The Death of Dorian

Samaritan.

At least this door didn't fall off. He didn't like people in his stuff.

Dorian hung his keys on the hook by the door while massaging the bridge of his nose. Great, it's moved to his sinuses.

The heel of his boots clicked across the mahogany floors as he moved blindly to the kitchen bar. Luckily, it was always open and stocked his preferred bottles. He reached behind the counter-top and brought up a snifter, an electronic ice-bucket, and a fancy looking plastic decanter filled with a rich, dark liquid. Two ice cubes, three fingers of bourbon, one angry migraine.

After putting everything else away, Dorian struggled over to his leather recliner. He managed to grab a book at random before collapsing into it. The bourbon moved like cough syrup in his glass as he fumbled the book open. He stared at the page without reading; he'd already read this book.

"Stop hurting," he said to himself.

Dorian listened to his head throb. And throb.

Squinting his eyes, he sniffed his bourbon. It smelled of drunk, which was good. The bourbon had always helped with the headaches, but the doses had gotten larger and more frequent over the months. His headache was making garage band bass lines backstage of his eyes, so he downed half the slow liquid. It galloped down his throat, leaving smoldering ice in its wake. The headache started work on its first solo hit.

Staring at his eyelids for a few minutes, he stood from the recliner and trudged down the small hallway, grabbed a towel from the linen closet as he went, through his bedroom, and flicked the bathroom light. Didn't know one could get mentally blinded, but damn did it hurt.

Dorian hoped a shower would help. He really did.

And it did, as far as making him feel like drunk. Drunk with a hangover. Towel around his waist, he sloshed into the bedroom. Miniature rivers fed the parched countryside of hardwood flooring, pooling into lakes and ponds at Dorian's feet. The alarm clock claimed it was only ten thirty, eight hours until Scum's reopened. He dried off, lay down on his twin bed, and tried to sleep.

He really did. The headache didn't.

So, he looked in his closet. Off-white silk shirt, charcoal pants with matching socks. Rockport dress sneakers, black, and leather belt with a brushed steel buckle. He went to his small cherrywood dresser, opened the top left drawer, and removed a handful of long zip ties. Fully dressed, Dorian looked himself over. Yep, definitely need to add some color to the wardrobe next time out shopping.

Right now, though, he just needed to walk. Clear his head.

The black leather trench nearly caught the door to the stairwell as it swung around his shoulders. Soon, Dorian was standing on the sidewalk out front trying to ignore the obnoxious little red carpeting under his feet and the pompous little green sign arrogantly announcing "Francois d'Assisian Condominiums" with a pompous air. Pompous assholes running this place never bothered to realize Francis of Assissi lived as a pious beggar, especially looking at the rent payments.

Sniffing the air, Dorian erroneously headed left down the street. The air smelled of premium exhaust and the almost rich, wore the deodorant of security, denied the low stink of societal dregs. The air smelled of city. He crossed one street, then another, without seeing them. His headache wasn't pounding quite so hard, so he kept going. Street lamps shot hot, empty light on his toes and forehead as he passed empty street after empty street. Of course, empty in the city just meaning you could shave a minute or so off a long commute by driving over walking.

Through the painful fog, a small bar drifted by. Slow, sad music meandered from the windows and shook his hand; drew him inside. The Brown Lager Tavern mumbled and grunted through its faux oak snaggletooth as Dorian stepped inside.

Sweat and beer danced with his headache as a cue ball cracked against his foot. Swears and curses of Frankie renown punched the air around his head.

"You fuck-nosed little weasel! I'm gonna kill you!" Wham, smack.

Pinch, bite. "Yeah, HIV is a real killer for you dick-shitting anal avengers, isn't it?" Rule Number Three.

Dorian spotted the bartender, well, his head at least. He was cowering behind the grease stained bar peeking his wide eyes through fat fingers against the carnage two drunken idiots were diffusing around him. Fragmented mirror shards were strewn behind the bar, mingling with the remnants of various bottles of hangover. Moving behind the bar, Dorian managed to not kiss a broken pool cue as it impaled a bottle of Hennessy, but he did manage to let it pour all over him. Kneeling through the wreckage, he tapped the bartender on the shoulder.

He spun around with a nervous fist. "Jesus Christ, you scared the fuck outta me!" he said.

"What happened?"

The bar shuddered under floppy weight, resulting in a tall glass of empty christen the bartender's head with a thunk. "Nnngh! Gorrammit, my mouf!"

Dorian bent over the prostrated man and checked his pulse. Pulse, breathing, and unconscious. Great. So much for Number Three, on to Rule Number One. Wiping some of the liquor from his face, he stood.

Things had moved quickly from behind the bar. Both men were squared off like gunslingers, the floppy one with a bloody mouth and a broken bridge stick held like a battle axe and the citybilly one with a black eye and one of the pool tables legs. Oddly, the pool table was still standing with a full rack awaiting a break shot. It was surrounded by the remnants of particle board tables, uncomfortable chairs, splinters of stools and a dangerous coating of unfriendly looking glass across the dingy berber. Neither of them noticed Dorian behind the bar.

Better not waste the moment. Dorian said, "Before you continue killing each other, take a look at what you've done. Then tell me why you did it."

Both men started out of their blood haze, and for the moment forgot what they attempting to do. The floppy guy wiped the dripping blood from his caved in mouth as he looked around. More likely, he was wiping some soberness into his bloodstream. Citybilly took a few steps back as Dorian walked around the back of the bar, a scowl creeping onto his face. The place had gone mute except for the groaning of the jukebox, its one good speaker asking for more money.

"What happened?" Dorian asked. He hung ragged, but the headache was content to just megaphone his heartbeat.

"You a cop? Fuck off if you aren't, it dun't concern you," citybilly guy said. He wasn't a happy drunk. "I know my rights, and you better jus' go away."

"Sorry, friend. It doesn't work that way."

Dorian shrugged a hand to his temple and rubbed. "How about you sir? What happened?"

The floppy man wiped his mouth again while he kept a spare eye on the citybilly. "He broke mah mouf for no reason. Asshole."

"Bullshit, you man-gobbling monkey-fuck! You grabbed my dick and tried to spit AIDs down my throat," citybilly said. "I fuckin told you to get outta my face when you first came in, but you wouldn't would you? Nah, you just thought I was bein hard to get you smashed asshole pillow biter!"

Citybilly made it only a step to Floppy before Dorian crashed him into the floor. Broken glass bit into him as he wrestled against Citybilly's thrashing. He almost dodged a crack across his skull from the table leg. Pricks of dark red tangoed amidst the hazy bar as Dorian faceplanted into more glass and a stool remnant. Citybilly was on his knees and trying to crush Dorian's sternum while deflect his hands from grabbing him again. Floppy found his way into the bumblefuck with a swing of his bridge stick into Citybilly's nasal bridge. Lucky for Citybilly his nose fit perfectly into one of the bridge stick's valleys. Now the fight was back on with an amateur referee.

A foot was stuck in Dorian's abdomen, pinning him to the floor and making it very frustrating to breathe. He remedied this by grabbing said foot and twisting as hard as he could until Floppy fell down. On top of him. Now Dorian had a perfect party drink for vampire rappers mixing on his head and he still found breathing frustrating. He rolled Floppy from his chest and rolled to a kneel to get his breathy bearings. Citybilly was currently busy beating the flop out of Floppy with the makeshift club. Rule Number One in overdrive.

Dorian stood long enough to heave a punch into the back of Citybilly's head. He knelt long enough to let his hand go numb from pain. Citybilly was out cold. Hopefully not out dead, though. He ziptied Citybilly's hands after making sure he was alive and then checked Floppy.

Floppy was looking more like Corpsey, but he had a pulse and was still breathing. Dorian tiecuffed him and then went to the bar.

"Ho-ly shit," said something behind the bar. Oh yeah, the barman.

Dorian sat at one of the remaining bar stools, took two napkins and a pen from the bar and scribbled on them. "Are you okay?" he said.

The bartenders bloody head rose from the service side. He wiped himself with a napkin as he leaned against the bar. He said, "I feel like I shook hands with a sledgehammer."
He watched Dorian place a scribbled napkin on each warmonger. "Hey, who are you anyway?"

"Beer mug, not a sledgehammer. Where's your phone?" Rule Number Four.

"Down the hallway between the shitters. Figured I'd stay outta those asshole's way instead get cracked trying to call the cops. Jeezus, look what they did to my bar!"

"What happened?"

The bartender grabbed a shot glass from under the bar and filled it with the closest unbroken bottle. He gulped down two shots and grimaced. "The pudgy guy, he came in about an hour ago with a determined look to get fogged. Albert, the other one, he's a reg'lur. Been here about three hours or so by the time the other came in. Anyways, so this guy comes in and orders four shots of vodka and one of scotch and downs em all without a blink. He doesn't say much, but kept drinkin and tippin good." He motioned to a scattering of tens in the middle of the bar. "Well, his phone goes off and his fuckin ringtone is some gay-ass YMCA or something and Al's one of them fundamentalist-types, 'cept he ain't really religious, just likes their anti-whatever doctrines. So, he hears that ringtone and starts to throw a piss-fit down at his end."

"So, he did all this over a ringtone?"

"Nah, that was just start of it I think," the bartender replied. He took a sip from a fresh shot and continued. "Apparently, the guy got a call from his boyfriend, and it wasn't a good one. He hung up and muttered something about a bastard and took another few shots. By then he was already pretty fucked, but he wasn't done, I guess. What the hell am I drinking? Ugh, I fuckin hate bourbon! Ah well, fuck it.

Anyways, he started gabbing to Al there, and Al told him to fuck off and get out. Well, he flipped him off and went to take a piss and on his way back, he stumbled and fell into Al's lap. He freaked out, and Al shoved him against the jukebox. Ah shit, look at this place, man!" Barman moved around the bar and just started staring. Apparently he was done talking, so Dorian went to the phone and called police and two ambulances out to the place.

When he came back into the bar proper, the barman was holding some of the money Floppy had left for tip. "Look, man, this place is pretty well fucked, and I bet they'd be in the morgue and I'd be locked in the ICU with no place to come back to. So, here, take this. My insurance will pay for most of this shit and you look like you took a wallop. It ain't much, but I hope it'll work for thanks," he said.

Dorian looked at the cash. It was easily fifty dollars. "Police and paramedics are on their way," he said. "And thanks for the tip."

The authorities showed up about ten minutes later and loaded Floppy and Citybilly Al into the vans while a police officer took the bartender's statement.

"Can you tell me anything about the man that came in?" asked Officer Watson.

The bartender was silent a moment, then, "Well, he had a long dark coat and dark hair. Didn't talk much. The other guys in the bar just up and ran but this guy came in out of nowhere like... like that story in the Bible. You know, the Good Samaritan one? It's all pretty fuzzy, officer. 'Sides, I was out for a good deal of it, I guess." He rubbed his face in thought.

Watson nodded, resignation deep on his face. "We been hearing that story a lot over the past year or so. I really wish we could find out who this guy is. He deserves a medal or something. We'll have the paramedics check you out once they get the one guy stabilized, okay? Thanks a lot, sir," he said.

He turned toward his car to write up the preliminary when the other officer called out to him, "Hey Watson, check these out. They were in each guy's hand." The officer walked up to Watson and showed him two napkins.

On them was written three words.

Rule Number One.