Technically, Dancer didn’t so much know a guy as know a guy who knew a guy.
Prancer scowled as he listened to Dancer’s story. They were in Rudy’s and the noisy, well-oiled crowd helped drown out their conversation.
“I knew that story in The Times was bullshit,” Prancer said. “‘Dasher Dead After Freak Accident’ my ass.” He guzzled his Stout and signaled for another. “Now we have to break in some noob to replace him.”
“Yes, yes,” Dancer said impatiently. “What about the bigger picture? If they could do this to Dasher, they could do it to any of us.”
Prancer snorted. “This sort of thing has gone on forever. We reindeer are usually treated with kid gloves, but those ESS bastards have ways of keeping us in line.”
“Look, I know you know people—“
Prancer interrupted, shouting, “More Stout!” shaking his head at Dancer.
Moments later, the band came on. Prancer leaned across the table until he was speaking right into Dancer’s ear. “Yeah, I know people. But you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I don’t care. Dasher was family.”
“You say you don’t care because you don’t know. You need to ask yourself how far you’re willing to go.”
Dancer didn’t hesitate. “As far as it takes.”
“We’ll see,” Prancer said. Then he nodded. “Vixen’s, midnight,” he said, standing to leave.
He was already gone when it hit Dancer. Vixen’s. Why did it have to be Vixen’s?
Moral: Knowing a guy who knows a guy is almost as good as knowing a guy. You know?
Be sure to visit the other writers who are participating in this year’s BlogFestivus:
Shouts from the Abyss
Fix It or Deal
Lynn Schneider Books
1 Point Perspective
So I Went Undercover
Joe Owen’s Blog
Blog It or Lose It!
Voice in Me
Apprentice, never master
A Year of Daily Posts
Diary of a Sensitive Soul
The Day After
A Spoonful of Suga