Argo: Acting the Hero

[Early Argo concept by Horrorbuns]

Rain

Things had not gone well for the marten, known by no one, as Argo.

He had been hungry, but the cold had taken that from him about an hour ago. Rain streaked through his coat, greedily lapping at what little heat remained in him as he sat, shaking, on a plateau of mud amidst the chaotic spatter of a thousand murky puddles. The young man looked pathetic, his fur flattened and soaked, his shirt clinging tight to a bony back and unnervingly famined waist.

Argo heard the sudden splash of footsteps nearby. The disruption began startlingly near, having been concealed by the noise floor of a downpour that was decidedly uncharacteristic of southern California.

“I wasn’t expecting company on this beautiful evening?”

Argo couldn’t place the accent. Didn’t want to. Didn’t look up, either. “Nothing to s-steal.” His response was automatic. He knew his best chance in these situations was to stay down and be as boring as possible. He was so sick of people. Sick of being put in situations where absolutely nothing happening was the best case scenario.

“Steal?” A snort. “I’m the guy that actually has to be out here today. Why the hell are you?” The man’s words came out smooth, but too slowly, as if each were considering each one.

Argo sighed. “The pr-proprietress of the M-meat Wagon says she’s seen enough of m-me.” His numbed jaw trembled uncontrollably, mangling the words.

“Well that’s a new one. Mortadella’s a right friendly sort. Y’must’ve done somethin-” The figure’s boot gave a little stomp in its puddle as a thought seemed to strike him. “Oh. You stiffed her, didn’t you, you little runt?” When Argo didn’t offer an answer, the boot tapped a beat for a few seconds before coming to a stop. “Well this isn’t doing anyone no good. C’mon.”

Puzzled, Argo finally turned his eyes upward to find a tall red wolf staring down at him under the dripping brim of a wide hat. Tired eyes framed by half of a warm smile. A strong paw hung in the air between them, and after a moment Argo took it before he realized what he was doing. Disoriented, the young marten was pulled up off his ass so swiftly that he nearly toppled over the other way, stumbling on legs he could no longer feel.

Just as Argo regained his balance, a heavy paw slapped his back, sending him lurching again. “What’s your name, kid?”

“It’s Ca-” he coughed to cover his blunder, but the performance quickly became quite real as he hacked and spit on the ground. Taking a moment to regain his composure, the marten mustered what dignity he had left, stood up straight, and tried again. “The name’s Argo.”

The wolf was unimpressed. “Really. Well, right this way, Argo. Or not. I’m not going to wait around in the rain any longer.” The stranger took brisk, long strides through the evening gray. Argo glimpsed a large bag slung over his shoulder, just barely making out an official-looking seal of a wolf riding a horse before it vanished behind the very building that he’d been thrown out of.

Argo called out as he followed. “You with t-the government?”

Chuckling, the wolf shrugged. “I’m not sure we could agree on the meaning of ‘with,’ or ‘government.”

“So you’re from c-cityfolk? That why you talk like t-that?”

That earned a look. The wolf stared back, making a face like he’d smelled something foul, if a bit sad in the eyes. But then something broke, and he doubled over in a raucous guffaw that made Argo glance around in secondhand embarrassment.

“Boy, you really don’t know anything, do you? Whatever. We’re here.” The stranger kicked open a hatch behind the establishment. “Get a move on, now, we’re letting the wet in.”

Argo gazed into the abyss, seeing nothing in the dark. Taking a step back, he could almost imagine bars forming over the opening. Closing his eyes, he took a breath as the chill bit at his bones. Fuck it, his day could hardly get worse. Finally, he leaned forward, feeling his way down the steps. He startled when the hatch slammed shut, drowning him in silent black, but soon the world returned to him as a warm ember.

“No one’s gonna bother coming here tonight.” The wolf held up the lamp he’d just lit, flicking his wrist at Argo. “Off with ‘em. Your clothes ain’t doing you no good now.”

“W-what?”

Argo hesitated, but the wolf was already throwing off his jacket. Averting his eyes for the sake of decency, as he’d learned the hard way to do around men, the marten began the laborious process of peeling his humble, ice-cold garb from his body. He felt naked, vulnerable, and he hated it, but it was a relief to get those waterlogged garments off of him. Exposed to the air however, Argo began shaking with renewed intensity. He clung to his torso with his arms, but nothing helped. Until much larger arms found him.

“Oh, you poor thing…”

All at once Argo was bound in a tight embrace, as a taller man’s chest found the crook of his neck, pulling him in until his back met the contour of the wolf’s front. Argo froze. The stranger pressed up against him was very obviously nude.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Ssshhh… there’s only one way through this, you foolish, foolish boy.”

A heat began to flow into Argo, and the two stood there together for a while. Eventually he felt himself being pulled down to a bed he hadn’t previously noticed where the man continued to cling to him in an awkward silence until Argo’s body finally stopped quaking, and little by little life began to return to his limbs. He must have died, back there on the street. That was the explanation for this. Argo had already accepted that he would never be held like this again, so this must not be real.

He choked, feeling a tear run down his snout. “Why are you doing this?

An exhausted huff rocked Argo from behind. “Do not ask me insulting questions.” The wolf already sounded like he had been woken from near sleep.

“I- sorry, I… I didn’t catch your name.

“It’s Wolfram. Wolfram Knotwood.”

Argo snorted. “That can not be your name.”

“Oh? Are we using real names tonight, Argo?”

He didn’t have an answer for that. Instead, Argo decided to let the dream be real, and for the first time in a year, feel safe.

[fan art by Jesenos]

The Hero of Southpaw

“I want every single one of you steppin’ back, or the mailman gets it!”

Wolfram did not look pleased to have a gun pointed at his head, but he did not look nearly as fearful as you’d expect. The man that was pulling him roughly by the neck was noticeably shorter, clad all in black. A heavy poncho hid his features, tattered at the edges to blow tastefully in the breeze. A matching mask shrouded his identity completely, save for a pair of conspicuously protruding antlers, which tipped the villain’s hat forward.

A crowd was forming opposite the outlaw, but it parted like the Red Sea to reveal Argo, standing proud. His leather chaps, his elegant billowing sleeves beneath a strikingly expensive tailored vest, his signature eyepatch. Many a tale had been spread about this larger-than-life marten, and few dared oppose him.

“It’s the Hero of Southpaw!” A young voice gasped from somewhere among the crowd.

And now his hand was on his revolver.

Argo added some bass to his voice as he addressed the vagabond, projecting for all to hear. “Now I know I’ve told Ms. Maybell’s men that they’re not welcome ‘round these parts.”

A crack. An extravagant shower of sparks. A body hit the dirt behind Wolfram as Argo blew away the smoke spewing from the tip of his revolver. ”But I guess I do keep killing ‘em before they can tell ‘er.”

“FUCK yeah!” Kitt erupted from behind Mortadella, who was trying to keep him indoors. Both of his tiny fists were in the air as he came scurrying out, past the crowd. When he reached Argo he punched him hard in the thigh from raw excitement. “The Hero of Southpaw rides again!” The child’s eyes were so wide and hopeful, looking up at him.

Argo tried his best to swallow his grunt. That actually hurt. “Y-yeah… all in a day’s work, kid!” Puffing out his chest, Argo struck a pose, but Kitt was already gone.

In his place was deputy Stilton, a soft little man who’d better hope Southpaw never ran into any real danger. “Oh, g-great work Mr… Mr. Southpaw s-sir! (yeehaw)” The possum was shaking Argo’s hand vigorously. “Y-you really saved our bacon again. Anything you need, (yeehaw) just let me know!”

Before he could respond, Argo heard a noise behind him that made his fur stand on end. ”Take that you cur!” THUD. THUD. THUD. He turned to spot Kitt kicking the shit out of the presumed dead before a bemused Wolfram.

Argo moved quickly to grab the little brat. “Okay, OKAY, that’s enough, you got ‘im.”

The child kicked and thrashed in Argo’s grip as he fought to get back into the decidedly one-sided fight. “You can report back to Ms. Maybell IN HELL!” His shrill voice bellowed with undue confidence.

Argo swore under his breath, scanning the crowd. ”Where the hell are your parents?” Instead he locked eyes with Wolfram, who glared back at him, dusting off his torn shirt and adjusting his mailbag. Argo’s expression went slack. “Oh, hey uh… You’re not mad at me, are you?” He whispered it, but to no response. Wolfram merely turned to leave, and suddenly this wasn’t fun anymore.

Argo looked down at Bucky, who hadn’t moved an inch himself despite being kicked for several. The marten signaled with his free hand. You okay? The response was tiny, but venomous. I’m going to fucking kill you. They didn’t even have a sign for that, but he felt it.

Picking his battles, Argo hoisted the kid up under one arm and followed after the wolf, who didn’t look back at him once. “Hey. HEY! Aw, c’mon Rammy, we didn’t mean nothin’ by it. S-slow down would you? C’mon, talk to me…” He finally caught up to the wide man behind the Meat Wagon, and put on his sweetest puppy dog eye, the one that always made sure that Argo got his way.

But the eyes that met him put ice in his veins. “This game ya’ll are playing? I want no part of it. None.” And with a slam, Wolfram was gone, leaving Argo with nothing but that hatch. Well, the hatch and-

“What’s down there?” Asked Kitt from under his arm.

”Forget you saw that.”

[Fan art by TorroSketch]

Alone, Again

“The fuck you mean, ‘you’re out’?”

Argo was standing in a dark back alley, watching as Bucky pocketed his cut of their donations. His heart rate had spiked at the comment. He felt trapped in this moment. Bucky merely stretched, popping his back, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on his partner. ”Didn’t stutter. I’m off to better things, brother. It’s time to hang up the cowl.”

”Better things? How you gonna do better than not working at all?”

A scoff. “You don’t have to work. I’m the one who gets to take the fall. I’m the fool that’s risking my ass on the bet we take that no good samaritan is gonna hop in and play the hero for you.” Bucky straightened, pointing a thumb at his chest. “I’m done with this. I’m going legit.”

“Legit?” Argo smirked. “You joinin’ the circus now?”

“You’re looking at Deputy Buckshot now, and you better put some respect on that name.”

Argo snorted, then cracked, bending over as he let out a mean cackle at the joke. It took at least a full minute for the marten to recover. “Haaah, fuck man, that’s good. That was good. What, you pushing for a bigger cut? We’ve talked about this already, you-…” Bucky did not look amused. “Wait, you’re serious?”

Bucky hooked his thumbs in his coat, boasting and beaming. “Yup. Gonna be catchin’ vagabonds and whatnot.”

Argo was on him in an instant, grabbing the jackalope by the collar and pushing him up against the wall until his antlers clacked off the wood. He was close enough to kiss, and his words came out in a low, paternal growl.

”I need you to listen to me, kid, and listen good. We’ve got a good fuckin’ thing going here. We get our bellies filled and no one even shoots at us, which is more than can be said for lotsa folks. But if you do this?” Argo’s one eye flicked nervously back and forth between both of Bucky’s, praying that he was getting through to him. “If you do this, it’s not a goddamn game anymore. I don’t care how good a shot you are. You think you can take down a hundred outlaws? So fuckin’ what? They’ve only gotta win once, Bucky, ONCE!”

The jackalope fell out of view as Argo took a hard shove to the chest. One foot tripped over the other and he ended up landing on his back, flat and loud. The marten’s eyes went wide, staring up at his former partner as the air left him, lungs seizing.

”Go ahead and stay down there, Argo. You’re due a turn. Now I’m thankful, brother, I am. But we’re through here. Best you wrap your head around that. You hear me? Don’t you come bothering me again.” He audibly patted and smoothed his shirt out, and walked away.

Argo lay there, listening as Bucky’s steps gained distance through vibrations in the dirt. His chess ached, panicked, empty, until he finally sucked in a painful gasp like a newborn learning to breathe. He felt small, like the walls were closing in on either side. His breath was quick and shallow, his pulse too heavy and rapid in his ears. It felt like he would simply cease to be, right there and then, but that too passed in time.

Instead he lingered, continuing to stare up at the stars, the only constant in his life. That finite, predictable infinity. He stared for what could have been hours, until his breathing slowed and was forgotten. Until the tears dried. Until his fur fell out. Until his boundaries vanished, and he was back in a different town. Until he wasn’t alone.

Argo had no idea this was the last time that he’d see the stars.

When the marten finally stood and dusted himself off, he was past anger. There was frustration, but above all he felt drained. Today, things had been figured out. But tonight? Tonight Argo couldn’t see the path forward anymore, and that uncertainty scared him.

He turned to the hatch, but after the day they’d had he daren’t approach Wolfram, either. The Hero of Southpaw may be beloved by all, but Argo the marten was once again on his own.

His feet found their way back to the Meat Wagon. That white wolf was manning the bar. Good. Nicodemus couldn’t be assed to throw him out when he didn’t buy anything. Some bullshit about nature’s creatures, and all that. The marten took a stool, offered a low “g’evening,” and deflated, content to avoid eye contact and sulk for the rest of the night.

And that’s just what he did. Seats filled, leaving a polite gap on either side of him until the bar reached capacity. That writer came by, asking his incessant questions, but Argo played deaf until he stopped hearing his voice. The only thing that shook him from his stupor was the thunder that hit him as an absolute mountain of a man landed next to him.

Argo couldn’t help but steal glances. Some outsider, a wolverine twice his size. He had to be the largest male he’d ever seen. He smelled heavily of sweat and smoke, and faintly of blood, covered in dirt and a variety of furs as he was.

The wolverine seemed content to continue the silence. Fuck, each of his legs were as wide as Argo’s waist. STOP. The marten scrunched his face, turning forward to rub at his eye with his palm to force his gaze elsewhere before he got himself in trouble. But that’s when he heard it.

“Say, stranger, you ever heard of Dos Corrientes?”

The outsider’s voice was deep, textured and even. Argo didn’t detect any recognition in his eyes. For perhaps the first time in months, the marten was unknown. When he didn’t offer a response, the wolverine continued.

”Well, can’t imagine anyone has at this point. For all I know the place is probably burnt to the ground by now. I’d wager most folks here haven’t had the supreme displeasure of steppin’ foot in the state of Texas. But that’s where I come from. Little piece of shit near El Paso. Easy to miss. Worst little town you never did visit.”

Drinks arrived, but Argo declined. Instead he watched without listening as that beast of a man downed his drink, then Argo’s, as he droned on and on about some backwater shitstain the marten would never visit.

Instead, Argo thought about what he’d do to this man. He imagined him bound and used, shamed and moaning. He dreamed of riding that cowboy until he forgot his own goddamn name, which Argo had no intention of learning. He’d take out all of his frustrations on this stranger, and he didn’t care if he added fresh regrets to his lattice of scars.

Slowly, Argo slid his pinky up the drunk man’s thick wrist, and the air got heavy as they locked eyes.

[Lightly censored art by Horrorbuns]

The Otherside

“I ain’t gonna ask you again, weasel. Where’s my money?”

Argo’s fascination with large men had expired. A brutish bull towered over him, a wall of muscle and fur. Rick was looking worse for wear these days, with his strange rash of red boils and sores, but above all he just looked angry.

”The devil took the goddamn sky, Rick. Who’s even thinking about money anymore?”

The marten’s boots briefly left the dirt as his stomach was cratered by the bull’s huge fist. He fell to his hands and knees, wheezing. Shakily, he raised a hand to appease his violent partner.

“A-alright, alright! Shit, just gimme a goddamn second!” Argo coughed, spitting in the dirt before he rose back to his feet. He huffed, cooking up how he was going to get out of this one. “So the thing is, Rick, we run on faith here. If the town believes in me, we get to live the good life. Things get easy. But if they doubt? Well, that means I can’t really pay you, can I?”

He could feel the hot air from where he stood as the bull exhaled sharply through his nose, trembling with rage, and began to lift his fist. Argo closed his eyes, hands in front of his face as he looked away, speaking faster.

“So that means we’ve gotta go big! Today! We give them the best show they’ve seen, and we’ll be rolling in it!” Rick grabbed him by the collar, lifting him into the air. “Not the face! We need the face, Rick, please don’t forget we need the face!”

“Why the hell would I work another job when I ain’t been paid already?”

“This’ll be it, I swear! The cash isn’t there, but this is how we set it straight. I ain’t holdin’ out on you, dammit!”

Argo plummeted suddenly, and felt a sharp pain in his tail when he landed wrong. He heard a pistol cock, and looked up to find himself staring down a barrel. The bull never knew when to stop. “This job better be easy, and it better pay, or… you’ll get the… the…”

“Yes, sir, I know what a gun is.”

“Well, good.” Rick gave the gun a little spin, causing Argo to flinch as he nearly dropped it. The bull opened his mouth to say something smug, but then just stood there, having clearly lost the train of thought, before storming off.

“God dammit Bucky, do you see what you left me with?!” Argo muttered it to himself as he made his way to the stables.

Rick was a fucking idiot, but he was a strong, dangerous idiot. So it didn’t much matter when he was wrong about things, he was going to get his way, or Argo was going to find out what it feels like when his fingers bend the wrong way. Nevermind that they were in a closed economy, hell, a closed ecosystem, where capital had ceased flowing and people were starving. No crops, no word from the outside world. Wolfram had obviously lost his job when they took the sky, so he hadn’t come back upstairs in weeks. There’s nothing left for anyone here, not anymore.

Argo couldn’t rightfully pull off the lie that some ne'er-do-well had wandered into town these days. Anyone that went out there never came back, and anything that wandered nearby sure as fuck wasn’t from heaven nor earth. But even if Argo had the gall to hustle up the old gig, Rick was a dogshit actor. The bull rarely hit his marks, and that was the only thing he came close to doing right. With Bucky everything had just felt obvious. There was an understanding, a flow, a shared vision. But with Rick every single unstated assumption was an immediate pitfall, and half of what Argo did explain fell on deaf ears. The bull just didn’t seem to have the right mind for, well, anything!

But then, instead of having the decency to fuck off, the bull asked for recompense for failed jobs, and threw fists, rinse and repeat. Again, Argo had lost the charm of large, stupid men. But he had a plan. It was a bad plan, but it was something to keep him moving.

“Hey there, Jerry. Sshhh…” Argo had arrived at the stables and located the lone donkey among the town’s horses. Jerry was all he needed. The marten fished through the saddlebag near his humble steed, spotting his prize. A stashed bag, full of dynamite. “Not gonna get any more of this in this town…”

A woman’s voice, outside. “Billie says she’s gonna need you later.” Argo stood to look, only to duck right back down when he saw who she was speaking to.

The wolverine. “Hm? Got it.” Lynn. He’d ended up learning his name, after all. Being trapped in a small town for a month with his “no-strings-attached” midnight hookup turned out to be nothing but strings.

Argo felt a flutter, and a pang. Lynn had been the last good night he’d had before the fall, or maybe ever would again. But he was also Argo’s biggest regret. The wolverine had been a visitor, one that shirked the company of others in favor of sleeping under the stars, and if it weren’t for Argo, he’d probably be there tonight. Instead, The Hero of Southpaw had tied the drunken man to his bedpost and trapped him in this hell along with him.

They hadn’t spoken since. Argo hadn’t given Lynn the chance, truth be told. How could he face someone like that? But the marten had been watching the wolverine from afar. He was invested. If death was going to take another, then let it be that damned writer, or that card cheat, or Rick. If they ever made it out of this, back to the other side, Argo needed Lynn to be there. He could beat the shit out of the marten then, if he wanted. Argo deserved it.

Speaking of, the sting in Argo’s belly reminded him he was working. He’d need a shovel.

[Fan art by FullPurp]

To Protect the World from Devastation

“Stand back everyone, I’ll deal with this foul beast!”

The crowd was meager. Many had died or vanished in recent weeks, but Argo couldn’t kid himself into thinking that was the only reason. His act was running thin.

He had sixty seconds.

“I don’t know what you are, but I cannot allow you to harm these fine citizens with your horrible tentacles!”

Argo had resorted to describing the creature, hoping beyond hope that Rick was far enough away for folks’ imaginations to do the work. In reality, the bull was just covered in layers of discarded clothes, a saddle to hunch his back, and whatever else the marten could cobble together in an hour.

A piece fell off. Rick wasn’t on his mark, again. Forty seconds.

“Ferocious you may be, but I’ll not be outmaneuvered today!”

Argo gave a signal. Left. Left! But Rick didn’t budge. Shit. He heard a yawn from behind him, and looking back, realized some people had already left. But Kitt was still there, like always, wide-eyed and giddy. That kid loved this stuff.

Twenty seconds.

“This is your final warning! Return to whence you came, or be visited upon by a wrath previously thought impossible!” Argo winced. He’d had better.

Continuing to signal Rick to move left, Argo raised his imitation revolver, aligning what he thought were the sights.

Five… four… three… two… BOOM!

An explosion rocked the town, smoke and debris flying out of the hole that Argo had spent the afternoon digging so that he could plant the dynamite. He’d timed the fuse, made the costume, and drawn the crowd. He’d done his part.

But Rick missed his mark. Instead of disappearing behind the fireball, he’d stood off to the side. Worse, he only remembered to fall seconds after the explosion struck. They were had.

Hat in hand, Argo put on his most charming smile and turned to draw the attention away from their farce. “Fear not, folks! Southpaw will not fall… this…” What few figures remained had already turned their backs, shuffling back to wherever they’d chosen to hole up in this depressing town.

“That was AWESOME!” Kitt charged Argo, just like always, but this time his punch missed the marten’s thigh, and Argo’s entire body crumpled inward too late to save his squashed manhood.

“... G… great… good to see ya, kid.”

Argo gave Kitt a pat on the head, turning toward the Meat Wagon, as was his habit. It took a good ten steps before he could stand upright again, though.

“Good evening, proprietress.

“Paying customers only, Argo.” Mortadella looked exhausted.

Argo bowed. “I take it you didn’t see the mess I just cleaned up outside?”

The boar merely snorted, then left for the back room without saying another word. Good enough, he supposed, taking a seat, but what was he going to do about Rick now? The marten’s pockets had only grown emptier.

Someone tapped Argo on the shoulder. He didn’t bother to look. The prodding continued, more insistently, until the marten finally turned, groaning. “Yes?”

Before him stood a portly skunk who wore a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, the Hero of Southpaw! I seem to remember you agreeing to an interview. Which I paid up front for. Months ago.”

The writer. Argo swore he could feel his soul leaving his body.

“Oh, by all means.”

…

[Fan art by CrimsonRabbit]