Despite Raj’s guilt concerning Liam’s cat-allergy-induced death, by wearing a wire, she’d collected enough evidence during the botched deal to convict Malcolm, her abusive owner.
Following Malcolm’s incarceration, the FUCKS became privy to a hit he had placed on Raj after a rookie agent had told him, “You must be a dumb son of a bitch. Who doesn’t notice a bundle of wires strapped to their own cat?” So, being the president of Cat Cabal, a local support group that offers shelter for troubled pussies, I was approached by the FUCKS, who said that Raj had been placed in the Witness Protection Program and needed a home to live incognito.
After Raj had been living with us for several years, I received word from the FUCKS that Malcolm had suffered a fatal shiv wound during an altercation with another inmate. News of Malcolm’s death spread, and because there was no longer a claimable reward, the FUCKS believed the likelihood of a hit to be less than that of Tommy Wiseau winning an Oscar. Raj was released from the WPP and finally had her life back. Then I recruited her as an agent....
And now this brings us to today’s assignment.
You see, Angus decided to tie one on before driving home last Friday night, and his van—a make and model notorious for non-consensual acts—plowed through my mailbox. Even though the mud-caked tread marks left a trail straight to his driveway, he denied my friendly allegation and refused to pay for a replacement.
Thus, I head to the shed, Raj in tow. We enter. Raj places a paw on an outfit, staring up at me in affirmation, a bright red jacketesque piece, and assumes the identity of Marlboro, esteemed chain smoker and rodeo clown, notorious for siding with the bucking bull and leaving the cowboys concussed and broken-boned, at best. And I choose the red racing jacket, granting me speed and anonymity, becoming Dirk, the crotch rocketeer and daredevil who once tried to jump the English Channel with a souped up moped.
It’s action time.
We convene in my garage and devise our plan. Marlboro confirms her understanding with a slow blink, her calm demeanor unchanging while I collect the befitting supplies.
I delve into my stockpile of Mountain Dew, snag a fresh two-liter bottle, and shove it into a backpack. Then I rip my hanging bike from its hooks and hop on. Marlboro performs a theatrical jump and slaps the wall-mounted garage door opener. We exit, hauling ass next door to Angus’s house.