy hat and threw it on the vast desk. “Never thought I’d come across something like that pervert in my time. No goddamn chance. Jesus Christ.” Sturm looked like he wanted to spit on the floor for a second, swallowed, and coughed. “Still, it’s done.” He thumped his thumb against his Copenhagen can, put a healthy pinch into his bottom lip, and leaned back. “Jesus. Frank. We got seven left. What shape are they in? I mean, they ain’t half dead, are they?”

“Not too bad, no. Six are solid. They’re eating, pacing, stool looks good. They’re sharp. The other one, well, she’s fighting something. She’s on antibiotics, but hell, I don’t know.”

“Six. Okay. Good.” He leaned forward, large hands flat on the desk. “What I have to say next stays in this room. Understood?” Frank got the feeling that even though Sturm glanced at Jack and Theo as well, Sturm was really only talking to him. Frank nodded and Jack said, “’Course.” Theo just looked bored.

“We’re gonna see if we can’t wring a little more cash out of these boys. I know for a fact that a couple of ’em are ready to head home tomorrow. Hell, they shot their cat, why shouldn’t they? Well, Theo here had an idea, and a damned good one at that.” Sturm’s icy eyes found Frank. “You oughta see their faces when Lady and Princess go after a sheep. Like a bunch of little boys on Christmas morning. I’m telling you, they can’t get enough of it.”

“You want to have the rest of the cats go after more sheep?” Frank asked.

“Hell, we’re gonna do that anyway, with Lady and Princess. No, Theo thought of something better. Something a little more entertaining. How’re those dogs doing?”

“What dogs?” Frank asked, knowing goddamn well what Sturm meant.

“The pound. Those strays at the hospital.”

“What about ’em?”

“How’s their health? How much fight they got left?”

“Plenty. Enough to get loose.”

Sturm knocked on the desk once. “They got loose?” He leaned to the side, and spit into an old fashioned brass spittoon.

Frank nodded and spread his hands, willing his face to sag just a hair more, letting the left corner of his mouth get in the way of a couple of the words, just a bit, just enough to remind Sturm that Frank had problems. “Part of the wire was coming loose in the corner, and I guess I didn’t notice. Guess they forced it even more, got loose.”

“All of ’em got through some little hole,” Theo demanded.

“Yeah.”

“How’d they get through the door?” Sturm asked. “They get out of their cage, that’s one thing. But they should still be inside that room. How’d they get out of the second door? Or did they get into the hospital itself?”

“No, they got out through the back door there, out to the employee parking lot. It was open when I got back there.”

“When was this?”

“Two nights ago, I think.” Frank didn’t have to say that he wasn’t the only one with access to the vet hospital. Everyone, Sturm and Theo, Jack and Joe, even Chuck, had keys to the vet hospital. Frank had come back to find the front door unlocked, even wide open, a couple of times.

“Did you leave the door open, Frank?”

Frank shrugged. “I really don’t remember leaving it open. Hell, I never hardly use the back door there. I use the other one, off the front office.”

Sturm knocked on the desk again, like he was waiting for someone to knock back. “Well. They scatter?”

“Not yet. I been feeding ’em.”

“Fuck son. Why didn’t you just say so?” Sturm spread his arms and raised the muscles above his eyes, not really eyebrows anymore, more like a couple of fat nightcrawlers under a thin stretch of skin. “So when were you gonna tell me about this?” He waited.

Frank’s words came out halting and stiff. “Things have been kind of busy. I wasn’t prepared for that business with the monkey. Give me enough time and we can prepare something properly. I need a bit to think some of these things through. What would you like to do with the dogs?”

The nightcrawlers relaxed and Sturm’s arms came to rest on his desk once again. “I want to pit three dogs against the most vicious lioness you can get. On the auction yard floor, tomorrow night.”