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Drugs. Smack. Dope. Nose Candy. These are my world. I'm the guy who's gotta roam the streets to protect the little kiddies from the dark, disgusting world of substance abuse and drug addiction. A lone crusader in a beige trench coat, armed only my badge and my moxy, up against a world of users, abusers, dealers, and stealers. I'm Scruff McGruff, crime-fighting canine, and I'm here to take a bite out of crime.
I started the night off as usual, checking in with my assistant, Dean. Dean's a good kid--doesn't have much sense, but he makes it up with spunk.
"What's the case tonight, Dean?" I ask.
"Central really wants us to bag this Billy Shortwire - says he's still on the loose."
Dean thrusts Billy's case folder at me. As I browse it, I can't help but raise a droopy upper lip in disgust at the depravity of the world today. All was well for Billy, until he started dealing after hours. Next thing you know, he comes home in a methed-out rage with four yards of rope and a steak knife, threatening to kill his goldfish. Meth will tear a household apart faster than the Incredible Hulk on Nickelodeon's "Finder's Keepers." I've seen it a million times: they'll take a good dog and make him bad, make him want nothing but that next high, until some day he starts foaming at the mouth and chasing his tail until, damnit, he just can't go on.
"Well, where should we start?" Dean squeals out, popping the iridescent soap bubble that is my haunting reverie and leaving me drenched in bad memories, cynicism, and metaphorical soap. I thrust the case file back in his face and storm out the door. Kids these days.
I made my way over to the place any gumshoe worth his weight in Snausages always checks first - O'Leary's Tavern. Any hot rumor about town, and that bichon bombshell Suzie will be sure to pick it up for me. Suzie's just about the only bitch in this town I can still trust - she's got brains, guts, and hind legs like you wouldn't believe. Best of all, though, is her voice - every word she says sounds like it's sung by a madrigal choir of sirens and elves in Carnegie Hall. That sultry bark gets my tail wagging faster than Jeff Gordon on the Autobahn - especially when it's giving me the scoop on a drug bust.
"Hey Suz. Listen, I've got an assignment on this guy, Billy Shortwire - what've you got on him?"
"Well, Billy closes up his diner at 9pm, but after that you can find him at Angel's - that club downtown."
"Thanks, dollface. Remember - users and boozers are all really losers; so don't do drugs, damnit, don't do drugs."
She looks at me with those big, blue eyes, silently shouting "Don't go!" but I leave anyway. Man, I'd love to take a bite out of her crime some night. But not now - no time for broads, even a bichon like Suzie. I've got a meth addict to stake out.
I make my way down to Angel's, blinded by neon lights and deafened by the shouts of drunken wastrels. The smell starts to get to me, but it's all worth it when he walks out - Billy Shortwire, methed out of his mind, chomping at the bit for his next high. I pounce into action, throwing him on the ground and cuffing him faster than you can say "The Maltese Poodle."
"Hey man, what the hell do you think you're doing?"
"I'm Scruff McGruff, crime-fighting canine, and I'm here to take a bite out of crime." That's when I flash him The Badge - the look of terror on a dopehead's face when he sees The Badge makes me feel like a puppy every time.
Suddenly I feel a sharp pain in my neck, like I've been kicked in the head with a stiletto. It's because I've been kicked in the head with a stiletto. I turn around.
"Suzy!"
"Sorry, Scruff. You ought to know by now not to trust every busty bichon barkeep you run into."
She gives me another boot to the head for good measure, and runs off with Billy. As I lie on the pavement, my head spinning faster than a Hoveround driven by an eight-year-old with ADHD, I can't help but chastise myself. The irony pained me almost as much as the severe head trauma. Me, Scruff McGruff, duped--by a dame.
