The Wooz

... shielded his head with his arms as he scurried towards the shaking canine that whimpered by Kwik Trips door.

“Roscoe,” he whispered. “Get over here. Roscoe!” The dog didn’t respond. He just snorted and scratched at his head. The burning sensation still lingered in his nostrils. Advancing on him with arms outstretched, The Wooz was ready to scoop up the beagle when a scream came from inside the Kwik Trip. “Jesus!” he yelled, dropping to the concrete right next to his dog. “What the hell is going on in there?” He peered through the glass door and didn’t know whether to run in and help, run away and save himself, or just burst out laughing. Two men, one an employee by the looks of his uniform, and the other an avid Scooby Doo fan by the looks of his boxers, lay side by side atop what The Wooz suspected at first to be an oversized beanbag. Not until the beanbag screamed, wriggled, and spurted blood from a gunshot wound in its thigh did he realize that it, in fact, was a woman. As he stared at the odd display unfolding just feet away on the other side of the gas station’s glass door wet nose brushed up against his elbow and whimpered.

Roscoe had decided that freedom was not worth his time if all that came of it was a singed tongue. He poked his master’s arm again, hoping that he would carry him back to his warm bed in the van. Master, however, paid no heed to the cold snout nudging against him, but was staring through the curly, greasy, bleached locks of hair that hung in front of his eyes at an object on the floor that seemed to be what the two men were struggling for. That is a really big gun...