THE DOG HUNTERS (completed)

23 - BEAT DOWN

Strangely, the beer appeared to be real, and took me where such things usually do, which is, wanting more booze, getting horny, wondering why I'd been so obsessed with ass-fucking when I was living on Skid Row (I could care less now), then feeling sketchy and uncomfortable, feeling paranoid and desperate, and then passing out.

I woke up with my stomach and knees burning. Time for another task. I groaned and burped and almost puked up cheese corn, telling myself water would help, it would be a task of water. And that was when the little ugly dude got in my face. He just appeared, like Jesus, a good six inches shorter than me, making him practically a little person.To meet my eyes he had to jump up. A springy little fellow.

He came to me and got so close he was almost touching me. A good trick,this. You catch a person unawares, lost in their own thoughts ofbullshit and misery, you invade their personal space and then there's quite a lot you can get away with. It's the deer in the headlights sort of thing. I've observed pimps employ this quite often on SkidRow, and I imagine the zombie glaze that came over me in this instance was probably very similar to the dead-shock pallor I'd seen wash over those whores.

Which is to say, I was stunned, and the "HA!" he threw out when he jumped did a lot to secure this feeling, and apparently he was also a bit of a perfectionist because he immediately jumped up again and punched my chin. The sort of move you see in a video game,exaggerated, comical. It did the trick – I was his, now waiting for orders until my own wits caught up with the snap.

"Mother fucker give me your fucking money!"

He was scowling and twitchy. Crack. My senses weaved and shuddered. Myclock expanded such I noted it was somewhere past dawn. The the worst time to run into a crack head, the only time dealers sleep (they only do it to piss off their clients, remind them of their need, and who's in charge).

This particular fellow looked as though he'd been without his dank for more than ten minutes. Not good. He looked as though he wanted to beat on me simply to relieve some of the stew his withdrawal was cooking. But first he wanted to see what he could get out of me.

Eager to please, to hurry this experience to its conclusion, I thrust my hands in my pockets, which caused two unfortunate things to happen.The first was my pants, which were falling apart due to sweat and elements, fell down to my knees. The second was I wasn't wearing underwear.

The little crackhead stared at my pants and my shriveled junk, and then his furry red upper lip sneered and wrinkled, and rage blazed from his eyes. "What the fuck you trying to do? You fucking queer? You a fucking faggot?"

He took a step back.

Getting that little bit of space was like being handed a part of my brain back. It told me if I had the ability to distract him or confuse him, then I could also run. Unlike meth heads, crackheads are not super athletic. If I could pull my pants up and dash, I'd maybe get away. A new task.

"Here," I said, waving around something I'd found in my pocket. "I don't got no cash dude, but I got this, you can have it."

I didn't even know what it was until I was offering it up. Took me a second, but it was the picture of the supposed bunker, with the address Dr. Nurse had given to me back on the bus. He'd given it to me? The hospital takes everything when they check you in, then they give it back, as long as it's not sharp.

"What the fuck is this?" The little dude was fast. Maybe I'd misdiagnosed, and he was speed freak after all, or double-dipping,which is to say, I'd only gotten my pants up to my knees when he punched me again.

I've been beaten up a lot in my life. When I was a kid I enjoyed it in this fucked up way. I used to steal notebooks from people in gradeschool, and hide them just so they'd beat me up during recess. I'm not sure why I enjoyed it so much, all I can say is it gave me a thrill. There was this one time when I was eleven these two older bullies got so tired of my bullshit they kidnapped me before my soccer lesson after school, and tied me to a tree next to the field, then whipped me with clothesline they'd ingeniously knotted up to make all the smacks sting smart. When they got bored of this they banged my head into the trunk until I was unconscious. I think they knew I was into it. When the soccer coaches were alerted to this, all hell broke loose – the bullies were arrested, I was sent to therapy for the first time. Not long after I discovered Johnny Bobo, and my interests became more about fitting in, proving I wasn't an outcast, proving I wasn't going to become the walker. Now, you'd think my interest in punishment would have stayed with me, manifesting itself in different ways. But it didn't. I never went for women who were emotionally abusive, never got into S&M. Then I moved to Skid Row and got beat up a lot again, and didn't enjoy it at all.