It's crazy how ideas can just hit you and you just have to focus on thrm until it goes out :|

Short write-up with everyone's favorite metal mustelid. Enjoy!
Contains some heavy language.

Sterling Bengtzing © Harlow
Art by the amazing Pac

All part of the  furrybasketball world.

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November 23rd, 2016

“MOTHER… FUCK!!!”

An incoming pair of furs, both of Irish descent, turned their heads at the sudden swearing that happened a few feet away from them. There they saw a gritty, unkempt and tall Thoroughbred, well into his fifties; his camo clothing worn almost to pieces. The equine was fuming from his rage, taking his tattered shoes off; both with gaping holes big enough to pretty much render them useless.

“Ey, Jerry, what got a up in arms now? Ya too old to be havin’ yer period at this date!” the Irish Elk questioned the homeless fur.

“Look at this shit, Brick!” the homeless horse blurted out in a raspy, gritty voice at the Irish Elk. “One false step and my fuckin shoes just… ripped open!” the mangy equine ripping the sole off of one of his now useless sneakers, almost nothing left of that garment. “No fucking use anymore!”

“Well shit, Greenup…” the other patron, an Irish Setter replied. “If something comes up, we'll try to aid ya, but for now the norm is a bit earlier. Got a meetup with a big client here soon, and...”

“Yeah yeah, the drill. ‘Go in the back, we opening soon’…” Jerry stood up and set himself off towards the back of the store. “Outta my way!” he yelled as he bumped a trespasser, a long-haired 6’ 11” polecat, who just sneered at the mangy horse, whose step was slow and weary, trying not to step on anything with his bare soles.

The elk looked at the figure that approached them, openly grinning. “Mason, look! Here's the man of the hour!”

“Fellas!” Sterling called at the pair, promptly going forward to shake Brick’s paw, then tapping on Mason’s abdomen, catching him off guard. “So, ya guys the bosses of this joint?”

“Yup…” the red-haired canine replied, rubbing his stomach at the polecat’s gesture. “Mason Hatch-Pellereau, ya can call me H.P and this guy here is Brick O’Doherty. Keepin’ the best sports bar in Billings going strong!”

“Do we get goin’ or what?” the polecat urged.

“Ya bet!” And with a twist of the keys to the main doors, the polecat was welcome to Hooligan’s: an Irish pub and sports bar smack in the middle of Billings. H.P instructed the cooks to get some of their signature dishes to share between the trio, as well as tasting several kinds of beers. Sterling couldn't lie, the place was top-notch, it could rival his favorite spots in Jersey City. Both the American and Irish snacks were done perfectly, as well as the potential atmosphere the place could have in big games. As a gift, the mustelid handed out an autographed jersey and a Flag of Sweden to match, promising there was more where those came from.

“All started with Brick’s pappy, and it grew from there. When Montana started gettin’ all this sports exposure, we knew we sniffed out an opportunity!” Mason commented, refilling a multitude of beer sampler glasses for the polecat to taste, who nodded as he took various sips in between a hefty bite of a crispy Scotch egg.

“Serves up that Montana is the state with the most craft brewers, so we really get in touch with the guys round here to help em up in exposure and all that...” The elk continued.

Sterling paused mid-sip on one of the samplers with a cough, spitting the reddish liquid back in the glass. “...Ya better get in touch with THIS fucker here. Tell him THAT is how you don't get bitches!” The athlete laughed out loud.

“Duly noted. This provider was always kinna “special” so to speak…”

“Anyhow, I like how this is lookin’. Good grub, good booze, good fun, ja…” Sterling nodded. “I'm gonna relay to the big guns so we can hook ya store up and make it the most bitching Howler base there is!” the mustelid grinned.

“Signed stuff on the walls?”

“AND publicity, media, and maybe even being our chill spot given if you can make a VIP lounge for the team? I'd be fine for the bar stools, but better play it safe with security measures for my fellas, ya get me?”

“Consider it done, Sterling. Very soon Hooligan’s will be the best basketball hangout spot in the entire US! The Salt Lick won't even know what hit ‘em!” H.P laughed loudly.

“We'll see how it goes once the place gets out of the small remodelling, but this is the start of something GOOD!” Brick stressed. “Any other doubts before we done?”

“Just that… the fuck was with the hobo from a while ago?” Sterling asked.

The elk’s ears flickered a bit in a twinge of annoyance that his patron witnessed the scene. “You saw that?” Brick asked.

“Just about everything…”

“Ah, you mean Jerry G? He usually loiters here or picks up bottles from the trash to get recyclin’ money. He's brash, but harmless…” Mason hand waved, aloof.

Brick interjected. “Talk about a fucked up life. Fought in Vietnam, only to find out his wife cheated on him while he was abroad. From there he tried to step up but no avail: no cash, no means, and soon no home. The old man’s been addicted to almost all shit you can guess, but managed to shake that shit off. Still broke-ass homeless, but what can ya do?”

The mustelid squinted his eyes, a pensive mood. “Where do ya kick him out when the business starts?”

“We ain’t THAT bad to the fella, Sterling. We just let him loiter on the backside of the store. He gets to recycle bottles on the bar’s dumpster and doesn't get seen by any cop. Win-win alright?”

“Ja... “ Sterling replied, emptying his beer bottle in a swig. “Well, fellas, been a real good meet, and very soon Hooligan’s will be on the league’s spotlight as the new official Howler turf. Can't wait for the remodelin to be a wrap…” the polecat closed, shaking the hands of the two owners before making his way out of the premise.

“Front door’s that way, kid!” the elk added. “Where you goin’?”

“None ya business, antler-for-brains!”

“Pft! I’mma use that on ya, Brick!” the canine snarked.

The mustelid made his way to the back of the bar, where dumpsters full of the remnants of many boozy nights and good times were situated. Sterling didn’t have to look for long until he found the Thoroughbred, arms over his knees, head tucked in. The polecat crossed his arms, a cough breaking the silence.

“You Jerry?”

“Who’s askin’?” the equine replied curtly.

“Not important...” Sterling replied as cutting. “...Heard a Nam vet tended to loiter round here, that you?”

“Yeah, I’m Jerry Greenup, so?” the equine asked defiantly.

“H.P and Brick told me bout your story. Color me curious, ja?” the mustelid cocked his head, arms crossed as he stared down Jerry.

The equine scoffed. “Not ev’ryone in the Army got taken care for back in the day and I got the fucking short stick, that’s the thanks I get from getting uprooted and fucking serving the country. And for ya to not tell me I'm just bullshitting it...” Jerry dug in his jacket, fishing out for a pair of rusty dog tags that still hung on his neck to this day. “Killed my share of asian folk, chewed C4 to get high with my pals and all the shit ya heard from there, done that. Two damn years promising glory and I get in this shithole of a life, fuck me, right?”

Sterling looked down at the elder fur, noticing that he didn't have any shoes on, his wide unkempt feet stretched out. “No shoes in the street? Hardcore. What if ya step in glass or drug needles?”

“It ain't a damn choice, yanno…” Jerry grabbed whatever remained of his sneakers, shaking it at the polecat’s gaze that looked down on him. “These just ripped open on a misstep today. I ain't got any fucking left!” Jerry borderline yelled. “Time to face the damn winter soon, to top it off…”

“So, why don't you get any from any donation site around town? Plenty round here!” Sterling gestured.

The equine blurted a sarcastic, almost condescending laugh. “Are you shittin’ me, blondie? I'm size fuckin’ 17 and 6’ 10”! Good luck even tryin’ gettin’ that in a hoity-toity store of yers, kid! Let alone a ‘donation’ site...” the old equine looked away, not tolerating the interrogation and the polecat’s attitude for much longer.

“How you gettin’ thru winter then? It snows kinda badly here in Montana...”

“Like fuck I know! I’ll probably lose a toe to frostbite if this shit keeps goin’ up! Listen you brat, if you wanna make fun of me, go on and do it! I’ve lived thru tons of shit to even get phased by dumbasses like you!” the homeless horse glared at the athlete.

The mustelid exchanged leers with the old horse. “Alright...” he said, his tone sincere and, with a movement of his paws, Sterling forced out one of his own old, tattered construction boots, flicking it with a thud on the sidewalk, quickly doing so with the other, leaving his bare paws on contact with the rocky sidewalk. Jerry didn’t understand what went on with the athlete’s odd behaviour, an awkward silence floating on the scene.

As if he was somewhat annoyed by the message not being digested, the mustelid pointed to his boots, then to the shocked horse, with impatience. “What you waitin’ for? Pick ‘em up.”

The old horse was taken aback, still not believing the polecat was actually serious. “What are you doing, kid?”

“What does it look like? Try ‘em on. They’ll least serve ya good for this winter.” Sterling crossed his arms, tapping his toeclaws on the floor. “Size 17? That's about mine too, so should fit ya, ja?”

Jerry’s expression became that of disbelief, reaching for the worn down footwear, inspecting it. Sure they looked as if they were used and abused for years; the outside fabric peeling off and the inside text all blurred out, but it was a high-endurance pair that was in one piece, he thought as he tapped on the steel reinforcement on the toe area. “How the fuck you gonna get to yer house barefoot? Ain't yer kind too luxurious for that?”

“I can live with that…” The polecat sat on the ground next to the equine “I play hard on these pads every other day, walked around like this back in New Joisey before and I’m Swedish, cold weather ain't shit for me…”

The Thoroughbred sighed, looking somewhat despondent. “After so much shit fallin’ on ya, you come to think you can't trust anyone…”

“That I know about well…” Sterling put his elbows over his lifted knees, looking at the horse “...I had to fight to get mt voice heard and suceed around here. But overall, didn't forget my mission: makin’ fucking sure the world knows the name Bengtzing once more, starting with the Howlers and ending in the Hall of Fame…”

“Howlers? I've seen them on TVs around the windows here! Wait... you the loud young big player? The one with the burns?” Jerry asked, fact which was confirmed when Sterling showed his bald, jagged forearm to him. “Well, fuck me… A famous guy just helped my ass up! Stuff like ‘at don't happen often to anyone nowadays…”

Sterling banged on the door next to him, something clicking in his mind. “Hey, you in there! Got a Sharpie?!” he yelled as one of the owners peeked out his head, prompting Mason to heed to his request, tossing a marker at his way.

“Pass me the boots…” the athlete pointed at, grabbing their front flaps and signing his name on both of them. “And… there, no one will refute yer story now when ya tell them where ya got these boots, ja? Take care of em, they've been through hell and back for around 6 years...”

Jerry chuckled. “Guess so. But the big thing is that this hoss ain't freezing his feet off this winter…” a genuine smile forming in his features. “Was wrong about ya, kid...”

Without much of a parting word, Sterling sat up and started making his way out to the street. There, he stopped and turned around. “Take the left one off and give it a shake. Bengtzing secret.” the mustelid nodded, making his way away.

Jerry stuck one of his wide feet in one of the worn and tattered boots, relief in finding out they were isolating enough and comfortable despite their wear and tear. Before he did the same with the left boot, he turned it upside down and shook it, a single bill falling to the ground. Opening it up, his jaw fell to the floor: the Thoroughbred was staring at a good 100$. Speechless for a long while, he caught a glimpse of the polecat before he made his way out for good. “Thank you so much!” the horse’s weary gritty voice yelled at the polecat’s direction with gratitude, tears welling in his eyes.

Sterling stopped at the comment that made his ears perk, leaving with not much more to add than a nod to himself as he made his way back into the streets of Billings, the polecat’s step now lighter and colder as his pawpads felt the roughness of the sidewalk in every step. “Happy Thanksgiving, ja?”