double helix

short story

Aug 19, 2025

Feeling real momentum on Substack. Thanks for taking this ride with me.

This next story’s based on a real life phenomenon. Without giving too much away, it’s my spin on a crime story that’s uniquely L.A.

Think comic noir. The Coen Brothers. THE LONG GOODBYE. INGRID GOES WEST.

A different kind of heist. (And if it becomes a TV series… one heist per episode.)

Plus, it involves a dog.

People love a dog story… right?

I hope you love the read.

“Look,” I say, holding down the record button. “I agreed to work with you, here. But we have to figure out a cash drop. I don’t do crypto.”

Sure, it seems like an odd thing to say through an encrypted voice messaging app — but I hit send anyway.

The response comes quickly: “Okay, boomer.”

I sigh. “Please—” I hit record again, shaking my head. “I’m not a fucking boomer.”

Technically, I’m a millennial — even if my vibe is admittedly more Gen X.

But I keep that to myself. Don’t record or send it.

“Let me make sure we even have a way to do cash,” the voice says, with a chuckle that sounds creepy with the digital voice camouflage. “You know, for people like you.”

People like me. I stare in my rearview mirror.

Noticeable hair loss. My shitty health insurance stopped covering my Propecia. Or maybe I just pull it out due to stress.

I’m in my dusty, ramshackle old Tesla with my dog Cooper, rolling down the 10 toward Santa Monica. The eastbound lane is a total clusterfuck, of course. But I’m going westbound. It’s 4PM. The perfect time to fly in the face of traffic.

To do the opposite of all those regular, everyday commuters.

“We’ll never be you people!” I say to the automatons across the freeway divide. “Right, Coop?”

My Tesla’s smudged screen tells me we’ll be at Dog PPL in approximately 18 minutes. Dented and scratched in 38 places, the car only charges about a third of the way. I’ve ignored the flashing alert telling me to replace the battery for months. The passenger seat and the floor are caked with a spiderweb of white dog hair. In-N-Out wrappers, half-empty Vitamin Water Zero bottles, and half-chewed No-Hide bones everywhere.

Cooper likes to stand on the divider between the driver and passenger seat, on top of the sliding compartment door where I keep my gun.

“You still there, grampa?” The voice buzzes back in. “Cash won’t be a problem. We’ll ping you the details for the exchange tonight. Go get that double helix! You get it? You get the cash.”

Double Helix. Who is this fucking kid? We’ve been in contact for weeks, but this is my first “job” with him. Even if he’s trying to play older with all the voice distortion — he sounds about twelve to me.

Who really knows? He better just stick to the DarkWeb. If I ever have to physically see him in real life that’s a sign something’s gone terribly wrong.

“Okay copy,” I record. “I guess we’re on then.”

I hit send. The Tesla jalopy exits onto Cloverfield Blvd.

“Bet,” says the final message. “Tap you tonight.”

I roll my eyes. Scratch Cooper under his chin.

“Do you recognize where we are, Coop? We’re going to the dog park!”

Dog PPL is eons from a normal neighborhood dog park. It’s an exclusive members’ club. You have to fill out an application complete with photos of you and your dog and answer essay questions like: “Why do you and your pup belong at Dog PPL?”

They check vaccinations. Your dog has to pass a behavioral evaluation. You have to sign liability waivers for you and your dog. You have to sign an NDA. No photographs. You can’t even talk about the celebrity/influencer members and their influencer dogs. After all that, you’re ready to be on the waiting list for at least six months.

But I’d managed to skip that. I’ve been a Club PPL Worldmember for years. Long before my life became a dumpster fire. Worldmember includes all the clubs worldwide. Even the Malibu Bungalow. So, I’ve been clinging to that black card while every single one of my other expenses goes unpaid one-by-one.

I’d rather starve than lose that membership.

I’d rather have the electricity choked off at my crappy studio in Winnetka.

I’d rather get gonorrhea.

But I’m on my final warning. If the automatic withdrawal doesn’t go through due to insufficient funds one more time? My Worldmembership will be permanently toast. I only have until the sixth of the month to make sure there’s enough money in the bank.

How did I become such a heavy user? Sometime about five years ago, I realized I worked at Office PPL their WeWorks ripoff on the Sunset Strip, shopped at Food PPL, their chain of wannabe Erewhon organic groceries. 75% of my waking life and money goes to these “PPL.”

I leave my gun in the car. Pull out my cracked iPhone, flash the Q-Code, and walk Cooper through the double-gated security.

Their dog club has to be seen to be believed. You don’t “touch grass.” It’s astroturf as far as the eye can see. Picnic tables with yellow sun umbrellas. People sitting around on laptops using WiFi. Drinking macchiatos from the cafe truck. Eating ahi poke from the food truck. Listening to dance tracks coming from a DJ presiding over it all.

Past security, I unclip Cooper’s ragged harness and toss it on a hook next to fifty fancy leashes along the white picket fence by the entrance. Freedom at hand, Cooper immediately bolts across the astroturf to go play with all the ridiculous purebred dogs.

Coop is an eighteen month-old Border Collie. For him, “playing with the other dogs” means constant wrestling to see if he can position himself to get a good chomp on their neck.

I call the game Protect Ya Neck.

For my part, I grab a seat under a sun umbrella strategically close to the bar.

Yes. Dog PPL has a bar too.

The DJ plays Miami-style EDM and early 2000s NYC indie rock. At elevated picnic tables, dozens of dog owners do Zoom meetings on their iPads using Beats headphones to noise-cancel the cacophony of barking dogs.

“Rufferees” sport dog whistles on lanyards around their necks and beige uniforms with green Peace Signs across their backs. Officially “canine cooperation coordinators.” They make sure dogfights don’t escalate out of control. They have the power to issue Time Outs or scold “Paw-rents” who aren’t paying attention to their bad seed’s naughty behavior.

Basically, this is the new Los Angeles job for out-of-work actors and models. All of the Rufferees — male, female, or whatever other 78 genders — are young, hot, and hip. Piercings. Tattoos. Mustaches. Undercuts and side shaves.

I don’t sit by the bar because *I* particularly want a can of sparkling rosé or Hard Kombucha. Are you fucking kidding me? They’re like 17 bucks each. No, I sit there to put myself in the best position to buy *her* a drink — if she shows up.

And I don’t have to wait long.

Almost instantly, Gucci barrels through the double gates like she does every Thursday at the exact same time.

Seriously. The dog’s name is fucking Gucci.

As far as I can tell, her owner never publicly acknowledges the name as ironic or tongue-in-cheek in any way. She acts like it’s totally normal to name your dog that.

And Gucci herself is ludicrous: A gorgeous grey Boxer, with a tight “snatched” body as the internet girlies say, forced to wear a pine green and red Gucci-brand collar and four preposterous pink booties. (Apparently, the sidewalks on Rodeo Drive are too hot for little Gucci’s paws.)

As soon as Cooper realizes Gucci has arrived — its on.

Terminator Mode.

He darts toward her like a thirsty coke fiend, tongue wagging.

I’ve been wondering when the Rufferees will notice Cooper isn’t fixed. Club regulations mandate that any dog over eight months has to be disabused of his balls to enter the club. Somehow Cooper’s wiggled his ass through security every time with no questions asked.

The thing is: I can’t afford to neuter him. And I don’t have the heart.

Surely, we’re on borrowed time. Dog PPL will ban us soon.

And all it’ll take is one humping incident.

Very high risk.

But Cooper’s my only way to get to Gucci’s dogmama.

Aurora.

Yeah, *that* Aurora.

No other name needed.

In music, movies, Instagram, TikTok, whatever— just Aurora.

A single name for the fucking multi-hyphenate herself.

You know who she is. Everybody does.

Sensing peril, I yank Cooper away from Gucci before it’s too late. If I let him play Protect Ya Neck with Gucci, it’ll escalate into aggravated sexual assault pretty quick.

So, I save her ass.

Yet, my heroic actions on behalf of Gucci barely register on Mom’s face. Her head’s down, tucked under a khaki L.A. Dodgers baseball hat, doom scrolling. Maybe I clock a slight eyebrow-raise over her sunglasses — but I can’t be sure.

“Sorry, my dog can be a bit of a Harvey Weinstein,” I say. “You know? He has P. Diddy energy.”

No response.

But my moment comes soon after, when the Fire Hydrant goes into Mist Mode.

In the summer, Dog PPL has a modified “fire hydrant” that cycles through Sprinkler Mode and Mist Mode to cool the dogs off.

And Cooper is obsessed with Mist Mode.

He muscles all the other dogs out of the way and presses his chest and face directly in the line of fire. Once his fur is soaked like a wet mop, he makes a beeline right back at Gucci.

“Noooo, Cooper, No!!!”

He’s really gonna fuck her up.

I burst into a sprint and tackle him, snatching him up, throwing him over my shoulder. He’s getting too big for this. I almost fall over. His fur soaks through my black t-shirt completely.

By the time I get him calmed down, and his butt wiggling over to the other side of the club, I wonder if I should go to the bathroom and wring out my shirt.

That’s when I see a towel unfurling in front of me.

“Here you go,” she says, and tosses me the towel.

Aurora.

They say when someone with real Movie Star Swagger turns their attention to you, it can be like one of those vintage Hollywood studio lamps shining on you. (The kind you can now buy at Restoration Hardware.)

I’m a bit dazed for a minute. I didn’t even see her stand up. Who knows where she got a towel? I can’t believe she even noticed that I got wet. Let alone that she had the lack of narcissism to care about her fellow man for two seconds. To lift a finger to actually help someone.

Especially me.

I can’t remember the last time anyone did anything for me that they weren’t paid to do.

(And that’s not some kind of joke about sex workers. Can’t afford ‘em. I’m just talking about either a Dog PPL employee or some gig economy worker, okay?)

“Where’d you get a towel?” I ask her. “It’s not yours is it?”

She smiles — the world’s brightest studio light beam.

“No,” she says. “It’s a Dog People towel. I guess they realized they need to provide towels if they’re gonna have this…” she flicks her manicured finger at the fire hydrant “...little art installation here.”

“Thank you,” I say, looking into her Instagram-famous eyes. “Really. Thank you.”

The towel even has the Dog PPL™ logo.

I wipe myself down.

Aurora looks carefully at me for a minute, as if really seeing me for the first time. I have to admit, I don’t know the last time I really felt “seen.” Sorry if that’s cheesy or cringe or whatever. I just haven’t felt anything like this in years.

“Hey, did you have a halo?” she asks.

“What?”

“Did you break your neck?”

“Oh! Yeah!” She’s referencing the two barely perceptible indented scars on my forehead, remnants of the metal screws from a surgical halo brace I wore after my accident.

I’m even more dumbstruck now. She noticed that? Is this conversation really happening?

“I broke my C2 vertebrae,” I finally say. “How did you know about that?”

She shrugs. “My ex had a halo.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this. I don’t give a shit about sports. Or what celebrity is dating whatever other celebrity. I don’t give two shits. But I did remember Aurora’s NFL quarterback ex-boyfriend broke his neck. Missed the Super Bowl. A real tragedy.

“You know, I had a brain bleed too,” I offer, wiping myself down. “So, if my words aren’t making sense right now, that’s probably why.”

“Ha,” she says. “Cute.”

Aurora. Whatever her actual last name is. Called me “cute.” I take a deep breath. I really need to get a grip right now.

Where’s Cooper?

He’s moved on to Protect Ya Neck with a bright white Husky. A Rufferee with vintage mirrored Oakleys and tribal tattoos monitors closely.

Some kind of doodly-doodly-doo dog takes a shit.

Immediately, two sanitation guys with face masks and rubber gloves bag it and blast the astroturf with a mysterious disinfectant from double barreled canisters they’re wearing as backpacks.

I rub my head. Probably pull out some hair.

I have to remember: I’m not here for a “meet cute.”

I have a job to do.

So, I look at Aurora in those hazel eyes again.

“Hey,” I say, recognizing my moment: “I’m gonna get a macadamia milk dirty chai latte. You want one?”

Boom.

My research is spot on. I know her order.

She smiles. Cranks up the studio lights one more time.

The empty chai latte cup with the Dog PPL™ logo is the Holy Grail. Couldn’t be a more perfect “sample.”

Even has her red lipstick prints on it — a kiss on the rim.

But how to retrieve a specimen like that without suspicion?

The cup’s on the ground near Aurora’s feet. She’s dangling her sandals (yep, Gucci), and flip-flopping them around.

A Rufferee clocks me staring. I’m focused on the cup.

I can’t risk waiting for her to toss it into one of recycling bins. Going dumpster diving for it would be suspect AF. Even more egregious than if I tried to sneak a selfie with her (That’d probably get me zip-tied, dragged out, and tossed into Santa Monica Jail on Olympic.)

What to do?

Luckily, Cooper and I have been preparing for this moment for a long time.

Temporarily out of gas, Coop is splayed out Superman-style on his belly, his face buried in an empty water bowl, panting. I walk up to him and pull out my phone. Open up YouTube. Search for “Puppy Relax Music.” Scroll down to the third video. Press play.

Cue twinkly lullaby music. Sounds like it’s played on a child’s xylophone.

Pavlovian Clockwork.

As soon as Coop hears it, his ears perk up.

He knows what to do.

“What time is it Coop?” I murmur to him. “You know what time it is!”

He does the dog version of a dutiful nod and trots toward the Dog PPL teepee in the corner of the park.

Is the tee-pee cultural appropriation? Sure, whatever. But it’s also Cooper’s favorite shady sleeping spot.

On his way — like the little fucking genius he is — he picks two paper cups off the ground. Then, he stealthily brushes by Aurora’s foot and snags her cup in his teeth.

Without slowing down, he casually trots inside the teepee — Aurora none the wiser.

Border Collies are the smartest fucking dogs in the world.

Seconds later, I burst into the teepee and smother Cooper with affection, rubbing his belly, behind his ears, and even on the side of leg by his (still intact) balls. All of his favorite places. He kicks his paws in the air.

I had no idea his training would work so well in the field.

“Good boy, Cooper!” I say. “What a good boy!!!”

In the privacy of the teepee, I quietly slip the paper cup with the lipstick into a Ziploc bag and shove it into my backpack.

Later, back on the 10, Cooper is standing in his usual place staring out at the highway. As I pet him, I notice he has a sizable gash on his neck. Blood clotting up in his fur.

“Coop! Who did this, that Husky?” I say. “I guess you didn’t Protect Ya Neck.”

I look at him in his eyes. He has one blue eye and one that’s half blue and half green. He’s a brilliant, beautiful dog.

My partner in crime.

Somehow, he’s never looked older than he does right now. In this moment.

“You’re not a puppy anymore,” I tell him softly, rubbing my hand through his blood. “We’re both gonna have scars now.”

As we exit onto La Cienega, either an Olivia Rodrigo or Billie Eilish song comes on Spotify. I rub Cooper’s blood between my fingers as the song swells.

What is it about these teen sadgirl songs? Something about the fragility in their voices. The emotion they wear on their sleeves. I’m a middle aged goddamn man. But these sadgirls? Just make my eyes dusty sometimes.

It’s not the breeze coming through the drivers’ seat window.

Then I realize: It’s not Billie Eilish. It’s not Olivia Rodrigo.

It’s Aurora.

Her first hit. “Hazel Eyes.”

Posted to SoundCloud when she was 17.

Okay. I admit it: this really gets to me.

It all starts to flood out. The accident. The lawsuits. The fires. The strikes. The work contract not renewed. The unemployment drying up. The nonstop SCAM LIKELY calls from shady loan sharks. Selling the condo. Selling the furniture. Selling the paddleboard. Selling my Dad’s Rolex. Selling everything except that damned Tesla, my Worldmember black card, and Coop.

But that’s not all that hits me.

As I drive by the endless Smart & Finals, AutoZones, and Pollo Locos. Adriana’s Insurance. Veronica’s Insurance. Call Jacob. Sweet James. The Amigo.

The loneliness and alienation of Los Angeles.

The increasingly scorching fucking climate.

The rise of fascism.

All of it.

It’s not just my life that’s a dumpster fire. It’s everything.

Everything hits at once.

So, I’m shedding my first tear — I think, maybe, since my father died?

And what does Cooper do?

He licks my face.

Thousands of years of evolving together. Dogs really do empathize with humans more than we to do with each other.

“If there actually are parallel dimensions, I wonder why we ended up in this one,” I say to Cooper.

And what have I become in this pathetic dimension?

A fucking DNA Paparazzi? Genetic Stalker? A Strand Snatcher?

Who knows what nefarious uses this DarkWeb twelve-year-old has for the valuable double helix kissed onto that empty chai latte cup.

Cloning? Is that really what he’s up to?

Maybe some kind of blackmail? Would he plant her DNA at a crime scene? Or threaten to extort her?

Would he hold her “great genes” for ransom?

I really don’t want to know.

Does this unsuspecting woman – for all her money, her glamor, and her *disgusting* perfect luck in life – really deserve whatever is coming for her next?

A text chimes in from a blocked number:

Where the fuck is Happy Valley?

Out the window, I hold the cup out over La Cienega, feeling the wind blow against it in my fingers.

No clue how long I hold it there.

Suddenly, I feel a jolt.

Tires over the rumble strips on the side of road.

I wonder if I still have it in me. To just open my fingers and let it go.

“Coop,” I say, waving the cup at him. “This is our Food PPL for the next six months…”

His Salmon Chompies. His dehydrated cod skins.

“What do you think?” I ask.

He gives me a mischievous smile.

And I know exactly what we have to do.

Max Winter

Discussion about this post