baby they'll be singing from new york to the west of cali

Set on the coastline.

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From over his head, seagulls called and screamed.

Loud, and repetitive.

Over, and over, and fucking over again.

The same or similar sounds, all looped and placed on top of one another in a cacophony of fucking sound.

He stomped. His head down. His posture low and slouched.

The sand was wet and giving beneath his feet. The water lapped, rolled—moved, by gravitational pull—at his legs. White seafoam.

He stepped towards the beach.

And stopped, at what—who—he saw, standing there, brown and white and mottled.

His ears splayed back, and he made a face. He stepped backwards, back into the waves. Water crashing against his hocks and tail.

“What do you want.”

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‘Might not wanna step too deep in there, by the way, I have seen some ferocious-looking fish in those waters!’

“Fuck off, old man.” He growled. His ears pinned back. His paws, legs, belly, and tail tip sodden. His fur dark, with the pushing tide. He wasn’t like fucking Spooky, dumb enough to almost fucking drown in a knee-deep stream, much less the fucking ocean.

And besides, he was lying, right?

Another trick, like the fucking stone maze.

He licked his lips. Shifted, his weight from foot to foot.

He refused to look back over his shoulder at the water.

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And no sooner than when Half-and-Half fucking left—

It appeared.

The distant shadow of something under the water. A single fin, crested, from the waves.

He hauled ass.

Loud, and graceless. The waves at his back.

“Fuck you!” He barked. “You fucking planned that, old man.” He growled. Close, on his heels.

Bullshit fucking crows, bullshit fucking cats, and now, apparently, bullshit fucking fish.

Nothing had autonomy.

Everyone was just everyone's useless fucking pawn, bereft, of any free-fucking-will.

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