Tales from the Patch.

Moose Our patch? It's sound, that. Not small, not big—just right, kinda thing. Young'uns like me, Bonya, an' Ziggy? Nobody's really fussed 'bout us, we just bob round on our own. Mums, they're legends, always graftin' and lookin' out. As for the old man—now that's a story and a half. Lads like that, they don't mess—one wrong move and you're likely to get a proper clip round the ear. We've got a couple of bars 'round here, decent enough. Pint's all right, too. There's a cinema—two, actually—theatre, footy stadium, even a strip club. All the dancers on hooves—Bonya's lot, you know. I'm hoofed meself, but with this big snout and this lump on me back, I wouldn't pass for no dancer. Not really the type. No one's getting their kicks from a fella like me. Our big bros are shiftin' about as well. Even got one what opened a boozer right in the supermarket near our gaff. Ziggy picks up shifts there weekends and holidays, helpin' out, so his old man don't grumble 'bout him livin' off 'em—and Bonya don't bull up, neither. Bonya went to help his mum in her shop and now he's got his nose in the air, proper little sassy sod. Not that he's not sound—he's a right laugh, to be fair. Does his little waggle, gives it the cheek—makes me grin. Knows how to get folk to love him, that one. Not like me, mind. All told, our patch is decent—can't complain really. Couple of small lakes round the back—summer, we nip down there for a dip. Ziggy? You won't catch him near the water. Swears blind someone's out to drown him soon as he sets paw in. Dogs, foxes, same story. But me an' Bonya, we're all for a splash, can't get enough. Ziggy, he's an odd one. Part of the pack but always leggin' it off. Makes sense, mind—the youngest of the lot, gets all the stick, so he bounces. Slept on me garage couch a few nights, not gonna lie. Bonya reckons he's a right moaner, but I don't buy it. Let him try life in that lot and see how chipper he is. Ziggy's old man? Hangs out with 'em, dishes out a good kick when he fancies. No room for slacking there. My mum's grand, that one. Makes her brass on dens and homes—buys, sells, lets 'em out—all sorts. Big like ours, tiny ones for field mice and the like. The proper small ones are ace—quick to build, but fetch nearly as much as the big dens. Only, builders round here—if you ain't got the old man's blessing, you're not getting anywhere. Our old fella's long pegged it—no luck there. Bonya's dad's still about, works in admin. Antlers, big as scaffolding, that fella. I clocked him from afar once—Bonya pointed him out. Suited, booted, bit of eye-candy on his arm. Out the car, bodyguard at his side—all business. Some dad, that—just what you'd want. Looks after Bonya's mum. Bonya's not interestin' him yet, too young, but down the line old man'll sort him out, no doubt. Ziggy's who gets me proper worried, though. Wolf, but not all snarly-like—hangs about with us hooves, spends more time with others than with his lot. Their pack's tough, biggest listens, keeps his gob shut. If your dad's useless, you're stuffed. Zig needs his own crew really, but he's still young; any of the other wolves would have him for breakfast. That's how we get by. Me, just doin' me mum's run-arounds, cloppin' away on me hooves. Still learnin' the ropes. She put me in college, wants me to turn out big and antlered, proper old man stuff. Suits me—I let her call the shots. Got the knack for lettin' dens these days—contract tucked under me armpit, checkin' the rooms, makin' the list, handin' over the keys. Sounds better than it is—me bein' a moose, it's all slow goin'. Draggin' meself round, proper slow and lumberin' like, scribble the list with a proper brain fog, then I spend another half hour diggin' in me pockets for the right key—and I still have to figure which is which. That's pretty much how I let the place to Tiger. He helped with the list, helped with the keys. So I invited him round for a drink, show him the patch, told him I've got a garage, comfy couch and all. He's a bit dodgy, but he took me up on it. Told him about Bonya, told him a bit about Ziggy—wanted to see what Tiger's story was. Why'd he come out here, where from? But he's a right dodgy git, tight as a drum—gave nowt away. When Bonya bounced in with the beers, it was clear what was up. His deer eyes got all soft, nose twitchin'—right away, I knew he was gone for that big stripey fella. Not that I'm not glad for him—Tiger's proper. Well, maybe I'm not that glad... What if he's a right wrong'un? He turned up in that flash car—would've been a rusty heap if he was just any lad. But that motor was proper nice. Bonya starts actin' all gooey over him, so I try to plant him back in his seat, but he just flutters his hooves at Tiger even more. Soppy little sod. Snuggles into Tiger's tummy, huffin' away. No wonder—he's overdone it. I was up all night after, couldn't sleep—what if that tiger was a psycho? Could've done anything to Bonya. No way he could fight him off. Why'd I even let Bonya leave? Humped mug, that's me. Next mornin', crack of dawn, I'm ringin' that daft deer over and over, prayin' he'll pick up. Took ten tries, but I finally get him. He's groanin' about how rough he feels after last night, but I'm just glad he's in one piece. Smiled me head off. By lunchtime, I'm off to see Ziggy. I should've said I legged it like the wind, but really I'm trudgin' along, heavy. Ziggy's already helpin' out at my brother's boozer, sortin' out the bar nuts, and the second I walk in I'm like: "We need to find out who this Tiger is. I've got his contract, got all his details. What's the next step?" "How should I know?" — Ziggy shrugs, scratchin' his busted fang. Needs sortin'. Keeps snaggin' on his tongue, proper aggravatin'. That's why he's always moody. "Try somethin' easier, yeah?" "But your dad's an old lag, might know summat." "So what?" — He chews on his fang a sec, then stops showin' his teeth. "He's in 'cause he's no greasie. Greasies don't get nicked. You want advice from a loser?" "What d'you reckon? What if this Tiger's proper maniacsy?" "You wanna know that, don't go askin' crims — go to the coppers. Say, 'bit suspicious, mind havin' a sniff for a record?'" "Oi, now you're talkin'." "There's the local copper, pops by to check on my old man sometimes. Might as well ask him." "Bang on." Ziggy chews on his fang again, stares at me proper hard. "Hop round here this eve, we'll head over to the local copper together." "Sound," I nod, wiggling my big old nose—not that I'm happy, more like a weight's off my chest. Don't have to save Bonya from that stripey nutter on my own. Ziggy's alright, knew I couldn't handle it solo. So I shuffle home, brushin' up on my buildin' tech. Second year at college's not far off—can't just be a proper old boy on antlers, not yet. *** Later, me an' Ziggy head for the copper's place. I'm quiet as a mouse, nerves ruined. Ziggy's chatterin' about Foxy, she's up to her tricks again, wantin' to get back together. Knows what she's after, but that's his trouble, let him sort it. On the way, get a message from the nutter. I play it—me and Ziggy listenin', me breakin' out in a cold sweat, right between the nostrils. The brute's growlin' down the blower, sayin' somethin's up with his motor. Didn't twig at first, was too rattled—wants to swing by my garage in an hour, bring some beers, hang about if we help fix his motor. I drag Ziggy off to the copper as quick as my hooves'll carry us. The copper, he's a proper bearo, just scowlin' and scratchin' his noggin, like he don't get a word. Would've run us off with a piss rag if not for Ziggy's old man. I play the voicemail, nose tremblin', proper insistin'— "Just listen! That's pure maniacsy, that is!" Copper just laughs, but says he'll run a check. Hour later, we're already in my garage, waitin' for the maniacsy one, worried. Bonyka comes dartin' in, ears pricked, tail up. I'm thinkin', that nutter'll wanna climb on Bonyka, after last night! And this spotty little bastard, soon as he knows the maniacsy's comin' round, flattens himself right to the floor, like he's grown roots. Now you couldn't kick him outta my garage with a piss rag—or any rag at all. Little tart. Maniac pulls up. Engine rattlin', and I'm thinkin', what's busted, then? Still runs, don't it? Out he comes, flexin' his maniacsy muscles, waggin' his mangy tail—beastly bastard, that's what he is, pure and simple, that's what I reckon. Bonyka melts, course he does. Ziggy's under the bonnet in a flash—mad for motors, that one. Him and the maniac start chattin', talkin' shop. I can't stand watchin' Bonyka fuss about, tail in the air, eyes all soft. So I pull him aside and say, real quiet: "Don't be daft, what if he's proper criminal?" Bonyka shoots me a look, sharp, like I'm off my rocker, nostrils twitchin' with worry. "Hoof, don't get stupid. Rut's half a year away, mate—you're too early." Had the urge to clock him one, swear down. He's sittin' there all smug—my fists are clenchin' so hard they're crackin'. And while I'm still mullin' over whether to give him a smack or not, Bonyka's already hopped off, snags the maniacsy beer with his little paws, sets out cups on the fold-up table, pourin' 'em out like some bloody hostess. Couldn't help but go quiet, just starin', proper admirin' him. "Hear that knockin'?" That's the Maniac askin' Ziggy—Ziggy's already forgot we came here to suss him out, now he's just chattin' like proper mates. Bloody little mate, that Ziggy is. "Maybe it's the bearings, yeah?" So they're messin' about with the motor and me and Bonyka are kicked back on the camp chairs, knockin' back beers, relaxin'. Bonyka, of course, is up in five minutes, runnin' over, pushin' more maniacsy beer on the Maniac. Tail up, arse twitchin', neat little hooves, fackin' bell and all. I can't take it, so I jump up on my own big hoofstompers and sit that loon-deer right back down. "Stay. Don't stick your nose in." Did he listen? Yeah right. My garage, it's crammed full of tools, all dad's old stuff—proper stash. And, course, they have this loon-deer leggin' it back and forth, bring this spanner, fetch that, run, run, run. Lookin' at Bonyka, gives me a headache, swear. That traitor-wolf Ziggy, buzzed he gets to poke about in a ride like this, and the maniacsy Stripey, laid back now, knockin' back beers, showin' his wicked grin at the silly deer, laughin' his fackin' head off while Bonyka's dancin' about, clackin' his hoovey little feet for the next tool. Couldn't stand it. "So, where'd you say you rocked up from, all fucking-unfuckingbelievable and fuckmazing?" I ask, cocky as hell. Just so this maniacsy bastard gets I ain't fucking around here. 'Primorsky,' he says, cool as ice. 'So what, couldn't fucking sit still over there? Bet there's way bigger patches than here, yeah? Fuckton of local deer, too, not like our dump. The fuck you screw up out there?' He's looking at me, clearly gets I'm fucking with him, proper startin' a beef. Just trying to figure out what's what—the street way. He's a big fucker, proper beast, everyone knows you don't fuck with this one. But I ain't small, either. If I smash him with my hoofstompers, he ain't waking up. "Deer's deer," he says, "But they never had a moose like you, mate,"—and lets out a proper rumblesnort, deep as all fack, so there's no doubt who's the boss. Beer's stuck in my throat. Bonyka clocked it too and chills out sharpish. Don't ask me what that was about. Next day, that maniacsy Stripey asks me out to the flicks." Can you believe it? Swear to god, I was floored. And Bonyka? Stopped talkin' to me entirely.