Scott wasn’t your average mutt; he didn’t chase tails on street corners, he didn’t sniff first and ask questions later, Scott had a job to do, a job only he could handle. He lives in a city made of red brick, the roads are brick, the buildings are brick, the lampposts are brick, everywhere you went the place was a rusted color of red. The citizens called their home the Gray City. This was because most citizens are kin to a race of anthropomorphic canines: dog people.

These citizens are separated by the pure breed: Poodles, Labradors, Wolves and mutts: everything else. Mutts were considered lower beings by the dogs and humans. Humans that live here are mostly business owners, servants, or wizards. The dogs were amazed by wizards, being of the canine persuasion, they were easily enthralled by cheap tricks and shiny spells. Wizards had life made in the Gray City, but there were a few wizards who crossed the wrong dog. That dog being the Big Bad.

The Big Bads are the things of fairy tales, the scary ones you’re grandmother Hound Dog tells you as a pup so you’ll drink your mother’s milk and go to bed. The first was a Wolf, he was a sly and clever fellow that tricked pigs and little girls until a Woodsman caught up with him. They run the crime syndicates, the cheese circles, the dog fights, and any other dirty deed a dog could think of, in the Gray City.

Scott, while doing the business of one such Big Bad, walked down a sidewalk in the shopping district. Looking at him you knew he was a mutt: choppy fur, dark beady eyes under bushy eyebrows, and a spotted black nose that twitched in the air. He took his paws out of his jacket pockets and opened the door to, Magic Words, a wizard's shop. The owner owed the Big Bad some money and Scott was here to remind him. Inside there were shelves laden with magical items: newt’s eye, fairy's wishes, vampire's tax receipts, and more.

"Don't count the shelves," A voice said from down the aisle.

"Why?" Scott walked toward the voice. On the other side of the aisle was a teenage zombie stacking bottles.

"Because these are magic shelves," the post-pubescent zombie explained. He wore a pine scented air freshener around his neck that made him smell of death and the holidays.

"Could you elaborate," Scott smiled, a wide white fang smile, the adolescent Zombie kept stacking shelves.

"The shelves are made from magic wood," The zombie explained. "So they keep growing out, getting bigger, and my master uses a spell to keep them from bursting through the walls."

Scott’s ears fell at the word master, his people haven’t been keen on the idea of someone owning another. When they stopped walking on four legs they also stopped wearing leashes.

"Why can't you count them though?"

The zombie sighed. Scott noticed where the creature’s eyes should have been we're eyelids sewn tight. "Because if you do, the spell will break."

"Why?"

The juvenile undead stopped stacking cans of Dragon Droppings, and rolled his sewn eye sockets. "Seriously, man?"

"Seriously, I'm interested in why I cannot count these magic shelves."

“Okay,” The zombie moaned. “The spell that keeps these shelves together is made from an insane thought, so if you try to look at them logically, for example counting them, they become unstable and explode."

Scott nodded. “Continue.”

"We don't keep stock of our incoming items, we don't even take inventory, because if we actually know how much stuff was on these shelves the spell would break and—”

"Explosion,” Scott picked up and looked at a bottle of Minotaur horn clippings. “How do you find things for customers?”

"We alphabetize."

Scott nodded. "I see."

"That’s nice," the zombie frowned.

"Sorry."

"It's fine,” he said and went back to stacking merchandise.

Scott mentally kicked himself for apologizing. What did he care about some blind undead teen? Whatever the punk did to become a wizard’s slave wasn’t his fault. If the kid knew better he would be alive and have twenty, twenty vision.

"May I help you?" A voice asked. Scott turned around to see a young looking wizard, in a purple cloak, leaning on a counter.

"Are you the owner?"

“Yes sir, Duane Goodleif,” The Wizard said. “Can I interest you in a jar of Cyclop’s tears? Really adds a kick to your morning coffee”

“The Big Bad sent me,” Scott said.

“Oh,” Duane frowned. “This is about those fifty rubies I owe?”

“With interest,” Scott corrected. “The Big Bad is very upset.”

“Hmm,” Duane scratched his chin. “What breed are you?”

Scott frowned, “That’s kind of personal question.”

“I’m sorry it’s just I know you’re a mutt,” Duane said. “But I don’t want to just call you mutt.”

“Half terrier, half shepherd,” Scott submitted. He didn’t want to tell Duane his name, wizards can use names, names have power. “Why?”

Duane smiled, “Please join me in my office. I’m sure we can settle this calmly.”

“Sure,” Scott followed Duane into his office. “I’m here to make sure you’ll be able to pay, you have time.”

“I’m sure payment won’t be a problem,” Duane smiled. In the office there was a big oak desk covered in babbles and do-dads, a big chair on the Wizard’s side and a swivel chair for guests. Duane waved for Scott to sit in the guest chair. As Scott looked at Duane he realized that he wasn’t young at all, but made to look young. Scott could smell some magic that kept Duane’s skin from wrinkling, some spell kept his teeth white, everything about Duane reeked nauseatingly of magic.

“Know what I hate about Big Bad Wolves?” Duane asked, gesturing for Scott to sit.

Scott sat and swiveled, a little off-balanced, “I don’t, what?”

“Well they send mutts like you Mr. Terrier-Shepherd,” As Duane spoke this he rifled through his desk drawers. “These high and mighty wolves think just because they’re incestuous pure breeds, they can push around hard working people like me and you Mr. Terrier-Shepherd. This is the Red City, city of dogs. I’m human and you’re a mutt, so— ah, here it is.”

Duane pulled out a glass jar of purple goop, “Do you know what this is?”

“Styling gel?” Scott guessed. “Why does this matt—”

“This Mr. Terrier-Shepherd, is Gene Gel,” Duane interrupted, waving his hands around the jar “One glop can change your genetics. Some medical wizards created it to change blood types for medical purposes.”

“Ok, why are you showing me—”

“I’m not going to pay the Big Bad,” Duane laughed.

“What?” Scott asked. “Why? You still have time, this is just a reminder.”

“Those high and mighty holier-than-though pure breeds are all jerks,” Duane opened the lid of the jar, and took a big sniff of the goop. Scott could smell it too, it smelled like dead ants and fresh fish mixed together.

“But, I have a proposition for you,” Duane said.

Scott leaned forward listening intently, “What kind of proposition?”

“I give you this goop and with the right spell, that I will also provide, you can change your genetics.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, that you Mr. Terrier-Shepherd, can become a Mr. Terrier or a Mr. Shepherd or even a Mr. Wolf, a Big Bad one even,” Duane’s smile widened. Duane’s eyes reminded Scott of a used magic carpet salesman that had to make this sale or it’ll be the end of his world.

Scott stood and walked around the office thinking, scratching his chin as he did so. “Let me get this straight, you want to bribe me?”

“I wouldn’t say—”

“But it’s a bribe nonetheless,” Scott interrupted.

Duane didn’t frown, but he was straining to keep up his smile, “I guess you could put it that way.”

“You, a wizard, plan to bribe me, a mutt, with some goop, that you say can make me into a purebred, so I won’t tell the Big Bad that you won’t pay?”

Duane stood pointing at Scott excitedly, “That’s just it, I’m leaving the city tomorrow and you’ll be a different dog. The Big Bad won’t even recognize you.”

Scott pondered the idea for a moment. “How do I know that goop even works? How do I know that stuff won’t kill me? Also, how do you know the Big Bad is a Wolf?”

“What?” The Wizard said, his smile shortening more. “They’re always wolves, what else could they be? Besides the stuff works I swear on my honor.”

“The same honor you swore on when you promised you’d pay.”

“That was to the Big Bad Wolf, I wouldn’t lie to a mutt like you.”

“A mutt like me,” Scott repeated. Scott could tell Duane didn’t care if he did or didn’t become a pure breed. He knew Duane just expected him to be impressed by his product like any other mutt take it and leave. “Why does the Big Bad have to be a wolf?”

Duane’s left eye twitched uncomfortably. “You’re really hung up on that, eh?”

“I am,” Scott nodded. “How’d you meet the Big Bad?”

“No one meets him,” Duane shivered. “You just put the word out in a message tube. He either contacts you or he doesn’t.”

“So you don’t know that he’s a wolf, you made a deal with a dog you’ve never even met.”

“I don’t care what he is,” Duane snapped. “He could be a Labrador, a Poodle, or a—”

“Terrier-Shepherd,” Scott suggested.

Duane laughed at the suggestion thinking it was a joke. Then looking at Scott’s expression, Duane frowned. “So I guess we won’t be able to make a deal.”

“You like deals don’t you Duane?”

Duane’s whimpered. “I feel like they make things easier for business purposes.”

“You know what I hate Duane?”

“What?” Duane grimaced.

“I hate wizards that make deals with kids then cause their deaths, and turn them into undead slaves.”

Duane shook his head. “That’s not what it looks like?”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” Duane nodded. “You see that kid out there is my nephew, and—”

“You’re nephew!” Scott barked.

Duane’s smile died. “He’s a bad kid, his Mom was a useless idiot after my brother died and he does more good now than when he was begging on the streets like a—”

“Like a mutt?” Scott finished.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“So you turn family into zombies and hate mutts?” Scott began counting on his finger, as if remembering a list he wrote. “And you owe the Big Bad money, but plan on running away, and tried to bribe me—”

Duane’s face turned bright red with anger, “How dare you, you mongrel—”

“You know I bet you think I’m an idiot because I’m a mutt.”

“Well you most certainly--”

“I bet you have all kinds of magic defenses and attack spells to use on me so you think I won’t leave here alive.”

“You bet your—”

“But what you don’t know is I have seven wizards, in my pay, chanting anti-magic and protection charms on me right now.”

“Seven?”

“Yes, seven, the perfect number. Now you might be wondering how a mutt could get that much fire power to work for him, but that’s not important now. There is something else you should know that I’ve been doing this whole time.”

Duane squinted and stared at me with his unnaturally blue eyes. “What’s that?”

“Counting,” Scott said, and as he finished that word a shelf burst through and hit the Wizard's desk. The jar of Gene Gel was knocked out of Duane’s hand into his face. Instantly the Wizard began to change shape. Patches of his skin turned to scales or fur and he grew various ears and horns until he laid there as an unmovable mass of random flesh, not dead but barely alive. More shelves burst through the door, but thankfully Scott was teleported out across the street from the store, where he had the best view of his work. He watched and smiled as shelves exploded through Magic Words and the selfish Wizards demise, at least until he saw the teenage zombie. The creature was screaming at the top of his no-longer-living lungs, “Don’t count the shelves!” over and over again, Scott took solace in the fact that the sad creature couldn’t see his demise.

One of the Scott’s wizards teleported next to him.

“What now boss?” The wizard asked.

“Now,” Scott smiled, showing his large jaws that proved he is a predator. “Whatever I want.”

Scott wasn’t your average mutt. He didn’t chase tails on street corners. He didn’t sniff first and ask questions later. He wasn’t distracted by shiny objects or easily won by cheap wizards. Scott had a job, a job only a mutt like him could do. Scott is the Big Bad, he’s not a Wolf, but he’s twice as deadly, and the Big Bad ran all the crime in the Gray City made of red brick.