milliways_bar | (no subject)

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[oom: Save scumming is one of those things everybody knows about, but nobody ever encounters.]

The first thing Wilford does when he walks through the door is bring a heavy bag of cash over to the bar. He never bothered to count what was in it after he and Jim cleaned house, but it’ll undoubtedly be enough to carry him through what’s about to come up. If he needs something in the coming months, he knows how to flirt his way into getting someone else to open their wallets. Along with the cash, he leaves two hand-written notes, telling Bar to keep everything until he asks for them again.

With one problem taken care of, Wilford gets a bottle of whiskey and a glass, and heads over to sit by the fireplace to figure out what to do about the second problem.

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Near the fireplace, the oldest two Sandhu children are playing Guess Who. Or some variant of it, judging by the questions of 'Do they have an axe?' and 'Do they have eyebrows?'.

Wilford's barely listening. He's watching his dog bumble around the bar, sniffing around tables for any scraps he can find. He wonders if it'll find enough to make itself sick again. He won't be the one to clean up the mess if it does.

Eventually the dog wanders over to the children, and gives Fry's board a sniff, knocking a few of the tiles over in the process.

"Hello Dumbles!" Coral says, offering the dog a pet.

Fry puts his tiles back up correctly.

The purple tag that jangles on the dog's collar says Buster, but he can't actually speak to correct her. He does gladly accept the pet though, wagging his tail almost violently.

"Good thing I don't need an attack dog," he says, more to Buster than anyone. He still can't believe a dog could ever be so stupidly friendly toward everyone.

"It says Buster." Fry points out.

"No no, he's called Dumbles, I heard the pink man say the other day." Coral says.

"Maybe it's like how our dog is called Pooh by us but Dad registered him as Star at the vet." Fry says.

When did Wilford ever call the dog Dumbles? What?

"Dumbass, more like," Wilford says. "Because that's what he is."

Look at him, wagging his tail around like an idiot. Wilford moves his whiskey bottle far away to prevent a repeat of last time.

"Oh. So Dumbles for short!" Coral says, offering the doggy a gentle hug, but not forcing it. "You're such a cute doggy!"

"Be careful, it has hyperemesis." Fry says.

"What?" Wilford asks.

Look at it. It's... well, okay, it's clearly not perfectly healthy. It's missing teeth, and looks like a stiff breeze will knock it over, but it's a hell of a lot better off than it was when Wilford had the dog dropped in his lap.

It's also desperately trying to find a snack hidden somewhere in Coral's pockets.

"It vomits a lot." Fry says.

Coral is giggling at the tickly nose. "You don't mean it though, do you boy? No you don't, can't help being a sicky doggy..."

Wilford snorts. "He pukes because assholes keep feeding him when he doesn't need to be fed."

"You could put something on his collar that says 'do not feed' or 'special diet'." Fry suggests.

That's a good idea, actually. Or it would be, if Wilford were able to keep the dog.

This is the perfect opportunity to get rid of it. Nobody will remember the dog once he's done what he has to do. It'll be like it never existed.

"How'd you like to make twenty bucks a week?" he finds himself saying instead.

"What currency, and doing what?" Fry asks.

"Whatever's in the bag I left up front."

The monopoly money they use in England, probably. He never bothered to even get it exchanged.

"But I have to go do something, and can't take him with me. I need someone to make sure nobody messes with him if I leave him here."

Buster decides to flop over. Right onto Coral's game board.

Fry indicates to Coral that he will handle this business negotiation.

He gets out a sheet of paper from his bag.

"We will need to agree exact terms before we agree because the dog has special needs and Coral and I don't live here." he says, doing some writing.

'Dog sitting agreement

I agree to pay Fry and Coral twenty pounds per week each for taking care of my dog Buster (Dumbles). For this I expect the following:'

He leaves a blank space here then adds at the bottom.

'I understand that if Buster becomes too agresive to be handled by children, becomes too ill to be looked after by children, or I do not return to Milliways within twelve months that respondsibility will be handed over to an adult.

Singed: ___________________________'

He slides this over to Wilford.

"Sorry, I watch a lot of Judge Judy."

Wilford doesn't know who this Judge Judy is.

"You mustn't watch enough of it, because you'd know never to sign anything without a lawyer."

He's not signing that. A lot can be done with a signature, and like hell is he just handing his out.

"Listen, kid. Twenty bucks, or whatever, a week, to make sure nobody walks out of here with my dog or locks it outside when I'm not here. Make sure he gets fed if none of these rats feel like getting getting too close to him."

He'll be leaving the dog here regardless. But having someone keeping an eye out for shenanigans would be nice. And he knows the second Jim finds out he's left the dog here, there will be shenanigans.

"Twenty bucks a week, we'll watch the dog when we're in the bar which averages five to ten hours a week, and we'll ask the waitrats and Bar to alert someone if they try and walk off with him in between. We'll need a diet chart." Fry says. "And the three conditions at the bottom remain - if the dog bites any of us, Dad won't let us carry on."

"Look at it," Wilford says, nodding to the dog where he's letting himself be pampered by Coral. "You think that dog knows how to bite anybody?"

It's not a disagreement.

"I'll leave something with the bar."

"Sure it does." Fry says. "But it probably won't."

He's heard enough from Dad that he doesn't want to be accused of mistreating the dog.

"I can put one of the micro sensors I use on the Infirmary scanners on the dog's collar so that if it goes near the front door an alarm goes off? But likely the bar would stop that from happening anyway."

Wilford shrugs. "Do what you want."

If someone takes the dog's collar off, the sensor won't be worth much.

"Do you have a room that the dog sleeps in?" Fry asks. "And does it take any medication?"

"He sleeps wherever he wants. Just not outside, because he doesn't have fur. And I told you, there's nothing wrong with him, besides being stupid."

Fry asks so many questions. How does anybody put up with it?

He's very responsible.

"Okay, I think we can manage that."

Coral is giving the doggy a tummy tickle.

If the way Buster's hind leg is kicking around is any indication, he seems to be enjoying it.

"I don't think it should be too hard."

Wilford manages to feed the dog, and he didn't even want it in the first place.

"Anything else you want us to know about the dog?"

Wilford shrugs and tops off his drink. Buster is a dog. How special can they possibly get?

"My friends are all assholes, and'll probably try to steal him."

Honestly, he'll be surprised if Jim doesn't try anything.

"Who apart from Jim is your friend?" Fry asks.

Rude little snot.

"Nobody who would probably admit to it."

Wilford doesn't really like anybody else that much either, so that list is probably very small.

"I'm going to need more information if you want me to stop a specific person stealing your dog."

"Well, if it does happen, let me know, and I'll take care of it."

"Okay." Fry says.

He resets his game board. Sounds like a business transaction.

"Coral, I hope you're not going to spoil that dog. He's going to need a structured program."

Wilford almost laughs. He had no idea feeding a dog needed to be made into such a chore. And he's an expert at making mundane tasks into epic chores.

"He's a dog. He doesn't need anything special."

"Was he traumatised?" Fry asks.

Again, Wilford shrugs. "From what?"

It doesn't occur to Wilford that being run over by a car might make someone - even a dog - a little unbalanced.

"Not getting fed."

"Seems fine to me."

He could be less of an idiot, but there's no helping that.

"Then why does he stuff his face?"

"Because he doesn't know better. He's a dog. You can't exactly reason with him."

Wilford shakes his head and points over at the dog, where it's playing with Coral.

"Pretty simple stuff, all right. Make sure he gets fed, and tell me if anyone steals him. Not that hard?"

"Got it." Fry nods.

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