The Dog Job : Draft 1 vs Draft 2

 Good evening, 

Thank you for reading. In brief, these are two excerpts from my second draft of (Title Pending, STGRX). The first excerpt is the ORIGINAL opener, in the third person. The second is the SAME SCENE through Alan's eyes, first person perspective. This opener was written in December 2025 around Christmas. This redo was done this week. I think this is an intriguing study of my own progress, growth, and overall development of the story. 

Enjoy!

Excerpt from "The Dog Job" opening to (Title Pending, STGRX)

He snatched the keys from the ignition and dumped them in his jacket. His hair itched from the balaclava. In the rear view, the bay was motionless and dark. A lamppost at the end of the street stood orange and alone against a moonless night. Alan shuffled around in his backpack for something. He already had his mask over his face.

“Do we need to run through it again?” Robbie asked, peering over. 

“I think we’re good.”

“Back door, right?”

“Yeah. You care if I just-” Alan jabbed his finger up and pressed a button. The cab light shone for a second and he reached into his bag. He turned it off as quickly as it flashed. 

“Dude.” Robbie whispered.

“Sorry.”

He watched the bay from the mirror. It was a nice neighbourhood with nice homes filled with nice people. The kind of people that don’t expect this kind of thing. Fences and steel gates. A metallic click, pop, and clap brought him back to the car. 

“Check this shit out.” 

“What the hell man, you don’t need that.”

“Why not?”

“No one’s home.”

“You never know.”

“We do- we checked.”

“Yeah, but what if?”

He checked his watch. They were running late. “Fine, whatever. Don’t kill anybody.”

They hopped onto the driveway and shut their doors mostly. Alan ran along the other side of the building with his gun pressed against his leg. Worrisome. 

Robbie crouched along the other end towards the back porch. A garden hose hidden under overgrown grass tripped him, and he slammed against shake siding and skinned his knee on a brickwork garden wall. His jeans ripped. He cursed but kept moving. 

At the back end of the house, he hopped onto the porch and unfurled his backpack to find his shoe covers. Booties, an overly interested clerk told them, are essential to keeping the home free of footsteps. He shuffled them over his boots and pulled them tight. Alan hadn’t made it to the back yet. He chirped the radio. “You there? Over.”

“Hang on, over.”

Alan was pissing somewhere in the treeline. He gets a quivery bladder when it comes time to go. Something about adrenaline and vasoconstriction. Weak nerves. Robbie heard thumping over grass and squinted. Alan was crouched like a fat dog. He hopped onto the porch. Mud came with.

“Booties.” He pointed. 

Alan scraped his shoes off on the porch’s edge and held his hand out for the covers. 

*

They stood on either side of the screen door ready to go inside. Robbie’s fingers trembled as he pulled at the latch. It moaned open. Alan held it while Robbie patted his jacket for his lockpicks. They were in his backpack somewhere out of immediate reach. He jiggled the doorknob and was surprised when it turned with him. They looked at each other wide eyed. Robbie furled his balaclava over his face and put a finger over his lips. Their protocol was to act as though someone is home, even if they’re not. Alan held the doors from springing shut and left the screen door propped open. Robbie went in first with his flashlight off. 

The place smelled like pet food, and there wasn’t much to see. Rickety linoleum, lots of grit underneath his plastic feet, tight corridors leading to tighter off-rooms and ensuites. The house wasn’t nice but what they’d been promised was; a portable safe with a small collection of inheritance jewellery. No code needed, just get the safe out. Alan tapped Robbie on the back with his pistol and pointed to a bowl of slop dog food next to the laundry machine. Hope the safety’s on. It was wet but almost entirely smears; high oil content or recently eaten. He motioned over to a beaten pad with stained lining next to the dryer. No dog in the bed. They shrugged and kept moving inwards. 

“Where is it again?” Alan whispered.

“Upstairs bedroom, closet. I’ll meet you there.”

“Roger that.”

Alan crept to the second storey while Robbie cleared the kitchen. He took a peek in the fridge. Pale light bounced around the cabinets. Inside the fridge didn’t look different than his own; old leftovers, last week’s milk, a pinch of carrot strings and onion skins. Condiments added a rainbow of color to the white walls. The fridge was the cleanest room in the house. He spotted a gold watch in the fruit bowl next to the microwave. It clunked in his pocket on top of his keys. 

The downstairs bathroom had a few bottles of anxiety pills and a man’s beard trimmer. The kind with three buzzing circles on it. He snatched the pill bottles and wiped short black hairs off of the white twist tops. According to the bottle, Janet L. Stevenson was supposed to take one of these per day as needed. They tasted metallic and felt chalky, so he swished a shot of blue mouthwash around while he took a piss in the sink. A flushing toilet would freak Alan out. Don’t want to get shot. 

He wiped his hands on his jacket and moved upstairs. Each step sounded like a maraca. Alan didn’t have his flashlight on, wherever he was. Psst. Robbie waited at the top of the steps but there wasn’t a response. Maybe the bathroom. He swished across dark green carpet towards the master bedroom. His footing wasn’t sturdy with the plastic so he dragged his feet. Psssst. 

“Yo.” Alan chirped behind him.

“Ready?”

“Dude there’s a fucking dog here.”

“Where?”

“In the kid’s room on the bed.”

“What kind?”

“Big fucker. Big and black.”

“Shit.” He turned his flashlight off and dropped it into his jacket on top of the keys and pills and watch. 

“What’s that?”

“Pills and a watch.”

“Bathroom?”

“Kitchen. What’s the plan?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like what do we do?”

“With the dog?”

“I guess let’s just try to be quiet- close the doors, try not to wake it.”

“There’s no people?”

“No, none downstairs.”

“Weird.”

He tilted his head and they went into the bedroom. Alan locked the door behind them and put his backpack on the bed. 

***

                        Excerpt from "Chapter 1: The Dog Job" (Title Pending, STGRX)

I let the little pink elastic band snap on the folded twenty on her hipbone. Her thigh tensed up as it thwacked her skin. Jiggled purple and neon as the lights danced across her chest. Chiseled stomach for a girl. Tan ridges, six of them, and a defined V into her pink G-string. Didn’t want to check but I knew she wasn’t smiling. Must’ve hurt. Whatever. Now she knew I was serious. Asked me if I wanted to dance, told her yes, said she doubted it. Some obligation or at least a signal, like, no I am serious, I just don’t have time. Leaving in five or so, I promise, just waiting on a friend. A hand crept along my shoulder and I turned away from her. Her name was Dora, she said. Remember that. It was Robbie’s hand on my shoulder. Didn’t say anything. Had all black on like me, good, and held a thumb up. Hair was wet and shiny brown. Quick nod. Double checked my pockets for my keys and wallet. All there, lighter and cigs too. Red electric clock above the bar read eleven-oh-five. Little late but not bad. I followed him out to the back and Dora was halfway down the catwalk stooped over a guy with a blue baseball cap on by the time Robbie swung the door open. Nothing special. 

We hustled across the tundra parking lot to my van. Night fell hours ago and snow glowed orange under the streetlights. Manually unlocked the doors and we got in. Rob had his hand out as the doors rattled shut. Tossed him the pack and put the lighter in the crummy cup holder. Click click. Turned the key and it started cold and loud. Engine light on still orange where it stays. He pointed at the chip-turned crack windshield. I shrugged. No idea when it started and when it cracked but a while for sure. 

“Where’s your bag?” He asked.

“It’s in the trunk.”

Took a second but the vents kicked on and blasted dusty air in my face. Half a cigarette later we were on the highway out of town. Had to drive slow around the bends on account of my tires being bald and it being dark. Couple days went by since the last snow and yesterday was warmer so any of the newer segments of asphalt could have been black ice. That or shit traction control. Never knew if the button-light meant it was on or off or if traction control actually did anything in the van to begin with but the light was on, so maybe it was helping around when I came in hot on the corners. 

The windshield fogged up at the corners but the heat was working fine now. We passed a triplet white-cross memorial by the northwestern exit with new blazing red roses. The plastic wrapper glinted as I took my foot off the gas. Rob had been counting the turn offs for me. To the old silos from town was six off-roads. He lit another cigarette and said the next one was the one. Been up this way so many times it was just a habit. If one of us doesn’t say it it’s a problem. Been a few times he got pissed I didn’t say anything as we’re already on the road. Sometimes he forgot and I didn’t say a word. 

Came to a slow yield and took a left. Cranked my window down. His smoke, my smokes, were suffocating and my hands were hot on the plastic wheel. Only thing that fucking works in the van is the heat. Even in summer it’s heat. Dirt and gravel and snow churned as we drove into the woods. Tops of the trees black spears above as I swerved to stay on the path. Pulled up next to the cattle gate. Stopped. Rob got out without hesitation and unhooked the chain, pulled it out the way. His door was open and all the heat escaped in the minute. I shivered. Fucking asshole. “What’d you get for a ride,” I asked as he got in. 

“Some beater, I don’t know.”

 “It gonna start?”

 “No idea,” he shrugged. 

“You got your bag?” I asked.

 “In the car.” 

Drove between the four rusted-out silos fast for good luck and parked ahead of the beater. Headlights illuminated the car brightly in high definition. It was red and covered in snow. Boxy frame from the eighties, maybe could’ve been early nineties but the paint was rusted, chipped, and peeling. Real piece of work. Scrap yard business. Rob smiled. “There’s a brush in the back seat.” 

“Okay so go brush it,” I said. 

“I did the gate.” 

“I drove.”

“But I did the gate- did you see all the snow I had to walk through? My hands are fucking freezing.” 

Shit sack. Opened the door and left the van running. Huffed and knew he was laughing hard in the hotbox van. Good idea, Rob, great one. He knew I’d have to scrape this lousy piece of shit off. Never been so eager in his life. As I pulled the back flap door handle Robbie’s face glowed orange for a stint and then a small orange dot stayed on his face. That’s four now. The red car had red velour fabric bench seats and stank like mouse shit. None of the lights turned on but there were bulbs on the roof. His backpack was on top of a pile of newspapers and the brush was under it. Wooden handle and thin black sharp bristles and no scraper. Door squealed shut. 

Held the brush with sleeves bunched up as makeshift gloves and started pushing snow off the roof. Bristles sucked. Shovel would’ve been better because of the melt and refreeze. Basically a big chunk of frosty ice. Robbie’s face glowed again as he sucked the cigarette. Guy honked the van like a dick and I swung at the snow pile hard. Chunks of snow debris flung this and that. Got in my collar and boots but it was effective. Windshield was clear mostly just had to fling some of the shrapnel from the roof off. Hurried back to the van to warm up. “Holy fuck,” I said. 

“Cold?” 

“You got the keys?” 

“In my bag.” 

“What time we got?” 

“Uhh,” he paused, pushed the button on the ceiling. Light was yellow and dim flickering. His watch read eleven fifty-ish. Got out, said to stop fucking jacking my smokes without asking before I shut the door. 

He drove and I sat quiet as he took the curves back into town with less care than I did in a car older, shittier, and rattlier than mine. Had a hard time relaxing and the smell from the vents was horrific. A million dead mice. Tried to focus on the job at hand and run through everything we needed to know but it was cut and dry, in and out. Got bored and sifted through the glove box. Registration papers were hand-written and there was a laminated driver’s license for one James Littlerock. Indian guy, like original American, with two long Indian braids, one on each side of his face, and a real frown. Like the portraits in our high school history books but real. He must be dead by now. 

“What’s the address again?” Robbie asked. 

“Clipper Bay, one-oh-five.” 

“We know anyone over there?” 

“Not really. Jake Black’s parents lived there for a while in that yellow house but that was a while ago. Could be there still.” 

“What’s he doing these days?” 

“No clue.” 

We crossed the railroad tracks into the old part of Little Bay. Car might’ve crapped out right then and there. Everything ached and moaned and squealed. Rob’s shoulders were up to his ears and I let go of the assist handle after I realized I was gripping it like a gymnast.

My left hand was hot and numb under the weight of my thigh as we pulled up to Seventh, which lead to Clipper. Bobby Lane’s dad’s house from middle school had burned down according to the paper and since then a big black modern-looking two story was built. The fence was the same along the property, white and shimmery in the dark. Some kind of paint mix to make it shine. 

“You said it’s all up stairs?” I asked.

“Like the safe? Yeah, that’s what I heard.”

“Where are they?”

“Vacation or some shit, I don’t know.”

“Kids?”

“Nah,” Robbie scoffed, “Grandkids at this point. They’re like sixty, sixty-five. Probably snowbirds like the rest of ‘em.”

We parked for a few minutes at the end of the Bay by the corner. Ahead the roundabout was dimly lit and none of the houses had lights on. Got out alone and took my pack of smokes with. Sparked up by a tall rubbery bush by the mailbox panel. This box and Lane’s house back there the newest things in the area. Rest of it just Little Bay trash houses. Wartime architecture, additions, stucco fucking everything after Seventy-Three. Nicer here than our street back then though, despite the shit. 

Snuffed the smoke out on an ice patch and dropped it down a street drain fifteen feet away from the car. Had both hands in my pockets on the way back and almost ate shit. When I got in Robbie laughed and asked if I was ready. Took another look bent way forward like it changed my view of the house. Far one, far left one, with the stucco. Shrugged. 

He fumbled with his mask and drew it over his nose and chin, then tugged side to side until his eyes were comfortable. Never were comfortable in these but either this or jail, man. Quit your whining. Get a polyester one next time instead, they make those, you know? Little light panels on the sunblockers didn’t go on and he was huffing and puffing and pinching the fabric. His eyes were frustrated dark spots in the mirror. Mine went on like a glove no problem. Reached into my bag and unfurled my pistol from my Chili Peppers t-shirt. It was chrome, new to me, shiny like a toy. One day, someone would sell me a holster. Gripped the top part and pulled it back to let it slide with a clap real smooth.

“Yo what the fuck?” Robbie coughed.

“What?”

“Nobody’s home, it’s a nice neighbourhood, what the fuck?”

“Yeah but what if?”

“Fuck, dude, fine don’t shoot me- and put your mask on.”

I did as he asked and he idled onto the bay. Kept our heads low to the dash and eyes wide peeled on watch. No sign of life, just orange shine on the icy pavement. Ice chunks rattled the rusted out shocks in the back. A loud entrance, louder than we hoped but fuck, what else were we gonna do? He had to push on the pedal to get all the way up their driveway. Stucco siding and no garage. Shaped like a trailer home like mine but it clearly wasn’t. Solid base, no lattice undercarriage. Needed some work or a wash and some touch-ups. It was shitty. Keys out, dumped in his pocket a little jingle muffled. He picked again at his eye holes. Wasn’t that deep, was it? His eyes were shiny and white as he looked around the bay. I fumbled with my bag a bit and dug around for my Altoids tin. The Altoids tin. Pulled it out and popped the lid off. 

“Yo.” I said, pointing to the contents, “Pill? Whatever?”

“What you got?” he whispered.

“Blow, valium. Ecstasy.”

He laughed, “Imagine. Line some powder up. Quick though.”

“Not just keys?”

“Nah,” he pointed to the hideous white wall in front of us, “This’ll be an easy one, whatever.”

Looked in the dark for a surface that wasn’t fabric or extremely curved. All the console bits were leathery and ovoid. Big eighties plastic-boom symptom right here. After the job he’d probably sink it or take it to that scrap yard up by Riverton. Not worth a damn. 

“Hurry up, man,” he whispered. The seat creaked as I turned around to the back. Anything would do. Hell an old magazine’s been done before in times less desperate than this. Looked up at the rear seatback. The bay was still there, still orange icy and my face caught the curved rear in a reflection that lit up an idea. Turned quick and flipped the sunroof down. Gripped the soft plushy tissue and tore it off with one heavy snap. Little grey plastic spine flung in Rob’s direction.

“Fuck,” he said.

“Fuck yeah.” 

Balanced the fabric-mirror pad on my knees and placed the tin stash on top. Flicked open the mirror lid, dumped a small pile of white out into the middle. Travel kit had, thank God, my longtime metal straw and a half of my step dads expired old credit card. Am Ex, for one year when he qualified. Got the shit ready and pushed the powder around. Never took rocked up stuff anywhere, too fucking annoying. Always always always brought it home, crushed it, redistributed. Retied the bag, put it in the tin, cut up four long decent should-pay-me-back-after lines and had my first. Bent hard at the spine and inhaled through left nostril, lucky nostril, and handed Rob the tray over. First hit of the day, shocking how it was all day, until now was pretty fine, all things, but now, wow. Crisp. 

He sucked his down and passed it back. Big hucking noise from his throat and nose, a cough followed. “Your baton,” he passed the straw back.

“Yeaup,” I said. Right nostril on the second hit, keep the damage even hot damn. Smooth crispy cold straight to the brain hot-diggity cocaine. He finished up, we figited for a second with our stuff, and out we went into the cold. Him right, I to the left. 

*

Toes were froze from a slush puddle by the wall but it wasn’t the worst cold ever and it didn’t really matter. Ran my fingers along the stucco wall, skin scrape noise was fun. Like sandpaper feeling on a massive scale, like how wood must feel when it’s being sanded. Ahead branches were swaying slightly in the woods. Nice back yard, white pale reflections all over from the moon through the trees. Brighter but similar like at the silos but also a white or yellow fence along the whole back area. Dugout fire pit, couple stump seats in a circle with white caps on them. Mushroom chairs maybe. Stools. Guts were moving inside me. Had to piss so I walked into the treeline a couple steps totally hidden by tall pines and bushes. Steam erupted from my stream. Most pleasurable piss in my life, me and mother nature. Splashed on my pants, little drops pattered on legs. Whatever. Zipped up and trotted back. Slung backpack over the other shoulder and adjusted the freezing fucking cold pistol in my belt. Safety on, safety on, right? Took it out and held it up Simba to the moon. On or off, on, most likely. Whisper by the house startled me. 

“Alan!” Robbie sniped. 

Followed the voice to the silhouette deck and hopped up. Slush came with and he shushed me. 

“Booties,” he held a pair of shoe covers out for me. Fucking annoying on and off tie up covers just for what? No tracks? Just because fucking Simon said we should pick them up? Had to drive out to Riverton to the Surplus Store for them. Finding them was impossible, whole place was cramped up with all this excess gear and camo and old rifles. Clerk a the till took them from me, looked at them, and read the slogan; Booties, the essential for keeping the home free of footsteps. Said so on the label, must be true. 

Sat on my dragged slush accidentally, ass cheek wet, and tied the slip covers on. These were hospital blue with no grips on the bottom. Variety pack ran out of the nice ones at the Pineview apartment complex last week. Big score, huge TV, an Xbox, and some cash. Gold graduation watch turned out to be fake gold. Wah-wah. Who’s the real criminal? Us or the gifter.

Stood up and adjusted pack and gun again. Warmer metal now on my pelvis. I nodded. Rob nodded. He had his pick-set out and felt around the wiry metal edges for the right one. He’s the wizard, not me. So dark, numb fidgety fingers, taking long enough. I reached over his head and jiggled the handle on the off chance and it turned with me. Rubber sealant unsucked from the door and we were inside. 

Smelled like wet dog in the back entrance room. Laundry room by the looks, detergent bottle and dryer sheets sat on top of a surface, a dryer, shiny metal. Felt around and pulled out my flashlight. Rob’s was on already and he pointed at something on the floor. Metal doggy bowl with brown oily streaks in it on a big pissed-on piss pad. Yellow splotch. He raised his hands as if to say “Is there a dog?” and I returned with an exaggerated shrug, “I don’t know.”

The chrome accented washer was open and I put my hand in it. Felt around for clothes. Squeezed the padded part of a bra and took my hand out. “Psst,” I said. He turned. “It’s wet,” I continued.

“How wet?”

“Kinda wet,” I felt again. 

“They should’ve left yesterday. There wasn’t a car here.”

“Alright, let’s go,” I said with a finger over my lips. 

He again took a left down the hall and I went against the stair case then into their living room then the kitchen. Whole place was small and compact, post-war maybe, quick fab bullshit. Lots in this part of town, keep burning down though. This one had creaky linoleum flooring. Each step was slick and my thighs were burning from balance. Shitty fucking covers. Buy more for next time, remember that. Toe feeling was coming back on all accounts and now they were just wet and uncomfortable. Fucking hate wet feet, can’t stand the gushy feel. Crossed around this granite, fake granite after a knock, island to the fridge. Rob opened a door on the other side and closed it. Turned head to see the light sheet under the frame. Smart thinking, guy. Glanced up the stairs and pulled hard and slow at the fridge door. Cleanest room in the house, no doubt, nothing but condiments and onion strings in the produce bin. Same as my fridge, what the hell. Shut it as Rob was on the steps saying, “Meet me up there in a sec.”

“Okay,” I whispered back. 

Slowly pulled these hideous ceramic drawer handles and checked what they might have to eat with. Stealing cutlery, maybe, Jean Valjean. Held a fork up to the flash but it was cheap, thin, and inscribed “Made in Taiwan” on the handle. The drawer clattered when I shut it. Coffee pot was crusted brown. Cabinets assorted cans of beans and sauce and bags without boxes of cereals. Sugary frosted ones. Soft-close doors though, a nice touch. Their couch was brown leather and had a large white knit blanket draped over it. Television was huge and my reflection was bent like a circus mirror. Fatso one minute, skinny as I climbed the stairs. Lost my footing on the third step and knees banged on the shag runner. Fucking shit. 

“Alan,” Robbie whispered, “You good?”

“Yeah, fuck, just fell. Anyone home?”

Climbed up hands on rails single stepped all the way to the top and still held the banister while we talked. Three rooms, one the master, one the bathroom, one the guest room. Guest room door on the far end of the house with the door mostly shut. “There’s no one here,” he started, “But there’s a dog down there.”

“What kind?”

“Big black one.”

“Fuck,” I said.

“Yeah, fuck.”

“The safe’s in the master?”

“Should be in the closet.”

“Okay,” I said. He went in and I followed and shut the door. Tossed my bag on the bed next to Robbie’s. His was bulky and the handle of his Sawzall was sticking out.

***