Page 8 of Smart@ss Cyborg

The animal makes a chewing motion and he opens his mouth again, separating his jaws this time, by all appearances to yawn—and there, on his tongue, is my kerchief. Darker in color from his saliva. Flecked with frothy green, in fact.

Tentatively I reach out. And when the animal doesn't close his jaws, I pluck a corner of my kerchief and yank it out of his maw.

I startle when the creature’s ears slap back and he makes a creaking set of noises that sound suspiciously—now keep in mind that my ear is untrained to these things—but they soundsuspiciouslylikelaughter.

I stare down at my fist, where I’m clutching my soggy stolen item. And I don’t know if this animal is diseased or if this is normal for donkeys, but the froth he’s transferred to my item is reminiscent of a surfactant.

I look down at my fist clutching the handkerchief in disgust. There is no way I’m returning this item to my belt loops, let alone letting it touch my neck now that he’s soiled it.

My throat vibrates—and I realize I’m growling.

The donkey’s ears have swiveled to capture the sound, and he’s gone dead still again.

Without another word, I give him my back and start walking.

Within moments, his velvety-soft muzzle is pressed to the small of my back, which I don’t acknowledge, and strangely, he seems to take this as assent tokeephis nose there.

If I didn’t think he were such a pain in the ass, I’d almost label the constant touch companionable.

When his lips travel lower though, and I feel them open around my back pocket, where I’ve stowed a pocket knife—

I spin on him.

He jerks back and bolts away.

My breathing changes to something that makes my throat rattle when I reach back and find my knife gone.

CHAPTER 4

The animal follows me for what must be four leagues by land. I’ve aimed myself for that homestead I spied a small eternity ago, and I’m entirely focused on reaching it. I pay the dastardly creature dogging me absolutely no attention, not even when I hear him drop my knife.

The vertically-challenged beast pauses behind me, as if he’s waiting for me to react.

When I don’t, he picks it up again. I know, because it isn’t more than a few breaths before my ears hear him drop it back to the dirt. Again. And again. His soft, near-silent hoof thuds speed up until I know he’s directly behind me.

I really know that he’s directly behind me because he pokes me in the back with the rounded cherrywood handle of the knife I’m mightily tempted to skin him with.

A sigh forces its way out of me. A frustrated, exasperated one. I’m saved from having to interact with him more though because a horse whinnies.

I know from vids that this is some sort of greeting among the genusEquus.

The sound of donkey teeth clamping against my knife’s handle has my teeth clenching in reaction. He comes abreast of me, ears strained forward, neck arched. The horse neighs again. Without warning, Paco rockets ahead, all four hooves making sure-footed, softly pattering clops over the ground as he propels himself toward three equine figures.

I, my land locomotion slower than his, arrive to them some microts—erm,minutes, as the humans say—afterhe’s made his introduction. He’s acting strangely—upper lip raised in a flehmen-like response, nose straight up in the air—before he throws himself on the ground, attempting to roll near the hooves of the trio of bewildered-looking horses tied to a hitching post.

He’d have an easier time managing his rolling if he weren’t still wearing his saddle. I’d be inclined to take it off of him, but watching him struggle is oddly satisfying.

I pass the spectacle, shaking my head as I’ve seen heroes in Western vids do when they silently express that they hold an unfavorable opinion for what they’ve witnessed.

The hitching post is just a few paces from the porch of the homestead’s shanty and I mount the steps, preparing to knock on the door and ask the homesteader if they’d like to trade one of their fine horses for a less-than-fine, poorly trained, thieving donkey of poor character.

Which reminds me…I spin, enjoying how my legs respond to my cues almost effortlessly, and exit the porch by way of a leap in favor of retrieving my knife where it was likely dropped on the ground, if my donkey hasn’t swallowed it.

The decision to retrieve my possession from the ass who stole it no doubt saves my life.

A gunshot cracks the air. Wood shrapnel explodes behind me.

The tied horses flinch and stiffen, causing their leather reins, which are wrapped around the post, to snap taut. Almost as quickly, the animals unfreeze and begin to shift uneasily, making the leather they’re wearing creak.

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