"Let me go, Emmett," said Mickey, wrenching the man's hands free from his collar.
Back then Mickey had been a Fortune Teller. Emmett had hired him to help him cure his agoraphobia. After several months of Mickey's tutelage, Emmett had once again become a functioning part of society, his every movement foretold by Mickey. There'd been days when Emmett hadn't moved until Mickey had foretold the possibilities. Always calling. Always begging for the outcome. It had been too much. One too many nights staring into the loser's eyes had convinced Mickey that there were things he'd never be able to change.
And now it seemed as if Emmett called the city's alleys his home. His disheveled hair contained bits and pieces of trash. His clothes were a uniform gray, the result of worn-in dirt. "But they'll have me without your protection. The men in black hats will kill me."
As soon as Mickey saw the vision, he pushed the man away. "Just go home. Stay off the streets." Emmett liked to watch little boys and girls. He'd never touched, but he liked to watch.
"But you have to help me," screamed Emmett.
Customers spun in their seats. Several backed away, making the bartender snatch a bat from behind the bar.
"Enough of that. Either keep your voice down, or leave, Emmett."
Taking advantage of the moment, Mickey slid through the crowd, gazing down at people's feet. He found a place at the other end of the bar. He stared down at a napkin and knocked three times. His drink arrived and Mickey downed it quickly.
Only when he heard Emmett whine as he was pushed out the door, did Mickey relax and settle into a day of drinking. At half-past three, a thin man pushed into the bar. Mickey glanced to check and see if this was the one.
Beating down dog. Beating down dog. Beating down dog.
The words rang metronomic in Mickey's mind, almost as if they were a mantra meant to keep the rage at bay. The words were like a chain that kept the beast from leaping free.
The man glared at Mickey for a moment, then moved on to the bartender. And that moment was enough. Mickey saw it all. Insanity had the man in a permanent grip. Seventeen bodies lay strewn upon the man's past, each murder different, yet representational of an unrelenting unfulfillment. And the man was on the hunt for number eighteen.
Dogman ordered a beer and sipped. His eyes wandered across the lives of the patrons in the mirror behind the bar. Occasionally, he'd stare at a man or a woman. Based on his history, his Dog didn't have a preference.
I've never been in one of those things before, those triangles, came the slimy thought of Dog as he gazed towards the crotch of an old woman whose best years had been during Kennedy's reign in Camelot.
Mickey recognized the line from a Bukowski poem. Funny how the raunchy one-time-postman, alcoholic poet influenced both their lives. Not just the bar they were in that was the impetus for the movie Barfly, but the need to use mechanism to domesticate passion. For Mickey it was the averted gaze. For Bukowski it was drowning his need in alcohol. For Dogman it was the mantra- Beating Down Dog. And it was that epiphany that made Mickey finally show interest, the commonality of Bukowski. Dogman stood, pushed himself away from the bar, and headed towards the door. Mickey tossed back what remained of his drink, and hustled after.
Although the man's past was clear, the future remained a fractal distillation of the possible. More often than not, Mickey saw himself as a part of that future. What he couldn't divine was if the act of following the Dogman made Mickey part of that future, or if he'd always been a part of the future. Until he was sure, he'd bear witness to the man, and along the way try and keep from becoming accomplice.
They headed north up Pacific Avenue. Dogman wore a black Misfits T-shirt with a white maniacal mouse on the back. His jeans hung loose from narrow hips. Black steel-toed boots encased feet that seemed too heavy to propel him forward. Yet propel they did, Dogman down the center of the sidewalk. People stepped aside. Pets avoided him. The wind blew elsewhere.
Mickey followed from twenty feet back. He shuffled crab-like, his gaze to the ground, trying to avoid interaction with anyone else. He'd glance sideways every now and then to make sure he was still following. When