Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

“Dunno, Jim. Mighty tired is what I surely am.”

Dropsy’s half-hearted protest trailed into a growl, but the source of the growl came from twenty feet ahead, towards the alley’s mouth. Both stopped cold, looked up. Two eyes reflected red from the sparkle of moonlight. Two eyes and lots of teeth. Not long ago this same growl was far off enough to be perceived as a hum; that same hum being an integral part of Jim’s already-figured calculations.

“Well, looky there,” said Jim with twitchy glee. “We got ourselves a foamin’-at-the-mouth doggie-higgity-hog lie-shy, times…” Looking around to see if there might be a “dog” in the plural sense-“…times one!”

“Dang, Jim, hold still and talk quiet. Dog like that’ll kill a person. Mostly pit by the looks of him.” With only dull moonlight through low hanging fog, Dropsy couldn’t see the dog well enough to determine breed-but he figured to err for caution, and assumed the worst. Pit bulls in Louisiana were mostly bred to kill black folk.

In apparent empathy of Dropsy’s jangly tone of voice (but really just weighing out the situation), Jim scratched his head quietly for a moment. The dog’s rumble raised in pitch, a spiky whine of pain quivering beneath it.

Sick dog, mad dog, devil dog , thought Dropsy.

Jim spoke in hushed tones, bloodlust nipping the edges of his throat like hungry rats: “Dropsy, my good man, I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do-wocka-hoo-hicka-shang-a-la do.” Dropsy could feel the grin in Jim’s voice, his friend’s unreasonable air of confidence temporarily affording him an equally unreasonable sense of safety. Dropsy let out a sigh, unsure if the sigh was of relief or in acceptance of danger newly compounded. In any case, the dog was close enough now that making a run for it was no longer an option.

Dropsy, slow and shaking: “What might that be, pardna?”

“I’ll bet ya a fiver I kin take that dangerous animal down with my bare hands before ya count to twenty is what.”

“Jim, ya know I ain’t a bettin’ man. My daddy taught me agen’ it.” Dropsy’s eyes narrowed in terror as the dog’s pitch lowered, its back end lowering in kind. Dropsy continued in barely a whisper, voice shaking, blood on the chill; “Plus, it ain’t a bet I’d feel good about winning. If I win it means the dog win, too. Meanin’ Jim Jam Jump either hurt or dead.”

“Puh-shaw, Dropsy. All that fight store loot in yer pocket and you scared of losing a fiver?”

A gob of white gleaming foam caught moonlight and plopped audibly from the dog’s trembling snout to the alley floor.

“It’s the principle, Jim.” Dropsy held his chin in the air, thinking mightily on principle even in this moment of mortal danger. His daddy would be proud of such righteous resolve, Dropsy reckoned. But Jim had counted on Dropsy’s high sense of principle, and so continued right on schedule:

“Fair enough then, my honorable companion. We’ll make it a bet without monetary consideration. If I manage to take down that mangy and vicious beast, an animal who obviously means us nothing if not ill will and utter destruction, then you accompany me to the nearest fresh-face clip-joint where we can have us a little tat. If I don’t, just leave my bloody body in the alley for that diseased animal to chew on while you head home for a nice nap. Ya can’t lose, Dropsy Morningstar. If I win, we both scare up a little loot on the tat; if I lose, ya get to lay down and dream about it. Either way, this animal ain’t yer problem.”

“Dunno, Jim.”

The rabid dog wobbled down low with pointless rage, readying to jump. Dropsy said a quick prayer in his head, struggling to keep still. Jim bounced a dangerously percussive chuckle off the walls of the alley before whispering through clenched teeth, “Considerin’ we’s pressed fer time in this sitchy-ation, I’ll count that as a yes, Mister Dropsy Morningstar, my dearest and very friend.” Jim gathered his concentration, sharpened his focus, and calmly articulated his unique brand of countdown:

“Shy…lye… HOO! ”

Before Dropsy’s lips could part to protest, Jim beat the dog to the jump, feigning a leap to the right and throwing the dog off his game-away from himself but in the general direction of Dropsy’s unguarded throat. Dropsy dove right with a yelp as Jim pulled back and away, spun around to the left and, in one quick motion, let gravity throw his body hard towards the dog’s airborne back-end-putting him in a position to grab a hind leg in each hand. Jim yanked the animal to the ground before its snapping jaws could do anything, but spray spit against Dropsy’s neck, ear, cheek and eye. The dog’s body landed with a soft, muffled slap as Jim angled its fur-matted body beneath him, all ninety-six pounds of the boy pressing squarely through his right shoulder into the dog’s wiggly midsection. The animal’s fury dissolved into shock, communicating such through a series of quick, panicked yips before rediscovering its rage in the scent of Jim’s ratblood-specked pant legs. Resuming the attack, the dog snapped furiously at Jim’s legs and feet-but the boy kicked himself away expertly, suffering only a single-toothed scratch along the back of his left calf.

“Holy crimeny, Jim! Be careful!” Dropsy gasped with a tentative move forward. With blood still fresh on its tongue, the dog was in a frenzy now; snarls and snaps ricocheting like moist bullets off the soft red brick of the alley walls.

Jim: “Hold yer ground, pardna! I got ’im! I got ’im! Come anywhere near the head and he’ll bite ya but good! Stay back!”

Dropsy wasn’t sure where the dog’s head might be in the whir of shadows-and so did as he was told, holding ground but ready to intervene if Jim’s presumed advantage suffered obvious setback.

“Damn, Jim,” Dropsy whispered, slackjawed at the spectacle of this skinny white kid wrestling a rabid pitbull without benefit of weapon or meaningful light. He strained and squinted to tell the combatants apart, coming up with nothing except murky, darting, soft shadows and a tangle of hateful sound.

Jim kept his legs forward out of the dog’s reach while grouping both of its hind legs together in his left hand-thereby freeing his right arm to reel back and send an elbow to the back of the dog’s neck. A sharp yip shot up through its throat, piercing warm air. The battle turned an important corner as the dog gave in to its pain; choosing retreat, frantically squirming to get away. A second hammering elbow left the dog partially stunned, its struggle reduced to a spasm of shivers and shallow whimpers. Jim tightened his grip on the dog’s hind legs, its surrendering body firmly pinned beneath his weight as he reeled up to deliver another well-aimed elbow.

The animal lay silent. Jim took two slow breaths before rolling off and away. Uncertain if the dog was dead or just stunned, Jim rose warily to his knees-then, slowly, to his feet.

Jim Jam Jump and Dropsy Morningstar stood perfectly still-listening to the sound of each other’s breathing and half expecting the dog to snap awake and have another go. After twenty seconds of uneasy quiet, Jim edged forward to give the dog a nudge with his toe. No response. Breathing hard, Jim let out a whoop and kicked the dog hard in the belly, sending it shortways along the alley into the backdoor of an anonymous crib, goosing a muffled, “What the fuck?” from a startled john inside.

Dropsy wiped dog spit from his eyes in disbelief. “You sure are crazy, Jim.”

A stream of giggles floated from Jim’s lips into warm, dark fog as he conceded merrily, “’Tis my claim to fame, pardna. My claim to fame.”

“Did he getcha?”

“Just a scrape, old pal. Not to worry. Biggest thing I ever kilt, that dog. Guess you could say ol’ Jim Jam Jump’s movin’ up in the world.” Another round of giggles drifted into the night, transforming quickly into chuckles, chuckles into whoops, whoops into hollers. The alley mist wobbled in response.