3.

The 9MM was stashed firmly and securely in a black leather belt-buckle harness which Max wore beneath the backside of his jacket, fastened tightly against his spine, near the base of his ringed tail. The pistol held its ground, awaiting for its chance to be used, to be discharged; fired at will. He had hoped the weapon wouldn’t bulge out too noticeably. Why a weapon to begin with? Safety first, for fuck’s sake. Society nowadays possessed a typical common practice of murdering off lesser-organized citizens to make room for far more extraordinary ones. Max simply wished not to be christened into the former category.
	Taking a fresh sip of piss-N-vinegar from his chipped terra-cotta mug, Max checked his cell-phone yet again for the current time; 12:41am. The informant was over two hours late… that goddamned prick. The plan was to meet up at half-after-ten. Goddam ten-thirty. Max arrived a half-an-hour early just in case, well before the girls began their ritualistic dancing and the ravers began to stink the lumber mill's inner vessel up with debilitating scents of whiskey, ganja smoke and sloppy reproduction, hankering above the night-owl-laden crowd like a massive funnel cloud of hallucinogens preparing to shed down a tremendous rainstorm, an onslaught of intense carnal lust and divine suffocating sin incarnate. Max believed in keeping a steadfast focus on time, which had nearly run short for Señor Big Money.
Still, the shep-coon held onto his patience, now worn down so very thin.
On Max’s right side sat a grizzled elderly anthropomorphic gentleman, either a skunk or a badger. His tail was docked with ears clipped. The lighting inside the warehouse made it close to impossible to tell for sure just what species he was, plus having only one good eye didn’t help make matters any easier for the shep-coon. The old anthro took numerous sips from his highball glass, scented of whiskey on the rocks. While glancing up and down the makeshift prohibition-era bar looking for an equally despondent soul to connect with, the old crony looked like he had another few years of life left before he’d simply expire due to liver cirrhosis. 
Good luck finding that connection, buddy. Max thought while staring at the old-timer: glossy eyes, droopy lids, ravaged matted fur; a disgusting presence. If anybody in their own mind were to be found in this slummy trash compactor of an abandoned lumber warehouse, they’d admit to either a night of intense dancing, glow stick twirling, heavy drugs or a mutual sex companion being their primary reason for entry, wooing them over hardcore. Nobody came to this wild-west menagerie nestled deep in forsaken woods for mere casual friendship. Nobody perhaps, except for this tattered old bum who could’ve easily been Max’s long-lost grandfather, save for the total lack of any visible resemblance.
Live and let learn; the one piece of advice Max diligently held sway over from his father alongside the multitude of verbal abuse and sexual molestation from yesteryear. At least Daddy had some significant advice to leave behind for his beloved son.