"What do you think of him," I asked, pointing to an older man with a combover. "He looks like he won't spit on our food."
"Ugh, I hope not. He looks like the kind to talk about his grandkids to us for twenty minutes and then forget to take our order."
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I named him Frank, as in Frankfurter, because he was a schnauzer, and as kids, we called them frankfurter dogs.
It had been 2 weeks since I found him huddled out by the trash cans, shaking in the cold night air. I brought him into the garage, which was a lot warmer than the 15 degrees it was supposed to reach, held him in a towel to stop his shivers. I had a few cans left over from when my brother stopped by with his dog, Mangy, and Frank went at it greedily.
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To call the private studio of the Dominatrix a dungeon would, for the fortunate, earn only her contempt. Eschewing the contrivances of male sadomasochistic fantasies, the walls were painted a passionless shade of gray-green, the oak floor polished to the luster of ancient gold, and the sole window decorated with an embroidered ivory curtain, now closed.
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"Fire in the hole!"
WHOOOMPH!
Lauren Thompson watched with satisfaction as the two tapered smokestacks suddenly curtsied and bowed like 18th Century dancing partners, collapsing into a billowing cloud of dust. She rose from her crouch behind the wall of sandbags, turned off the bullhorn and walked back to the operations trailer to review the remote camera videotapes.
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