Programmed for Peril

punishment. Now he had sent a stranger on the longest journey. Tangle, tangle! He knew who lay at the heart of it—and in his heart. There she swelled like a sublime cancer gently nudging aside the organs of his discipline, loyalty, and cunning.
    Queen of My Heart!
    Hiding his dismay with iron self-control, he led the Loathed One to the Blandmobile. He dragged Mr. Samaritan into his Volvo and propped him behind the seat. It would be a long time before anyone figured out what killed him. Or was he deluding himself? Never!
    When Champ got into the Blandmobile Foster tried to begin a conversation. Champ knew his type. Let us reason together. The mind-set of a man who had never felt the lash of want or come to grips with the violence and uncertainty of human existence. Go to the history books! Nothing like a dose of incessant European wars, religious persecutions, and famine to shake ill-founded self-assurance. How about that Black Death! Probably the man was kind, repressed, tentative in exerting his will. Tranquil years sheltered him ever more deeply behind heaps of dollar bills. He sought the path of no resistance. Had there ever been inner strength in that tallish frame? Behind those wide glasses lurked what? An intellect? Or a spoiled rich boy? The Loathed One!
    On this... mediocrity Queen of My Heart was going to bestow body and soul.
    Oh, wise, disruptive Carson. He raised his exalted master high over the altar of his mind.
    Was there any doubt remaining about whether or not the wedding would take place? Today’s grand adventures would answer that question without fail.
    Negative. Negative!
    “Shut up!” he growled at the Loathed One, who was whimpering.
    “You can’t murder people! You can’t hold me hostage, Carson.”
    “I have pistols and knives. Do what I say.”
    The other squirmed in his seat. “What are you going to do with me?”
    Champ grinned broadly with Carson’s face. “Not with you. To you.”
    The Loathed One’s eyes blinked behind wide frames. “This is crazy,” he said softly.
    “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”
    Lake Country Kennels was better kept than some motels Champ knew. The wonder of money! New paint gleamed. Doggy odors were absent. Give credit to the manager, this Ms. Doris, butchy, banged, and belligerent. He had to show her the long knife, nip some buttons off her no-style blouse, to get her cooperation. He left her roped like a dogie, her ring of keys and their chain now on his belt. Come along, Loathed One. Show time! Always with the questions! A quick back and forth with the side of the pistol opened barber-shaven cheeks and closed his mouth. He whimpered and occupied himself with blood and lightly cologned handkerchief.
    Champ put pistol to tanned temple. The man quivered. Why so pale and wan, fond lover? “Just follow along. Don’t make trouble. Don’t try to get away. Don’t talk to me about you and Trish Morley. Got it?”
    “What are you going to do?” His voice shook like MTV hips“And no questions!” A shove of the pistol left a faint indention of barrel opening on the Loathed One’s high forehead. Enough weakening of what seemed to be not that strong a will, Champ thought. To work! The Loathed One wandered before him, attached by a chain of fear. Champ went to the trunk and took out the horse meat. His new bond slave manned the wheelbarrow. Soon they were on the way to the kennel proper, where dozens of residents bayed at the smell of meat. To the Loathed One’s favorites first: Gog and Magog. “Feeding time!” Champ sang, raising his face to the cloudless August sky. “Feeding tiiiiime!”
    Each mastiff had its own run. Slid into mounted frames were computer-generated summaries of bloodlines. Champ knew the English mastiff breed: huge but gentle, lovers of children and protectors of their owners. Admirable creatures altogether. He ordered the Loathed One to toss Gog her lunch. The bitch fell on the meat with grunting enthusiasm, jaw working like road machinery.
    Shortly Gog’s forelegs weakened. She sank to her knees. Her haunches bent and folded to the concrete. Gray flanks heaved their last.
    “This meat is poisoned!” Loathed One’s voice was dull with disbelief.
    Down went Magog for the long count. “Onward!” Determined Champ bent upon his rounds. Up and down the runs they went their workmanlike way. Dogs dropped like Aussie troops at Gallipoli. Those without appetite Champ treated to a pistol blast between pointy ears. Along