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“Hold your horses little buddy. If your feet are going on the dash, at least buckle your seatbelt. We’re the freelance police, not a couple of hooligans.” Sam remarked, cocking an eyebrow at Max, who begrudgingly clicked the seatbelt into place with his fuzzy sausage-y fingers. He groaned loudly and smacked his head against the back of the leathery red seat.
“Are there any other traffic laws we should keep in mind today? Looking before slamming the gas through crosswalks? OH, OH! Finally getting our oil changed after months of beeping and flashing?!” Sam shook his head, chuckling through the side of his snout.
“Today pal, those are simply suggestions. I’m thinking we stop by that new deli up East. I’ve heard its various meats are teeming with the delights of future cardiovascular disease!”
“Oh boy, soppy with grease! Just like me!!” Max screeched excitedly, ears flopping as he bounced in his seat. Sam shook his head again, more out of mild disgust this time. That was his Max alright, whatever that meant.
It was a nice day out on the streets. The lovely smog of early August hung in the air in a disgusting layer of humidity, just enough sunshine to keep the people of New York sweaty and irritated. Sam treated himself in the moment, sticking his tongue out the window and letting his ears flop with the wind. The radio was buzzy, and on occasion, you could sometimes hear the jazz playing between the constant barrage of worthless radio ads. Max was busy staring out his own window, trying to scare passing pedestrians with a grin of malice. Everything about it was just okay, just the way Sam liked it. By the time he felt the worries of the world subside, the DeSoto was parallel parked in front of a grimy storefront. Max pressed his face up against the car window with excitement, his hands sprawled against the glass. Sam got out of the car, walking casually to the curb and trying not to scrape Max’s door as he opened it.
“After you, little buddy.” Sam bowed artificially, tipping the brim of his hat.
“Ouuuh. Thank you, my deli-loving consort.” Max replied, pursing his lips in an offensively poor British accent as he hopped from the car. Sam considered that he should put on background noise other than English shows in the office. His nose crinkled with the sound of the shrill posh cooing.
“Well, that was egregious. Hurry up, bullethead.” Sam smirked, grabbing the big metal handle of the deli’s glass door. The place was enchanting, to say the least. Small dingy tables lined the edges of the store, all in compromising positions. Some too close to the giant windows for comfort, or shoved in the very back in dark corners one could only dream of the horrors within. The menu hung above the main counter, lit up with conveniently difficult to read colored font. The walls were plastered top to bottom with posters. Kitschy music wafted from the back room.
“Isn’t it wonderful Sam? Nothing says ‘I might die eating this’ more than heat lamps that aren’t even working!” Sam nodded, watching as the lagomorph padded his way to the cash register, slamming his hand on the counter. “Helloooooo? Anybody there? We got a big hungry guy out here and his fuzzy friend!! And a dog too.”
“Come on, Max.”
"Okay, a big dog!"
" Max. "
It was nice, spending time off the clock with Max. Sometimes Sam wondered what a life of normalcy would be like. If it would be any good. The thought made his fur crawl. Not out of disgust, but an ick he couldn’t quite shake. What does “normal” even mean after all? And what exactly did he want? The cases rolled in rapid-fire these days, and it must have made him lonely. Craving a day of domesticity, without threat of giant hordes of alien skunk-zombies shooting holes through the office wall, or having to pull Max out of the street in the chance cars gain sentience and tear down the road. He shook those fantasies aside. Normalcy never suited them, no.
Normalcy was never really the right word in the first place. For as long as he could ever remember, piggybacks and tossing was more contenting than a held paw (though he wouldn’t ever mind), and the promise of avenging each other in case of a nuclear apocalypse was more satisfying than a simple swear. Nah. That was right, Sam decided. As long as he could be here, all was sane with the world.
“Hey Sam!” Max grinned, using his big feet to kick at Sam’s pant legs under the table. “What'cha thinking so loud for? Did ya' finally learn how to fall asleep with your eyes open? I love doing that!”
“Oh, gee little buddy. Sorry about that. Daydreaming must have conked a screw loose.” Sam shook his head from side to side, letting out a huff. “Say, how's that soda?”
“Tastes like burning!” Max replied, cheerfully. He took another big swig from the glass cup before putting it down. “PLEGH! It's horrible! Do you think they give refills?”
“No harm in asking.” He suggested. Max shrugged and pushed his way out of the sticky chair, walking out of Sam’s sight. Sam looked out to the window next to them. Seems the light overcast there in the morning had left. From behind him, he heard the rustling of paper. Sam peered over to see Max making his way back to the table, giddily carrying the sack of sandwiches like loot from a bank robbery, and barely balancing a full cup in his other hand. He smacked the bag onto the table with a thud and a cackle of satisfaction.
“Today, Sam, we feast!” He sneered, unfurling the paper bag and quickly grabbing his own roll. “I will be giving my honest review, so make sure you have your notepad ready.” He pointed.
“Yuh-huh. Sure, pal.” Sam chuckled, grabbing his own sandwich. He always appreciated Max's sense of humor. He watched as the lagomorph examined the bologna sub, nodding like a scientist. He pulled out a tape measure. A millimeter under 6 inches. Max clicked his tongue disappointedly. He turned the sandwich upside down to see if it would fall apart. It did not, surprisingly. He smelled the sandwich. Mustard. He didn’t know what he was expecting to get from that.
“I think I’ve come to a conclusion, Sam.” Max said proudly.
“Jiminy crickets little buddy, what is it?”
“I’m starving!! Let's dig in!”
The sandwiches were about as expected. Decently okay, a little messy, and a little dryer than either of them would have liked. Sam occasionally made eye contact with Max, who was too busy eating his sandwich to notice or care. What a grotesque display! After scarfing it down, Max made it a point to diverge his attention back to Sam, by playing a game of footsies under the table to the beat of the generic music. Except, instead of footsies, it was an assault on the poor dogs knees and calves. Max often ended up poking or prodding at Sam during times like this. It wasn’t really the little guy's fault, he couldn't help to stay still- but he did have a tendency to take that out on Sam physically. Thankfully this was (usually) not malicious. Sam much preferred that he get poked over watching his buddy tear himself up from the drawls of boredom.
“How was that?” Sam asked, taking a bite of his sandwich.
"Disappointing. I think Stinky's just mastered the dark arts of food poisoning too well, Sam. Eating this still feels like I have a hope of waking up tomorrow! My standards are so low that no restaurant can satisfy the same." Max pouted spitefully, then stopped kicking Sam. He drummed his fingers on the surface of the table.
"Yeah.” Sam drifted off for a moment before wiping off his hands. “So, how are you?"
“Meh, I guess. Why?”
"No buddy. How are you doing? That last case had my heart beating harder than Flint Paper busting a case on two cups and a Four Loko!"
“Oh! OH! I liked the part when that guy tied us over the acid shark pit! Can we get one of those for our office Sam? Pleease?” He begged, clasping his hands together.
“We can’t do that Max, the owner would be mad if we brought more acid into the office.” Max frowned, his teeth snapping shut in a grin of malice.
“Landlords are evil! All they do is stifle your creativity!!” He grumbled, shaking his fist. “I’d like to show what-for to the chump who told us to stop dropping that bowling ball on suspicious pedestrians to save property value! This country has free sidewalks for a reason!”
“Those weren't suspicious members of society Max, those were just mailmen.” Sam chuckled, resting his head in his hand. Max furrowed an eyebrow for a moment and continued patting the table. His face turned to a look of mischief.
"Say, Sammy. I sense an air of vulnerability today. Did you just want to talk to lil' ol' me?” He batted imaginary eyelashes.
"Har-Har. I can bear talking to my favorite pal sometimes,” Sam shrugged sarcastically. “It breaks the monotony of our incredibly convoluted and confusing lives."
"You're pulling my leg ya' big lug." Max smiled wide, teeth bent in a sickening grin. Charming. At least, to Sam. “What is this, a deli-date?” Sam looked embarrassed for a moment, ears tucked back. Sometimes Sam was grateful for the nature of his wolfhound appearance, without it he just might be bright red.
“Let's just call today a little treat before the Commissioner calls us again tomorrow.” He muttered, a shy crooked smile taking over his snout. It was quiet for a moment. Max stopped drumming on the table and looked like he was considering something. A small white paw reached across the table to pat Sam’s arm.
“Hey Sam. If I had to choose between a whole lifetime supply of sandwiches, and a day with you, I’d choose the day anytime! Even though I know how bad I’d want those sandwiches after. They don’t really matter, ya’ know? Not as much as you!” He smiled.
"Well that's concerningly saccharine little buddy, thank you. You just might send me into cardiac arrest before the food does." Sam chuckled.
"And that's a promise!" Max nodded enthusiastically. “Say, Sam. Ya’ wanna blow this place and see how long we can each do donuts in that lot before getting sick?”
“Dangerous, yet entertaining! You’re on.” Sam said, sliding out of the booth and adjusting his suit. Max sprung out with a high volume of excitement, leaping onto Sam’s back. Max sighed and rubbed his face back and forth into his suit jacket.
“I love you Sam.”
“I love you too, little buddy."