Brute's Burden

Death finds everyone and everything, and tonight it was Beauregard Flanigan’s turn. The impact of the semi biting into the passenger side of his small Chevy Colorado rent the cab of the pickup nearly in two, the subsequent transfer of energy so forceful, the driver side door wrenched free of its hinges. Beau, who had turned towards the door anticipating the impact, was thrown violently against it, right shoulder first. His world became pain within seconds; white hot and searing, his shoulder feeling as if it were both two sizes too big and nearly gone completely.

The door gave way. Beau was launched from the seat, his safety belt dangling useless and unbuckled as he had neglected to fasten it that night. The dark Illinois night enveloped him as he soared a few dozen feet from his wrecked truck. He fell hard at a shallow angle onto cold asphalt, sliding across it with the remaining force from the crash, the uneven and potted surface tearing tufts of fur and chunks of flesh from his body. Broken, bloodied, he tried to stand but couldn’t. His world, all of it, was simply pain now. He felt nothing but the heat and the wet.

Beau tried to move his right arm, his pitching arm, the one that would get him to the majors in record time. The arm was bent oddly and he couldn’t flex his shoulder to move it. It just sat there, resting limp against his side at too wrong an angle. Tears began to line up at the corner of his eyes, falling and staining the white cheek fur of his muzzle. He cried out, not a word, just a whimpering whine. Somewhere distant, way off, a car alarm was sounding. His keen ears twitched towards the sound.

Beep, beep, beep.

Was that his truck? The semi? What happened to the semi? He tried to look back but his neck didn’t work right, like it had become unconnected from his torso, at least when he tried to look over his right shoulder. He tried the left and it worked, but the act still forced stars into his vision. He cried out again, for whom he couldn’t remember. His mom, his dad, his brother. He didn’t know. He was alone, torn asunder between the corn fields on that lonely farm road.

The ballgame he had just left had been his best yet. Scouts were in the crowd. He had thrown all nine innings, Blackwood Blackhawks against the Oklahoma Sooners. He’d only allowed one earned run and had batted three for four, including two back-to-back four hundred footers. His fate had been sealed then, a unicorn in baseball, a pitcher who could smash dingers. The Show was calling. He’d cruise through the minors, maybe a half season at best, and then get called up in August to shore up some team’s postseason push. Nineteen years old and in the majors. The rocket had left the launch pad.

Beep, beep, beep.

His eyes slowly opened, the shrill beeping of his alarm clock rending the silence of that warm Illinois morning. He let out a soft groan and made to extend his right arm to turn off the incessant beeping, but the limb froze. It was always the last part of him to wake, and it was never happy about it either. Instead, he rolled over, grimacing as he put his two hundred and fifty pounds on top of the stubborn limb, using his left hand to quiet the alarm. He flopped onto his stomach, buried his snout beneath his pillow, and let out a soft whine into the mattress.

Getting up was difficult for him and he felt every one of his twenty seven years as he slipped a leg off the bed, letting a foot find the floor, his toes splaying, blunt clawtips clacking against the hardwood. He shot a glance at the clock on the nightstand. Six thirty in the morning. His first job was at eight at the McCreary place off Winston Drive. Old house, built in the forties. Mrs. McCreary was nearly ninety. She had a leak in the cabinet under the bathroom sink.

He let out another groan and slid out from beneath the covers, clad only in a pair of black boxers. He stood with the care of someone twice his age, making sure the shoulder never bent odd, otherwise he’d be feeling it the rest of the day.

Beau yawned. Stretched. Yawned again. Scratched at his stomach. Flexed his tail straight out, then reached back and ran his paw over it, flattening the mussed fur on it. He let out a small shiver. Goddamned tail was always so sensitive. He ambled into the bathroom, tore off his boxers, and stepped into the shower.

Ten minutes later, he was dressed in his usual work fit: black polo with “Brute Services” over the left pec, a loose and worn pair of Liberty jeans, the hems stuffed into a tall pair of brown Brahma work boots. His leather belt had multiple riveted compartments, each one holding specific tools for specific jobs, and just next to the buckle was an extended hammer hoop that always carried his favorite three pound carpentry hammer.

The sink was running full bore, hot water sending steam billowing into the air around him. He leaned against the sink, paws gripping each side of the wall-mounted porcelain. His head was down, fur still wet from the shower. He breathed in and looked up. The face that greeted him felt off. Down turned lips, lines folding fur at his brow, half-lidded eyes, neck scruff pointed to the ground.

Beau sighed, tucked his head back down against his chest, letting his muzzle rest there as he started to run his fingers through the fur on the side of his neck and jaw, fluffing it outward and then together. Satisfied, he let out another deep huff into the steamy air and slowly looked up. The same drooping countenance stared back at him until he spoke aloud, breaking over the calm white noise of the running water.

“Focus on the job. Focus on the fix. Focus on making a difference… FOCUS GODDAMNIT,” he growled, face contorted into an angry snarl that slowly melted into a soft, easy smile that genuinely pulled at the corners of his eyes. His gruffer tone was gone as he spoke again. “Hi, I’m Brute. Brute Services. Heard your sink was leakin’, and I’m here to make it right.” The Southern lilt in his voice, usually muted by his time in the Midwest, was much thicker now. His eyes were almost sparkling, smile warm and inviting, offering a salve to the everyday humdrum that was modern life. This jovial facade was a little gift he offered everyone as he made his way about his day. The mask was in place. “Brute” was awake.

Beau nodded, gave himself that warm, cozy smile. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, a younger, brasher version of himself clicked his tongue. He shook his head, readjusted his smile, and headed for the door.