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Anonymous #6DA5

Bad Cat, Mad Country

A gunshot echoes across the ranch. Horses scramble in their pen, heads bobbing as they bustle around in aimless circles.

The shot was meant for Old Hob, who takes cover behind a tree that’s more than wide enough to shield his wiry frame. His Sig Sauer drawn, he curses his bad luck before peering around the side of the trunk.

Another gunshot breaks the silence, and a chunk of bark explodes from the tree trunk and goes spinning past Hob’s perked ears. The ears reflexively flatten against his skull, and he jerks his head back behind the relative safety of the tree.

He prefers taking cover behind brick walls or cars or the occasional unfortunate bystander - the natural (or, rather, the unnatural) terrain of his hometown: New York City. This is his first gun battle in the country, on a ranch of all places, and so far he’s not a fan. Too many wide open spaces.

As it turns out, where the deer and the antelope play is a great place to get your tail shot off.

“You’re a God-fearing man, ain’t ya, Carter?” he shouts from behind the tree. “I’ve only skimmed the good book myself, but I recall there being a line or two in there about loving your neighbor.”

Another gunshot, another explosion of bark.

“No?” says Hob. “How ’bout turning the other cheek then?”

Another gunshot.

“Giving to the poor?”

“Only thing poor about you is your character!” Carter fires a burst that empties his AR-15. As he reloads, he doesn’t bother ducking his head behind the tractor he’s using for cover, confident that Hob can’t hit him from this far out.

And he’s right to be confident. Hob’s gunplay skill is decidedly more troubled-inner-city-youth than dead-eyed-lone-ranger. He’s used to popping other thugs at point-blank range. There’s a Kendrick Lamar lyric that sums up his relationship to gunplay very well: “Fuck you shootin’ for if you ain’t walkin’ up, you fuckin’ punk?”

Counterintuitive, sure, but gangster as hell.

Hob likes it gangster. Unlike the wannabe “Sons of Anarchy” punks he’s been dealing with for the past two months, he ain’t with the fuck shit.

He jerks his arm out from behind the tree and empties the Sig Sauer, hosing down the tractor just enough to make Carter lower his head. Then he darts behind a cow, crouches and reloads. It’s a dirty trick, using a rancher’s livestock as a meat-shield, but he’s got few options given the -

Another gunshot rings out, and the cow makes an ugly, dying noise before dropping to the ground. Shocked, Hob darts for the horse pen and dives over the top rail. Bullets zip around his nimble frame. A few rip through his flouncing coat, grazing the tank top beneath it.

Once in the pen, he grabs one of the startled horses by the mane - gently, his touch as soothing as the moment allows - and maneuvers behind it. Even in the violent throes of its agitation, it can’t help being the majestic beast that it is. It’s a Palomino mare, with a coat the color of wheat.

“Easy, girl, easy,” says Hob, his gruff voice all wrong for the kind of soothing coo he’s going for. “Cool it. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Just use you as a living meat-shield, he thinks, feeling a tincture of shame. Old Hob hates the countryside, but he has a soft spot for animals. For one very obvious reason, he’s always favored beasts over men.

From his new hiding spot, he glances over at the dead cow. A frown sours his already grim face. As if he needed another reason to kill Carter.

“Jesus Christ,” he says. “Carter, you hateful piece of shit. The cow? Really? You shot the cow?”

“You’re the one that hid behind the damn thing!”

“Yeah, because I didn’t think you’d actually shoot it!”

Hob extends his arm across the horse’s back and takes aim at Carter. Then he thinks better of it. Instead of blasting Carter he shoots the lock off the pen, then runs over and kicks open the fence door.

“You damn mutant bastard!” Carter shouts. “That’s my livelihood you’re messing with! That’s how I feed my family!”

Bullshit. He feeds his family with dirty money, the kind you make peddling drugs and guns. Not that Hob is in any place to judge, he just prefers his criminals be honest about their profession.

He smacks the Palomino on the rump, startling it into a gallop, then scares the others by shouting and firing his gun in the air. The horses stampede all around him; Carter can’t get a decent shot. Capping old Bessie was one thing, but the horses have real value.

So much value, in fact, that Carter panics as he watches them gallop out of the pen and across the open field. He ain’t a very good rancher. Hob isn’t too keen on the protocol for escaped horses, but he’s pretty sure it ain’t running around and shouting curses and waving your arms around like a kid throwing a tantrum.

But then, that’s all Carter is at the end of the day: a kid. A grown ass man-child playing at being a desperado. Hob almost pities him.

While Carter freaks out over his escaping horses, Hob casually strolls up beside him and shoots him in the temple. Blood splatters on the old cat’s coat - that’s how close he is to Carter when the bullet kicks gore and brain matter out of the bastard’s skull.

Fuck you shootin’ for if you ain’t walkin’ up, you fuckin’ punk?

The fuck you shootin’ for indeed.

The lyric plays in his head, and soon the entire song gets stuck there. He smiles, humming the chorus aloud while the lyrics run through his head.

You can read the rest here http://www.furaffinity.net/view/26729208/

Story by kidyiff
art by Rayjay
Alopex and Hob belong to IDW and Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird

Posted about a year ago Report

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