6.
Before he could ponder his hankering suspicions any further, a young goat-fur plopped down beside Maxwell, vacating the empty barstool between him and the wretched badger bum. 
The young lad, a slightly well-toned goat anthro in his mid-twenties and no heavier than perhaps a hundred-twenty pounds in soaked clothes, nuzzled into his seat and pulled a coaster napkin close to his side from a nearby pile. He dragged the napkin with a hooved finger, strangely befitting. His thumbs were both ringed with gold and turquoise bands. Max watched him steadily, not quite staring, nor ignoring his actions. A certain eccentricity emanated from this new arrival, one that spoke swiftly with few words mentioned. He was different from the others in how he operated – his mannerisms seemed strangely extraterrestrial in lieu of this disgusting place.
The goat rubbed his dampened nose with his left wrist, tufted with wiry fur, and vied for the bartender’s attention, cocking his fist upright, bracelets and bangles chiming and jangling like castanets in a gypsy’s treasure satchel, arm extended, gesturing a broad swinging wave and snapping his grimy untrimmed fingers, thick with less wiry, more shaggy and woolen fur. Before Gaston the barkeep could take the order though, Max interrupted with flying dexterity.
“Hi there!” Max exclaimed, trying not to oversell himself too magnificently.
WHOOPS! Too late.
“uh… hello.” The young goat-boy replied, glancing over at him with a look of solemn confusion etched thoroughly upon his face. Maybe that expression was more uncertainty than confusion… or a mix of both. Perhaps he was attempting to show a friendly, sociable reaction to a delirious whack-job of a shep-coon… ah, such a formidable struggle.
“Say there, amigo...” Max swallowed the last of his beer in a single wincing gulp then stared back into the eyes of this particularly fascinating individual. “I’m curious to know, but are you new to this place as well?” Max asked him, nearly barking with a fastidious haste to be heard over the supercharged DJ’s set, waving his arms around in display. Then Max suddenly felt completely unaware of his surroundings. Everything seemed to dissipate into thin air: no more bartender, no more horny bridesmaids, no more elder bum, and no more non-stop throbbing techno music, even his own churning fear had been gracefully disposed of. One thing Maxwell didn’t expect was another living soul this goddam fucking attractive to show face, not here, not tonight, not at all. He felt a slight tingling sensation emanate like a stealthy ninja from his groin. His heart was racing, like that of a hummingbird. If this truly was Max’s prick-of-a-druggie, he was ashamed in the fact that he had to wind up killing such an attractive one, a diamond in the rough, a rare jewel mixed in with thousands of cloned artificial duplicates. Max expected some doofus-assed nimrod with a hook-nose and gaudy horn-rimmed spectacles. He expected a dirty, chapped-furred weasel in a wheelchair donning a voicebox. He anticipated a freakishly ugly old woman with a scalded cleft lip and a missing ear. He expected a rabid midget cannibal clown Trump supporter.
Not this delectable hunk of a young kid.
“Not at all there, Coonie. In fact, I come in here once about every other week. The bitches in this place are dyyy-nooo-miiite! WHOO!" Goat-boy downed a shot of God-knew-what and slammed the glass upon the wooden bar counter, casting out a banging report that startled nearby bar patrons, including Badger-bum. "Dude. Okay, listen. No joke. Right, so this pad peddles the greatest pussy I’ve ever had the utmost pleasure to fuck anywhere else – and I should know, been just about every-damn-where else in the area imaginable and then some! And to think some cheapskate motherfuckers out there are actually up in arms over this place being here. Can you stand it? The nerve of those, fuckers. They’re mad! At us!? I say to hell with them! That’s what I say, dude. I mean…" He reached for a glass of iced water, swigged off a large gulp of the luscious hydration agent, placed the glass back down gently and cleared his throat. "Surely you catch my drift, right ese?”
Maxwell nodded.
“Right, that's cool. Okay, so anyways I’m actually here to meet up with someone. I’ve got…uhm, a certain bit of business to attend to with him, or her. Honestly though I’m not sure who I’m meeting up with exa-a-a-a-actly, but time will tell, right? I’ve just got to keep a third eye open, that’s all. Business as usual.” The young attractive goat-boy prick said.
Oh, BINGO! What a well-rounded point. Max thought. Hey, its about fucking time you show up to the party, you fucking prick-ass jack-wad dick-wipe shit-stormer. I’ve got a little gift for you to behold right here in my pocket, pal. 'FESS UP!
But Max himself hadn’t come for the pussy or the prestige. Even though he humbly despised being called a Coonie (racial bigotry always infuriated Max; he associated the term “coonie” with the likes of “spic” or “kike”, both horrific terms that he despised personally), he couldn’t help but let this one impromptu slander slide just once, especially from the contact he’d been pining for nearly all night furiously. This was most definitely, without a single doubt, his contact - and what a FINE young kid he was! Such a cruel shame. The sultry youthful devil was pretty damn attractive, God help it all. Max just shrugged to himself and kept his attention focused on the kid, refusing to let his own personal affections gain the better half of his fine-tuned judgment. He really didn’t wish to kill this bombshell sat down beside him, but a coon-dog had to do what a coon-dog had to do. Especially if it meant ditching the joint and making off like Casper.
Max squirmed in his barstool, thinking to himself: Keep it together man, just act friendly and follow his lead. Don’t brush him off with your uncertainty or any kind of a threat. Do what he wants, obey with what he demands, drink or smoke or ingest whatever the hell he offers you and then by all means, find a way to get that money from him! For fuck’s sake, don’t blow this one either. Just a single shot to the head, right between those beautifully fetching eyes. You may not survive for long if something goes wrong with this deal, old dog. Keep your cool and you’ll learn to keep your goddam head screwed on tight. You’ll be killing this baa-baa-ing prick and making ends meet in no time. Now figure out where his end of the bargain is and–
“I tell you one thing though.” The cute-faced goat prick added, startling Max from his train of thought, which lasted nearly seven seconds.
“Yes?” Max replied.
“Well, it’s a da-a-a-a-amn shame seeing how these stupid governmental assholes always try to over-empower us by removing anything remotely entertaining from the big picture!” He yelled rebelliously, slamming his hoof-guarded fist down upon the counter of the bar, starting a few nearby patrons. Badger-bum jumped frightfully in his seat. He frowned at the kid, sniffed back a wad of phlegm, and spat on the ground beside him. Scared me, ya damn cock-suckerin’ loudmouth. 
“I know what you mean, man.” Max said, really knowing what this young punk truly meant, clapping his shoulder with companionship, despite the intentions. All those fucking intentions. He hadn’t been spewing big-man talk for show over smooth liquor but legitimately reminiscing over a genuine disagreement between anthros and humans. He spoke of that which dated back to many, many years prior; like civil rioting from the 60s, the two species have actively been at each other’s throats. Some, however, simply refused to abide by negative confrontation and rather enjoyed the company of one another. This informant was a prime example of the latter. Max couldn’t be any more thankful for small favors.
“What’ll it be for you, young'un?” Max spoke up, asking the tardy young prick aloud and clearly enough to be heard over the implosive bass-powered techno rhythm, assertively focused and glancing over in an effort to befriend a seemingly less-than-scraggly anthro goat who seemed trustworthy enough, even if the poor bastard would eventually be deader than a doornail with shrapnel from a hollow-tipped bullet buried deep in his fool cranium. If this was truly his informant, Max couldn’t be any more or less relieved over how damn easy it had been after all to find and identify the mystery culprit. In a way, the prick had found Max instead. The hardest part was the lengthy agonizing wait in the beginning. 
Please God let this deal run its course, let this be the breadwinner of the evening!
“Oh, that’s okay coon-dog! I can afford my own drink. Thanks for the offer though anyways. Maybe you & ol’ Gus across the way could share a drink, just so long as he doesn’t spit on your shoes first, eh?” The young man heckled.
Max's stomach dropped at the sound of his touring manager's name. My God, would he ever get a chance to see Gus again? To hug him? To hear his voice? Max brushed off this paranoid ambivalence and chuckled beneath his breath a bit, then laughed aloud, brandishing a wide-toothed smile. A long silver-crowned lateral incisor drooped downward from the upper-right corner of his slim dog-lipped mouth. His stout raccoon-like muzzle scrunched up into tiny wavy rivulets of peach-fuzzed fur as he smiled gaily, imagining what this prick looked like either naked or dead.
“Hell, with the lack of decent teeth, I doubt he’d draw even a trickle of saliva from those clammy old aged ELDERLY lips.” Max said. His silvery-toothed grin glinted a tiny reflection of light into his beer stein, sending tiny beams of glowing sparkles shooting across the plywood-roughened countertop, providing a kaliedoscopic exploratorium effect, or a disco-ball set-up.
The young man laughed aloud, then cut himself short.
“Oh! Hey by the way, my name’s Guadalupe, or Lupe for short, in case I’ve yet to tell you a-a-a-a-a-as such.” He cleared his throat again, eyes glimpsing down quickly and he bowed his head apologetically, then raised it back up and stared into Max's relaxed expression. "Sorry, about the… baa-ing. Jeez, I never used to do that so much. Not sure why I, uh… you know."
Maxwell found this to be the cutest thing to be embarrassed over. He grinned, patted Lupe's head and nodded with a smile. " You are forgiven, young one. No worries whatsoever. Honestly?" Guadalupe cocked his head, awaiting Max's response. "It makes you sound pretty damn cute. I’m Maxwell, or Max for short.” 
Guadalupe's blush practically burned his cheek-tufts as his twine-furred hand-paw grabbed Max’s shep-coon hand-paw. Lupe brushed his index finger-paw against Max’s palm while the raccoon-shepherd’s firm gripping black paws squeezed down tight on his new buddy’s taut yet firm goat-hooved hand, exchanging a graceful shaking introduction.
“Trust me man, I don’t think you’d be able to catch me dead sharing a drink with THIS old geezer,” Max said insistently and comically with a slight undertone of sarcasm in his breath, nudging in reference to the dirty homeless elder anthro beside his middleman victim. Lupe chuckled and nodded in agreement.
~
“So, you still interested in that drink, amigo?” Maxwell asked.
“Y’know what? I’ve changed my mind after all. Consider it a sure thing, pal.” Lupe said while patting Max on his slender shoulder. “You see, the only reason I turned you down before is because I’m waiting on somebody… its something regarding a balloon of her-… well, very special stuff for a very special client of mine.”
“I see…” Max said as he began to swelter with a fulfilling erection of anticipatory excitement. He felt like a child awoken upon the dawn of Christmas morning. 
You’re waiting for a balloon full of heroin to make you a cloud-walking disciple…but all you’ll get is a face full of death before this night is over, you bum-fucked little goddam prick.
A brief silence passed between them. Max saw Lupe shuffling in his seat, looking like an old woman holding her composure together while maintaining both a full bladder and a bad case of severe gastrointestinal distress.
“Know what, amigo? I notice that you seem a little tense.” Maxwell finally said to shatter the silence, “Looking at you, I just simply couldn’t help but observe the dead obvious, you know? Is everything okay? I wonder… am I wrong to assume such a bold observation? Perhaps you just need a minute to recuperate or–”
“What’re you talking about?”
Lupe looked at Max cautiously for a few seconds, briefly rummaging over what he’d just been told by this complete and involuntary stranger. He then shook his head and smacked his palms into his eye sockets, rubbing them in circular motions.
“I do? Oh… well, it’s nothing really. And no, you’re not wrong. I am a bit nervous… but I’ll be okay! For real, anything to ease the anxiety of a normal routine work-load, I always say! It’s nothing really, I’ll be fine, dude. Have a drink on it?” Lupe asked. 
“I see… a drink sounds nice.” Max said. When he sat back down, Lupe continued.
“So are you meeting somebody new here for the first time, then?” Max asked. He swigged back his glass of top-shelf vodka and belched, stinging his throat. His gums burned ever-so briefly.
“Well, it’s something like that I suppose; this is certainly not a date, that’s for damn sure! I’m actually just waiting on a delivery. A sort of ‘exchange’ was promised to be undertaken here, so I’ve come with goods to trade for it. Helps keep the bosses happy and my ass out of a goddam sling, am I right?”
“As rain, amigo.” Maxwell said as a twinkle of reassurance flashed in his good eye. His favorite thing about alcohol? Questions get answered way quicker and with far less hostility.
Max nodded in agreement and took another steady glance at his own beer mug, which had been refilled while he wasn’t looking. The bartender swooped in with ninja stealth and tip-worthy efficiency and filled Max’s glass. It was now devoid of any carbonation from sitting for a long while. The heat in this damn place must be quite intense indeed, Max thought as he swirled the liquid substance in the mug. He then decided to abandon it altogether and order two fresh new shots of vodka, one for him and the other for his new prick of a junkie friend. He slid his expired pint down to the badger bum and he offered Max another charming putrid smile, thanking him sincerely. If Max would be getting anything from this puny pusher bastard who now sat beside him, nudging his left knee back and forth and up and down and all around compulsively, he’d have to inebriate the kid thoroughly beforehand. Max threw a couple India Pale Ales onto his tab as well. Lupe continued his discussion perfectly uninterrupted.
“The only damn drawback is that I have no freaking idea who this person is I’m supposed to meet, where they’ll end up, even if it’s in fa-a-a-a-act… uh, a PERSON I’m meant to meet in the first place! All these freaks in here look suspiciously similar to this description I received though, amigo, and no offense to you personally.” Guadalupe murmured as he fished a small slip of yellow notepad paper out of his rear jean-pocket and handed it over to Max reluctantly. 
“None taken.” Max said. He grabbed the slip. Due to low lighting conditions, he had to turn the paper at a certain angle to read the words, neatly printed with a No. 2 pencil upon a smooth urine-yellow surface:

CLASS: ANTHROPOMORPHIC
AGE: MID-TWENTIES
DIRTY BLONDE, COULD BE DREADLOCKED
GERMAN SHEPHERD/RACCOON HYBRID
GOES BY “MAXWELL”

Suddenly the brown-haired green-eyed goat anthro with a pocketful of cash and sinuses littered with cocaine sprang up and shouted aloud, “Let’s settle for a toast! We’ll drink to The Man and all the ways that those scurvy CEOs and slave-fuckers just love to screw working-class studs like you and me! What do you say, dog-guy?”
“Dog-guy?” Max asked, then laughed and gave a friendly pat to the kid's back like a long-lost war-time chum reunited and safe from any irrefutable harm. Lupe shrugged, blatantly confused. Maxwell giggled and said: “I’m a hybrid entity, amigo. Half shepherd, half raccoon.”
Max was used to correcting others of his hybrid nature as generously as possible while keeping a half-cocked smile plastered upon his canine lips. Tonight was of no exception, only his lips were blackened darker than onyx with accumulated filmy scum upon the two farthest side corners and his smile was a near-snarl. If somebody had told Max right then and there that he’d just given himself away to the enemy in a drunken stupor, he’d just laugh them off and buy them a round as well. Effortlessly, Max shifted his position in his barstool to expose his long, bristly ring-striped tail as a telltale sign of proof, brandishing it liberally in his firm grip.
“Oh! Really? Got it dude! So… to the esta-a-a-ablished order of shit then!” Lupe hollered aloud. He didn’t register that he’d found his informant as well. Both were on their way to tipsy-town. Lupe raised his shot glass, spilling vodka over the side, trickling down his bony goat-boy fingers, hollered “Salut!” and downed the flammable liquid in a single quick gulp.
Max gave a slightly irritable shrug then smiled weakly without much excitement, like how people got paid to wear fake smiles in television commercials while always keeping their expressions limited to only the slight occasional grin or two. Fuck it.
“Okay then Lupe, you won this round; I’ll share a toast with you, pal.”
“Tha-a-a-a-at’s the spirit!” Guadalupe exclaimed excitedly, wide-eyed and energetic. 
Had Max found his informant… really? He had no idea his VIP candidate would be so damn young, let alone so handsome. Guadalupe was merely a teenager, a grad student fresh off the old chipping block of scrutinizing college-bound studies. A little more time spent among his company would ultimately yield a tell-tale sign of established success, but just perhaps. Max simply didn’t see the obvious signs, given the atmosphere in which the deed had been slated to take place. Under such absurdly compromising situations, nobody really takes the time to step back and see the bigger picture come into effect. This would ultimately be Max’s downfall and in a strange way the very mistake that would save his life from an otherworldly painful death because sometimes, the strangest run-ins occur in the least likeliest of places. He raised his shot glass and swung it in a wide arc against Lupe’s glass, colliding with a musical echoing clink.
“To the established order of shit, amigo,” Maxwell said with a smile. His heart was racing faster than a prized palomino in the Kentucky Derby, but still his patience tapered on the inevitable edge of disastrous nothingness. He was on the verge of losing his shit very fast if he didn’t grab hold of his moo-la-la and then get the hell outta dodge, minus one Lupe.
They downed their drinks with hasty gulps, slammed the shot-glasses down hard upon the bar counter, and without a hint of hesitation locked their anthro lips in a passionate embrace. The elder anthro bum stared with bedazzled wonder, the bridesmaids proceeded into the tumultuous sea of rave dancers, the DJ received a shitty request or two from Sid and Nancy and the night rolled on freely without much distraction or discrepancy. 
As for Maxwell’s patience? Well…
To be continued…