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Four o’clock in the morning was a terrible time of day to begin with. Nothing was open, all the games around town had pretty much all ended, and there was nothing even close to good on TV. Add to this a machine gun rampage outside, and 4am was absolute hateful. To this, add temperatures still sitting in the high 90s, and 4am was pure fucking hell.
Ten more hours. That was all the longer Wilford had to endure the dog’s company, before he could get rid of it. Ten long, painful hours, listening to it whine and compulsively try to lick a hole in the kitchen floor. Why did people ever let these creatures into their house? Did people really enjoy this sort of thing? Why?
As he tried to ignore the dog’s whining, Wilford made a point of looking away from it, and noticed a white paper bag on the sofa. Billy must have put it there when he dropped off the dog. Having literally nothing better to do with his time, Wilford got up to see what was in the bag. Maybe he’d get lucky, and find some sort of tranquillizer or something. But he was not lucky. There were two bottles of pills, a huge tube of some sort of paste, and a bag of dog treats, with a few sheets of paper instructing on the use for everything. One of the pill bottles was for pain, while the other was an anti-parasitic. Reading that word nearly made Wilford gag.
“Oh, fucking gross,” he said. Billy brought some nasty, parasite-ridden dog into his house. Amazing. Billy was going to die.
If nothing else, the dog was going to take the pill to get rid of whatever bugs were crawling around on or inside of it. Wilford could only hope it meant he’d be lucky enough that the bugs didn’t get on him. He had no idea how in the hell he was supposed to convince a dog to swallow a pill, so he took one from each bottle, stuffed both into one of the soft dog treats in the bag, and tossed the whole thing in the general direction of the dog.
He was going to burn the sofa. After he got rid of the dog, his day was going to be full with a to-do list of murder and arson, while trying to also fit filming a segment in somewhere.
As Wilford sat down again, he watched the dog as it slowly inched out from under the kitchen table. It came out just far enough to snatch up the treat with its tongue, only to hide against the wall again. The dog didn’t seem to move very often, but when it did, it moved slow and stiffly, which Wilford couldn’t exactly fault it for. Not if it had been hit by a car. He’d be slow and stiff and bitchy too, and he knew it.
“Enjoy it while it lasts. You’re back on the street tomorrow,” Wilford told the dog as he resumed flipping through channels.
At some point, Wilford managed to doze off for a little bit, once the noise out on the street calmed down. His nap lasted barely twenty minutes, but that was about how long they usually lasted, so there was no point in trying to force himself to go back to sleep. This was usually the point where he’d start getting ready to head to the studio, before taking an obscene detour into Little Seoul for breakfast. But he didn’t want the dog in his car for that long, so he figured he’d do something new and fix his own breakfast. He didn’t have a coffee pot, but there were a dozen coffee shops between his house and the studio he could stop at later. On his way into the kitchen, Wilford peered under the table to make sure the dog was still alive. He found it asleep, which was… a thing. Kevin would be out of the betting pool around 1pm, which meant Wilford only had to hold onto the dog for an hour or so after that. Whoever got the money after that, he didn’t care. But he did agree with Billy on one thing. Kevin didn’t get the cash.
Wilford almost never had breakfast at home, so he wasn’t really sure what to make from anything he had in his fridge. There were eggs, which was a start. Usually they were for soup, but he supposed he could make some sort of omelet or something. As he started pulling things from the fridge, Wilford heard a low whine from underneath the table. The dog had moved forward the smallest bit, and was watching everything Wilford did. Rolling his eyes, Wilford grabbed a small frying pan from inside the oven and put it on the stove to heat up, assuming the dog would eat a scrambled egg. Getting through both his and the dog’s breakfast quickly, Wilford quit putting off the inevitable. The dog was still wearing the collar the Bar had provided, so Wilford hooked the leash onto it and exhausted every ounce of his patience trying to get the dog back outside and into his car. His car, which cost more than his house. That hurt. It wasn’t like he ever used the back seat, but using it to carry some disgusting, mangy dog was still painful. At least the drive to the studio was quick. Not wanting to spend two hours commuting every day was the ultimate deciding factor for Mirror Park over somewhere up in the Hills, or out in Morningwood. But even Mirror Park was too far away with the dog in his back seat.
Once he got to the studio, he wordlessly left the dog at the front desk on his way to make-up. It was only a small segment they were filming, but he wanted to get it done with and out of the way. Billy was in early as well, and found him in the chair, ignoring the stylist complain about the lack of style to his hair.
“You want to do this now, or after?” Billy asked from the doorway.
Wilford glanced over at the stack of folders in Billy’s hands. “After,” he decided. “Tell me about Bigby.”
“We’re working on him. We should be able to get him in next week,” Billy said.
“Great.” Wilford was looking forward to putting Bigby in the hot seat.
“Nicola wants to know about the interns,” Billy said quickly, as if saying it fast enough would lessen the blow.
“Tell her they’re right where I left them.” He wished the cleaning staff would get a clue and throw them away, because he was getting sick of having to kick the stack of folders out of his way any time he wanted to lie down on the sofa.
“She’s also told me to mention the ratings. Consider them mentioned,” Billy said.
“And consider your mention ignored.” Wilford saw the stylist reach for some bright purple bottle of hair product, and slapped his hand away.
Billy watched this, silently, and conspicuously not bringing up the other elephant in the room. Wilford assumed he must have seen the dog at the front desk before coming back to bother him. He hung around for a few moments longer before going away to bother someone else.
Filming the segment took longer than Wilford had wanted it to. Constant sound and light issues were still plaguing the set, dragging everything out to a painful crawl. By the time the segment had been filmed, it was already getting on close to lunch, but it didn’t seem like many people felt like leaving the studio. It wasn’t difficult to guess why. Not with the amount of noise coming from the conference room. Against his better judgement, Wilford stepped inside and crashed their party. A few people were looking smug, while others were already sour over having lost the bet.
“What’s the buy-back on this one?” Kevin asked, looking at his watch.
“Double what you paid last time?” Billy said, giving Nichola a questioning glance. Nichola nodded.
“Yeah, that sounds fair,” she said.
The white board on the wall had a neatly-organised chart, listing everyone’s names and their bet on how long before the dog disappeared or turned up dead. Several names had already been hastily erased. Wilford wasn’t exactly surprised, even as dug into their wallets to buy back in with new predictions. What did surprise him was what he saw at the top of the chart. Nichola & Bill | Until he thinks we’ve forgotten.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked suddenly, finally drawing attention to himself. “Get back to work.”
“Ah, shit. Dad’s home,” Kevin said.
“You’re all fucking idiots,” Wilford said tiredly, as he turned to find somewhere else to be. Sometimes, he hated every living being on the planet. This was one of those times. But if they were going to play this game, he was going to play right back. On his way back to his dressing room, he stopped by the front desk to collect the dog, confusing everyone there in the process. Pointing out that he’d clearly intended to keep the dog, as it was wearing a collar, just made the confusion worse. He liked that.
As Wilford took the dog back to his dressing room, he looked down at the sorry state it was in. If he was going to keep it, he was going to need to do something about how gross it was.
Ten more hours. That was all the longer Wilford had to endure the dog’s company, before he could get rid of it. Ten long, painful hours, listening to it whine and compulsively try to lick a hole in the kitchen floor. Why did people ever let these creatures into their house? Did people really enjoy this sort of thing? Why?
As he tried to ignore the dog’s whining, Wilford made a point of looking away from it, and noticed a white paper bag on the sofa. Billy must have put it there when he dropped off the dog. Having literally nothing better to do with his time, Wilford got up to see what was in the bag. Maybe he’d get lucky, and find some sort of tranquillizer or something. But he was not lucky. There were two bottles of pills, a huge tube of some sort of paste, and a bag of dog treats, with a few sheets of paper instructing on the use for everything. One of the pill bottles was for pain, while the other was an anti-parasitic. Reading that word nearly made Wilford gag.
“Oh, fucking gross,” he said. Billy brought some nasty, parasite-ridden dog into his house. Amazing. Billy was going to die.
If nothing else, the dog was going to take the pill to get rid of whatever bugs were crawling around on or inside of it. Wilford could only hope it meant he’d be lucky enough that the bugs didn’t get on him. He had no idea how in the hell he was supposed to convince a dog to swallow a pill, so he took one from each bottle, stuffed both into one of the soft dog treats in the bag, and tossed the whole thing in the general direction of the dog.
He was going to burn the sofa. After he got rid of the dog, his day was going to be full with a to-do list of murder and arson, while trying to also fit filming a segment in somewhere.
As Wilford sat down again, he watched the dog as it slowly inched out from under the kitchen table. It came out just far enough to snatch up the treat with its tongue, only to hide against the wall again. The dog didn’t seem to move very often, but when it did, it moved slow and stiffly, which Wilford couldn’t exactly fault it for. Not if it had been hit by a car. He’d be slow and stiff and bitchy too, and he knew it.
“Enjoy it while it lasts. You’re back on the street tomorrow,” Wilford told the dog as he resumed flipping through channels.
At some point, Wilford managed to doze off for a little bit, once the noise out on the street calmed down. His nap lasted barely twenty minutes, but that was about how long they usually lasted, so there was no point in trying to force himself to go back to sleep. This was usually the point where he’d start getting ready to head to the studio, before taking an obscene detour into Little Seoul for breakfast. But he didn’t want the dog in his car for that long, so he figured he’d do something new and fix his own breakfast. He didn’t have a coffee pot, but there were a dozen coffee shops between his house and the studio he could stop at later. On his way into the kitchen, Wilford peered under the table to make sure the dog was still alive. He found it asleep, which was… a thing. Kevin would be out of the betting pool around 1pm, which meant Wilford only had to hold onto the dog for an hour or so after that. Whoever got the money after that, he didn’t care. But he did agree with Billy on one thing. Kevin didn’t get the cash.
Wilford almost never had breakfast at home, so he wasn’t really sure what to make from anything he had in his fridge. There were eggs, which was a start. Usually they were for soup, but he supposed he could make some sort of omelet or something. As he started pulling things from the fridge, Wilford heard a low whine from underneath the table. The dog had moved forward the smallest bit, and was watching everything Wilford did. Rolling his eyes, Wilford grabbed a small frying pan from inside the oven and put it on the stove to heat up, assuming the dog would eat a scrambled egg. Getting through both his and the dog’s breakfast quickly, Wilford quit putting off the inevitable. The dog was still wearing the collar the Bar had provided, so Wilford hooked the leash onto it and exhausted every ounce of his patience trying to get the dog back outside and into his car. His car, which cost more than his house. That hurt. It wasn’t like he ever used the back seat, but using it to carry some disgusting, mangy dog was still painful. At least the drive to the studio was quick. Not wanting to spend two hours commuting every day was the ultimate deciding factor for Mirror Park over somewhere up in the Hills, or out in Morningwood. But even Mirror Park was too far away with the dog in his back seat.
Once he got to the studio, he wordlessly left the dog at the front desk on his way to make-up. It was only a small segment they were filming, but he wanted to get it done with and out of the way. Billy was in early as well, and found him in the chair, ignoring the stylist complain about the lack of style to his hair.
“You want to do this now, or after?” Billy asked from the doorway.
Wilford glanced over at the stack of folders in Billy’s hands. “After,” he decided. “Tell me about Bigby.”
“We’re working on him. We should be able to get him in next week,” Billy said.
“Great.” Wilford was looking forward to putting Bigby in the hot seat.
“Nicola wants to know about the interns,” Billy said quickly, as if saying it fast enough would lessen the blow.
“Tell her they’re right where I left them.” He wished the cleaning staff would get a clue and throw them away, because he was getting sick of having to kick the stack of folders out of his way any time he wanted to lie down on the sofa.
“She’s also told me to mention the ratings. Consider them mentioned,” Billy said.
“And consider your mention ignored.” Wilford saw the stylist reach for some bright purple bottle of hair product, and slapped his hand away.
Billy watched this, silently, and conspicuously not bringing up the other elephant in the room. Wilford assumed he must have seen the dog at the front desk before coming back to bother him. He hung around for a few moments longer before going away to bother someone else.
Filming the segment took longer than Wilford had wanted it to. Constant sound and light issues were still plaguing the set, dragging everything out to a painful crawl. By the time the segment had been filmed, it was already getting on close to lunch, but it didn’t seem like many people felt like leaving the studio. It wasn’t difficult to guess why. Not with the amount of noise coming from the conference room. Against his better judgement, Wilford stepped inside and crashed their party. A few people were looking smug, while others were already sour over having lost the bet.
“What’s the buy-back on this one?” Kevin asked, looking at his watch.
“Double what you paid last time?” Billy said, giving Nichola a questioning glance. Nichola nodded.
“Yeah, that sounds fair,” she said.
The white board on the wall had a neatly-organised chart, listing everyone’s names and their bet on how long before the dog disappeared or turned up dead. Several names had already been hastily erased. Wilford wasn’t exactly surprised, even as dug into their wallets to buy back in with new predictions. What did surprise him was what he saw at the top of the chart. Nichola & Bill | Until he thinks we’ve forgotten.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked suddenly, finally drawing attention to himself. “Get back to work.”
“Ah, shit. Dad’s home,” Kevin said.
“You’re all fucking idiots,” Wilford said tiredly, as he turned to find somewhere else to be. Sometimes, he hated every living being on the planet. This was one of those times. But if they were going to play this game, he was going to play right back. On his way back to his dressing room, he stopped by the front desk to collect the dog, confusing everyone there in the process. Pointing out that he’d clearly intended to keep the dog, as it was wearing a collar, just made the confusion worse. He liked that.
As Wilford took the dog back to his dressing room, he looked down at the sorry state it was in. If he was going to keep it, he was going to need to do something about how gross it was.
