Little Jizzer runs up to me in the bathroom.
“Inspector! Inspector!” he shouts, popping up behind me in the mirror. “The woman across the hall got her dog!”
“Have you seen it yet?” I reply.
“No, but she’s been trying to tell me about it all day. I keep avoiding her, but I don’t know how long I can keep this up!”
“Stay calm. We’ll handle this together.” I say.
…
We have a good view of her apartment from the peephole; we can easily hear when she opens her door.
“She’s always spying on us this way. We’re just turning the tables on her.” I say, knowing that we cannot avoid the situation forever. “The best thing for us to do is manage the terms upon which the meeting will take place. It’s all about being in the alpha position.”
“Charleston is not a very alpha dog…” says Lil’ Jizzer.
“Then we must become the alpha dog within him.” I reply.
I hear her door open.
“She’s coming.” I say. “She’s carrying the dog in a pouch around her shoulder. It’s a little thing, chubby… nothing to be afraid of yet. But I see your concern. Best thing for us to do is to let her pass us by a few more times. We’ll use this time to build our own hearts up. Nervousness will only bring us down.”
…
I come up with a plan.
“It’s time to take him to the dog park.”
“Oh my god, no…” replies Lil’ Jizzer.
“Yes. Every pup must learn to socialize if he is to become strong.”
“But the dogs there are worse than the one across the hall.”
“Precisely. We must imbue him with our strength. I am going to ask you to embody him for us. You cannot be seen in public anyways; so your bravery will become his bravery. I’m going to need you in there giving me the play-by-play. Like I said, I won’t leave your side. I will be the leash wielder, or the Gallows Jack (as you might like to refer to the position.) But think of me mainly as your mother, or if not, then at least your protector.”
“I already do!” shouts Lil’ Jizzer. “But isn’t this a suicide mission?”
“You’re being over dramatic… and it’s unflattering. It has the potential of losing us readers. Just saddle up, and follow my lead.”
…
“I can’t control this massive amount of energy!” screams Lil’ Jizzer, having stuffed himself into Charleston’s body.
I tug at the leash.
“You rattled my brain!” he cries out.
“Don’t worry about it.” I reply. “Just concentrate on settling down.”
We step over the threshold into the outside world. The air, the vision, the lights, and the noises send Lil’ Jizzer practically eradicated beneath the animal instincts of his vessel.
“Cool it!” I shout, tugging left and right, dragging him over the tops of my shoes, scraping his coat against the sidewalk.
“Don’t you feel that!?” He asks. “In your gut!? Your nose bursting with sensation! New experiences! Adventure! The beautiful expanses of freedom! Lord in Heaven, God give me more!”
I kick him with my flip-flop in the ribs.
“Shut up and concentrate…”
“But I can’t concentrate! I am alive! The world is alive! It’s so great! There is so much going on! Everything shines! I want more!”
I drop to my knees, planting my palm into his ribs, pinning him to the floor.
“Now you listen to me bub, I’m in charge here. This is a man’s world. If it were a different time or a different place, I’d follow you without question; but this world is an abstract leviathan of machinery. It doesn’t make much sense anymore guiding life by primal thought. Critical thinking is required, and it’s what I’ve got that you’re missing. If you don’t pay attention to me you’ll be splat dead beneath a tire tread, impounded, or put to sleep. It’s not safe for you here but by my command. So settle down, and let’s do our best to concentrate.”
…
The sunshine feels like a brick in the gut. My nerves’ tingle beneath the dance of fairy feet. The people in passing become so hideously kitsch that my eyes sink. My heart hits the skids and my ass skids the row. Charleston becomes a flesh balloon, whizzing around my feet like a bumble-bee reminder ‘round my finger, being such a ball and chain to my antisociality.
We walk the sidewalk till he suddenly stumps up and starts dumping.
“Oh my God!” I yell.
“Oh papa… I don’t know…” he replies with big wet eyes which stare up into mine like a saint stuttering over the brink of euphoria.
“How do you think this makes me look!?” I ask, telling all the passer-bys not to mind me as they lift their noses in disgust.
…
I pick up the mess and we proceed to the dog park, which ominously sits, a toothed pen of energy, whizzing meat sacks, hungry for blood, through the depths of its belly. Primal resurgences flare from beneath hypnotic domestications. ‘Little Ones Steer Clear of This Place.’ says a sign posted at every entry. They always go first, the pups – it being easiest of all to eat eggs; slow, soft, tender veal, penned up and pulverised beneath vacuum wrapped hopes. Quick, deliberate, merciless predators; even the wolves allowed entrance, wrapped around the circulation of stupid kids, rich with their parents, plaid shorted, and calling themselves different sorts of philosophies.
“Do you know anywhere round here offers doggy bags?” asks one of those tight white shirt wearing, v-neck bros. “I’m all about those natural treats to give my big boy here, staring down your little chum, what type of dog is that anyways, a cocker spaniel?”
“It’s none of your damn business, but some people just shouldn’t get big dogs, you know?”
“Yea, but I ain’t one of those types. I see Bruno salivating over your pup’s flank, but the second he makes a strike I’ll yell his name and wave my arms around; if he doesn’t listen, then who’s fault is that really anyways? You bring a sweet piece of meat such as that to the pit, and what do you expect is going to happen?”
“Charlo is a brave pup, getting braver. I’m training him to stand up to a monster.”
“What breed?”
“Rottweiler and Pitbull.”
“Who would get such a brute?” asks the man.
“A paranoid, timid little woman, looking for a completely automatic weapon to protect her from everything.”
“I know the type. That’s why I got Bruno: he’s a completely trained buffer between me and those wild psychoseses. You can’t prevent everybody from manifesting their wicked realizations, the only choice you have is to master your own. But what I recommend you do, being that you’ve got such a small pup already, is pack a pistol. One bite from that beast, and you’re justified in pulling the trigger.”
“No, there’s far too much work involved in getting a pistol. Plus, I can’t trust myself with a device constructed purely for death delivery. Knives are hard enough for me to be around, but at least they slice the already dead. The only pistols I can handle are those already equipped by my imagination, and even those get me into all sorts of psychological mires. At heart my dog is me, and he’s not exactly a living weapon; he’s rather more of, if not a victim, an observer, passing through this world by the grace of God.”
“That is where you and I differ, I am also my dog, but my dog could be president if I asked him to. Are you European then?” asks the man.
“No, I’ve read a few books about Europe though.” I respond.
…
Suddenly there is a scuffle, and Charlo is crying out, yelp after yelp, with Lil’ Jizzer’s voice howling through my inner ear: “Help! Help! Help!”
A small, white chihuaha has him by the throat. I push the german shepherd of a man out of my way, and latch my grip around the bandana of the little, attacking dog, lifting him into the air, and releasing Charleston from his grip.
Charleston runs around the pen, gathering a flock of undue attention. I save him by snatching him up, leaping onto a bench, and hopping onto the the pen’s fence. The dogs all bark beneath me
“Nobody leave!” I shout. “Control your dogs!”
The crowd staggers, placing their hands on the collars of their beasts. I step down, and with undivided attention scan Charlo’s necks for punctures.
Everyone wants to know if he’s ok.
“Nobody is allowed to leave until he gets over this fright. Do you understand?”
“Yes, whatever you say potential lawsuit.” responds the crowd.
“He’s fine, there is no blood.” I say.
“That’s good.” says the owner of the little dog. “When I saw you enter the park I told my friend that I was worried because Bunksy doesn’t do so well with puppies…”
“Next time tell the person who owns the puppy, you idiot!” I say. “Bring me Bunksy.”
“What are you going to do with him?” the woman asks.
“I’m not going to hurt him.” I reply. “I am going to offer him Charleston’s butt.”
“Ok…” says the woman, presenting me with Bunksy.
…
Later, while telling Musette this story, she asks me how much of it actually happened.
“Most of the events.” I say, “Except for some of the really exciting parts. And hardly any of the dialogue. You know my voice is still locked inside of my heart and in my brain, right?”
“I know it is, my sweet, sensitive boy.” she replies.
“But your head is not in the oven.” I say.
“What about yours?” she asks.
“I still haven’t figured out where mine is.” I reply.
The Red Dawn of Saint Simon 