Month: February 2026

The Big Winner

Gentleman Dave slid the pot across the felt like he was pushing a coffin into the ground. “Time to take a breather,” he said, his voice worn smooth by a thousand bad beats. Boris raked in the chips, but Jonny didn’t notice. His eyes were glued to the doorway, where trouble had just put on heels and walked in wearing a smile that could bankrupt a saint.

“That’s Davida Bourland,” Dave murmured, dealing the cards like last rites. “Queen of the Strip. Looks like a payday, plays like a funeral. Don’t sweat it, though—your stack wouldn’t catch her eye. But your pug? He’s right up her alley.”

Davida’s radar locked on Boris and she drifted over, all silk and smoke, a shark in a Gucci handbag. “Hey, big spender,” she purred, lashes fluttering like alibis. “I know a few places where money disappears real nice.” Boris gave her the once-over and thought about a certain cat back in Van Nuys—the kind of pussy you don’t trade in for cheap thrills. “Take a hike, sister,” he said. “You’re barking up the wrong dog.”

Davida smiled like she’d already won and reached into her bag, pulling out a Milk-Bone like it was a loaded gun. “Shame,” she said. “I’ve got a whole case of these at home. Gets awful lonely.” Boris cracked. Gentleman Dave caught Jonny’s eye and flashed a grin that had seen too many endings. “She knows every angle, pal. Keep your eyes open. Your friend just sat down with the deadliest player in the joint—and the house always remembers.”

Happy birthday to our friend Davida Bourland!

Heaven Knows, Mr. M.

Boris and Jonny got the summons like a bad hand at a crooked table. Rufus T. Firefly’s office smelled of panic and cigar smoke, and the Dictator for Life was pacing like a man who’d misplaced his spine. “I’ve got sour news, boys,” Firefly said, voice cracking like cheap shellac. “You fled here to dodge that lunatic Donald Trump, and now he’s kicking down our door. The orange windbag’s declared war on us for our helium reserves. As if he didn’t already sound ridiculous every time he opened his mouth.”

Boris cocked an eyebrow and scratched his jowls. “I thought our spiritual ringer, Sister Ana of Armas, handed him her Nobel Peace Prize to keep his beady little eyes off our goofy gas.” Firefly snorted. “The man’s got the memory of a three-day-old gnat. He forgot. That’s why you’re here. Boris, you take the northern front and try not to get us all killed. Jonny—your job’s heavier. Sister Ana is the soul of this tin-pot republic. She breathes, we breathe. You get her south to our friends. It won’t be pretty, but you’re the only mug I trust to pull it off.”

Jonny opened his mouth to protest the partner split when the door swung open and the good sister walked in. They’d heard the hymns about her kindness and charity, but none of them mentioned she was built like trouble with a halo slapped on top. Boris clocked it instantly—Sister Ana froze when she saw Jonny, her angelic face melting into the same hungry look every Van Nuys tramp gave his pal when she’d already picked out the motel. The pug had seen that look a hundred times. It always ended the same way—wrinkled sheets, bad decisions, and regrets that didn’t last past breakfast.

Cruise Nurse

The pleasure ship’s infirmary looked like a crime scene where the weapon was cheap liquor and bad judgment. Passengers were draped over cots and trash cans, retching like they were trying to cough up their souls. Perry Gordeaux, the baby-faced pre-med working the voyage as an assistant medic, wiped his brow and shook his head. “That’s what happens when you guzzle chocolate martinis till dawn,” he said. “Even Doc Merlin went down swinging. I handed him our last barf bag five minutes ago.”

“I’ve never known Doc to drink,” said Jennifer Brooks, the ship’s head nurse—tall, gorgeous, and built like trouble. “But with him out cold, it’s just you and me holding this circus together.” She lowered her voice. “Lucky for us, Boris Pug is a passenger. Not licensed, but he knows more medicine than anyone with a diploma. Unlucky for us, that means his owner Jonny M. will be sniffing around. So forgive me if I keep my back to the wall—he’s got wandering hands.”

She barely finished the sentence before fate kicked in the door. Boris and Jonny were suddenly there. Jonny flashed Jennifer a grin that belonged in a police lineup, already making her skin crawl, but Boris was all steel nerves and cold logic. “Our last port of call was Freedonia,” the pug said. “Did any of the passengers engage in anal sex with a proboscis monkey?”

“Probably a few dozen,” Jennifer said, swatting away Jonny’s creeping hand. “That’s the main attraction.”

Boris’s eyes darkened. “This isn’t simple alcohol poisoning. All that monkey business brewed a virus mean enough to crack the world wide open the moment we dock anywhere civilized.” He paused. “I might be able to cook up an antidote. Long shot. But to get the key ingredient…” He looked at Jennifer. Then at Jonny. “You’ll have to merge bodily fluids. The old-fashioned way.”

The infirmary groaned. The ship rolled. And somewhere out at sea, the end of the world cleared its throat.

Boris of the Yukon

The snow came down like a bad alibi, thick and merciless, smothering the Alaskan night while old Merlin paced his cabin atop a hoard of gold, counting it and cursing the world. The fire cracked. His voice did too. “The Lord sees you,” he snarled, scripture dripping from his tongue. “He sees the men staring at you with lust in their hearts.”

Nancy—too alive for a dead place like this—smoothed the short white slip she wore and met his glare without blinking. “Who do you blame for that, Dad?” she said. “You dragged me into this frozen nowhere where the ratio’s five hundred men to one woman. If you ever looked up from praying, you’d see every guy within ten miles already thinking it.”

Merlin answered the way cowards do. He shoved her out into the storm, slammed the door, and let the lock speak for him. Snow soaked silk. Cold gnawed bone. Then, through the howling white, came the clean ring of sleigh bells—and out of the blur emerged a dog sled pulled by the one creature mean enough to laugh at a night like this. Boris of the Yukon was coming fast.

Happy Sled Dog Day!