The Death of Dorian

Three.

Dorian found himself on the corner threshold of a cold twilight intersection staring into an old future. He’d been here before, in this part of the city, but never in person. Rather, he’d spent his young nights in the city exploring this pitiful void on the map as he lay awake those nights fighting the ever-present migraines that have yet persisted to this very night. The street lamps flickered pale puddles of synthetic moonlight on the varied patches of broken sidewalk among their tired old brethren, unable to muster even a spark to dimly light the modern sconces that did so much to only entice the late straggler of the security they at one time provided. Distantly behind him, he heard the groaning chirps of the sleepless city only a few blocks from this slumbering old man upon whose front stoop he now loitered.

He hesitated at the cross, allowing the scolding red hand across the street to stay him from his inevitable trek despite the barren roadway between them. Dorian was already a good mile from his apartment and considered turning back to finish his scotch and attempt futilely to engage his bedding in passionate slumber. Yet his migraine throbbed at his temple fiercely, promising any present return would only end in frustrated foreplay. Without checking the street, he crossed in resignation. Dorian noted a mild neurosis as he meandered down the street, alone and yet maintaining to the right for others to travel in the opposite direction without resistance. He was getting bored, but damn did the cool night feel good.

This was truly the only place he’d ever felt alone outside his apartment. The windows were unnaturally dark, and many of the concrete stoops reminded him of ancient ruins of the Mayan and Incan cultures, cracked, worn, and many ceding their human dominion slowly to the loving strangle of nature. However, this district was definitively not dead to humanity as shown by the occasional dented vehicle with trinkets of personalities hanging in the rear view mirror and an awkwardly well tended creeper plant hanging its arms lazily from a second story balcony.

Dorian was forced to stop walking the street against a sudden chill. How few nights had he traveled the city similar to a drunkard trying to find his home and escape the ugliness of the night? Too few to count on more than one hand, surely. Hopefully tonight was one of those nights. It was not that he purposefully had avoided this slumbering wasteland that constituted the Old Towne; he never set out at night with any destination in mind until he was already there. This noted, he grudgingly acknowledged his unconscious had successfully kept him from the venture into his own mind through the past years. It seemed tonight he was to see what was within his own mind.

If only he’d find the reason for his migraines. And before.

He removed the thoughts from his mind and decided the personal reflection would have to wait. His head still throbbed viciously, urging him forward. He walked another three blocks before the night removed itself from his scant list of “uneventfuls”.

“Nice clothes,” the words slithered from the darkness. “I bet they can hold a lot of money.”

Dorian sighed inwardly at the clumsy attempt of ulterior threat. “Not really, I’m a short order cook. You probably have more in your wallet than I do.”

A squat, funny-looking shadow separated itself from those around it. Dorian’s thoughts drifted to a scrotal sack with legs. A scrotal sack wielding a very clean looking handgun. It looked like a miniature Desert Eagle, and he imagined it was loaded; the sack was now holding the generally dangerous end a scant two feet from Dorian’s chest.

“Well, why don’t you just go ahead and show me. Don’t want somethin… unforchunit… to happen, right?” The sack held out his free hand expectantly. Dorian suspected that whether he gave the wallet or not, he’d be shot. The city was unforgiving to the trusting.

Dorian shrugged apathetically, his tone was casually threatening, “Speaking of unfortunate, he,” Dorian nodded behind and to the left of the mugger, “might be hoping that you will try.” Come on, twilight, don’t fail me. He just needed a two seconds of distraction to bring this interaction to more diplomatic terms.

It was a curious phenomenon, the way victim apathy would mix so sourly with a moonless night on the human psyche. Many crimes occur at night due to the added stealth and reduction of third party help, often in the favor of a criminal or a bully. Oddly, those that have done street crimes for any period of time quickly begin to see ghosts, as it were. Was that a police car? Is that another person, or a stray animal? Once the crime begins, usually the aggressor gains a tunnel vision from the adrenaline of the action and these thoughts are washed away. The only effective way to level the field as the victim is to appear completely apathetic of the crime; causing those thoughts to drag themselves slowly back into the mind of the criminal-to-be. They become insecure in their power, and are prone to psychological warfare, leaving an opening to fully expose that can of mace or initiate an intelligent pre-emptive strike.

The sack dodged his head behind his left shoulder for just a moment, but it was enough. Dorian reached out with his left hand and, with his index finger on the back sight for leverage, thumbed the safety down. Now the firing pin was moved and the mugger would do no more physical harm than a 5-year old playing Army with a pop rifle. The mugger felt the light weight of his hand on the gun and jerked his hand back, but it was too late.

“Nice try, dumb ass! You jus earned a long nap.” And the sack pulled the trigger.

Click. Silence.

Again.

Dorian calmly reached out and laid a hand on the gun. He stared at the mugger as he pushed the gun down to the man’s side. He looked on the verge of tears. Dorian couldn’t tell if it was from rage or failure. “Why are you doing this, friend?”

The sack grunted, and then snapped, “You don’t ask the questions here, bub.” His voice rattled with fervent desperation always heard from a born loser right before a breakdown. A bad breakdown.

“What are you doing, friend?”

Sackbody twisted his face around, probably trying to think of something badass to say.

“Just shut up and gimme your money, that’s what I’m doin,” he said. He raised the gun to Dorian’s face.

The result was something neither expected. But Dorian had hoped it would work. He grabbed the gun barrel with his left hand and almost managed to hit the gun toting wrist. Instead he clipped himself on the gun’s hammer and deepened one of his glass cuts. It didn’t help that his hand was still a little numb from the Brown Lager Tavern.
“Oww, that smarts!” he said as he tried to pump the pain out of his hand.

Sackbody tried to keep his grip, but being a historic loser wound up on his ass instead. He rolled himself back to his feet, flashing Dorian far too much crack in the process.

“Friend, don’t move. The safety is off,” Dorian said.

Sackbody froze.

“Fuck man don’t shoot me, please,” he sobbed.

“Turn around, friend. Why are mugging people?”

“Shit Jesus, guy. I got laid off from the docks with a baby on the way, okay? I got turned down everywhere I looked for work,” Sackbody said. He was on the verge of tears. “I’m broke and my girl can’t work, she’s due in a few weeks. I told her I got a night job at some fucking where, I dunno. I lied, okay? Please don’t kill me man, I swear I was just gonna wing you.”

Sackbody had a look of scared-shitless-truth in his eyes. Dorian looked at the gun. Jericho .40 S&W, product of Israeli Military Industries was stamped on the barrel.
“How much did you pay for this?” he asked.

“W-what? Uh, about four hunnert I think. Got it new bout a year ago, why?”

Dorian tried to get as little blood on his wallet as possible. He pulled out the fifty from the bar and another two hundred leftover from his last paycheck and held it out.

“Here’s two fifty, will that do for it?” he said.

Sackbody stared at Dorian, the gun, and the money. Just take the damn money, moron, it’s a bad deal for the gun, but it’s the best you’ll do right now. He hesitated, then reached out for the money with his eyes locked on the Jericho. Dorian handed over the cash without a fuss. Sackbody let out a fart of relief, the ugly bastard.

“Thanks, man,” he said. Dorian thought he saw a green cloud of nasty engulfing the man.

“Don’t thank me, thank Rule Number Three,” Dorian replied. “It saved one of our lives tonight. Probably mine.”

Sackbody stared at him without comprehension. There was definitely a cloud of foul around him. What did this guy eat?

Sackbody continued to stare as Dorian turned around and walked back to his condo. Dorian was really trying to not let the thought of Sackbody making a baby sneak into his mind. He half succeeded and only visualized him half-dressed. He tucked the gun into the small of his back and massaged his sinuses.

His headache was gone and his watch told him it was three-thirty in the morning.

Two hours until he had to go to work.

At least he was done for the night.