Song of Sinai, Chapter 2

Follow the pup to find the dog.

II

 

I didn’t wait for the kid to ask me where we’d be getting this meal from. I consider myself a ‘go-getter’. I grab the kid, and he gets to go where I please. And friend, I please to go to a nice little place just two blocks from the river; Lacey’s.

Lacey’s café was a quiet little diner sandwiched between a broken down old book store and one of those cash for gold shops. The latter was an eyesore, and even a literary graveyard held more beauty than the nascent shine of a new pawn shop. Still, Lacey’s did all right. In a town of blind madness and screaming obscenities, the old girl kept an oasis, a shady cover where you could rest your head over a cup of hot coffee. That, and the meatloaf is the holy grail of lunch specials.

 Lacey’s even had a creative way to keep the crazed souls away. Sometimes, all you need is a mural, painted facing the street in a kaleidoscope of painted brick. It was a multicolored, vibrant star, with a bold message: ‘BIG DOG IS WATCHING”. Can’t miss the place. Not much else to tell. We enter. We sit. We order. I talk. John’s ready to write. Get with the program. Right, let’s get rolling.

Common sense dictates that in order to find the Big Dog, you have to follow the paw prints in the snow. Problem with that is that this particular dog doesn’t leave prints; just hearsay. Someone will say they’ve seen the work of Big Dog, but they never prove it. Hell, I once met a woman that claimed she’d not only met him, but they’d had a torrid love affair. Indeed, she was expecting at the time. Calling on his all-highness, this lady proclaimed that he’d swooped in the dead of the night, making ethereal love and fading away. His touch was so gentle that her first time was no time; a virgin still a virgin. Common sense also dictates that a quick look would have answered everything, but you’re not here to hear the words of a wanderer waxing on a mother-to-be finding justification for an illegitimate conception. Nope, you’re here about Big Dog. Sometimes, the paw prints come in the pups.

In a city steeped in fear, paranoia flowed through the streets, fermented in a painful and agonizing disease slowly ripping the population to shreds. “Trinity”, they called it. Where it went, death followed, leaving nothing but corpses and a black triangle sign on your door. Symptoms include but are not limited to the following. Nausea. Irritability. Depression. Anxiety. Hacking cough, spurts of three. So, cough-cough-cough. In the later stages, high fever, paranoia, and aggression. Those in the late stages were already gone, and if they didn’t hold you down, you’d attack random schlubs and damn them on your deathbed. Other symptoms were rumored, but most avoided the victims and watched from a distance. I was no exception, but more on that later.

Word travels fast in New Sinai, and I’d heard about this woman from afar. Her story brought about my interest, and, plot twist, I was not alone. The big-yet-still-smaller dogs of the city heard about this lonely girl claiming to have spent the night with Big Dog. They’d also heard that the man she had didn’t offer much of a life. Madness, surely, was his reasoning for staying with her, or to do his best to oversee the pup of Big Dog. Those hyenas didn’t take kindly to a low tier chump watching over a rumor. One hyena in particular took the most offense: Herod.

Born with eyes of blue and amber, Herod was next in line to the Roman dynasty, a deep rooted mafia with their trunks growing round the very foundation of the city. In their marble penthouse palaces, Herod’s family reveled in their grip on the city. Of all criminal enterprises in New Sinai, the Romans were the most influential…and violent. They were as pious as they were cruel, making every sale and every broken bone out of reverence to Big Dog himself, taking a little trophy or tiny slice of profit to be left in the streets, a bloody tribute to their god. Dollars, jewels, and fingers were all fair game. Raised by gangland ride-a-longs and taught by divine right, Herod was eager for his chance to take the reins. When daddy got sick, junior saw his chance.  

With an ailing and slowly more demented father, the hungry b*****d sent his old man to hospice, destined to die a slow and lonely death. Every night, you’d hear him raving about stars, aligned in fiery vengeance and ready to judge all the w****s and able bodies of the city as the golden eyes slowly eroded to dull brown. The fallen king would cry out ‘Raise a hand for me, or fall under it’, gurgling with his own fluids. He went from Cuban cigars and white coats to syringes and backless green gowns. With the old man struggling to relieve himself, junior sat comfortably on his throne, the devil in blue amber. If you were a Roman, you wore the crown, and got two off-colored eyes to show for it. If I had to pick a word…I’d go with ‘feral’.

That was, until the news of the virgin mother reached his ears. With the city drenched in plague, lunatic rants were to be expected. Folks talked of everything from flaming trash barrels speaking to them, great gardens of endless fruit hiding just out of reach, and floods that once and may yet again wash the city streets clean. Yet, the mention of Big Dog was enough to give little Herod a taste of something he’d never felt before; fear. What if Big Dog’s pup died in childbirth on his watch? What if the girl really was crazy, and threw the child into the river? Or, worse yet…what if Big Dog found out he could’ve stopped this, and did nothing? Legends told of those that refused to fear and respect the man above would spend their last moments swarmed in fire, burning for what seemed like eternity. As the sweat poured down Herod Roman’s brow, he knew he had to act, though he was at a loss for words. Act now, do something, or risk the ire of Big Dog. Desperate men never cared for specifics, and this one called his best enforcers to him; a dangerous trio of meat ridden killing machines…the Wise Men.

Herod struggled with his thoughts, trying to think of a plan. Overwhelmed with fear, Herod quivered out five words, watched from the next room by innocent eyes also of blue amber.

“Take care of the child.”

Now, there were two problems with what junior had just done. One: The Wise Men, though indeed earning their titles, were mainly soldiers, enforcers, and, in most cases, hit men. Herod couldn’t have picked a worse group to benefit the wellbeing of any child, let alone one as VIP as the alleged puppy of Big Dog. These guys didn’t know one baby from another, each little bundle of joy identical to the next. Two: ‘Take care of the child’. Even the simplest of street dwellers can tell you that you never tell three hitmen to ‘take care’ of somebody unless you’d like them to do what you pay them for in the first place. Herod’s fear betrayed him. It isn’t hard to guess what happened next.

With no knowledge of what they were looking for, the Wise Men spread out through the ghetto, finding and killing every son they could, young and less young. I lost count of how many bodies filled the streets that night…how many bullets and broken necks, the killers shouting ‘Canis magnus!’ as they slaughtered. Too young. Too many. Finally, the Wise Men came to the last shack, with dogs, cats, and rats lounging around like a stable.

Inside, they found her, holding a freshly born baby boy, still warm and crying out. Her man was on his knees busily trying to staunch the bleeding and clean the filth that had poured on his floor. Virgin or not, this birth was anything but beautiful. Yet, the child drew the eyes of the Wise Men. Hands on their guns, they found themselves unable to draw. It’s been said that there is a sense of innocence following a newborn, and that innocence might be what stopped them from reloading. This baby was too pure; too new. Even the hands of a killer could not allow such a sin, though they could’ve had the decency to realize this sooner. Instead, the Wise Men departed, only to return with a plastic bag from the nearby pharmacy. They dumped its contents, offering antibiotic ointment, astringent, and some incense for the smell. They emptied their pockets, dropping money in the pile of charity. Then, in the best plot twist I’ve seen since…well, since something you’ll find out later, the Wise Men left, never to be seen again, leaving nothing but tribute and rumors. Some say that the three hitmen were found, given the fate they refused to bestow on the possible pup of Big Dog. Others say that they were caught and arrested trying to skip town, though you’d be hard pressed to find an honest cop in this city. The hopeless romantics like to believe that the Wise Men got away to live new and fulfilling lives, fighting the good fight elsewhere. Personally, I think they joined the military. The best place to hide three tough gunmen is in an army of them. Herod would’ve never told the difference.

Either way, this bouncing baby boy braved the night. Even in his filth stained cardboard box of a house, they carried on. Those pharmaceutical supplies must’ve been some good stuff. Mama got a little sick, but pulled through. As for the boy? Well, that’s a dumb question. Get me a hot meal if you want more.

Author's Note

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