Brian Tapper, for whom this story is about, was not a good man. I need to make that abundantly clear as you read through these lines. He was destitute of moral character, inclined to shortchange people, and desirable as a lover to no one. So emotionally unstable was he that this situation may have been entirely his own fault, as you will soon read.

I

Downtown was not the safest place to be. Brian had been told this over and over again by his mother while growing up, and now he found the calf of his right leg firmly entrenched in the mouth of a large dog.

The pain was minimal at first, and required only a slight gasp of surprise from him. The damned thing wasn’t biting down, was only holding him back and preventing him from crossing the road.

“Let go, pup,” he said to the dark coloured dog. It snarled at him in response. He reached down to pry it off his legs but the wide, dark eyes of the dog saw his incoming fingers and squeezed.

Hard.

Brian Tapper, of 607 Fernhaven Road, just down the street from the house he grew up in, screamed.

It cut through the usual traffic noises at East Harrow and Douglas.

When he was finished he balled his hands up into fists before scanning the other people in the double-wide sidewalk and looking for some sympathy in their eyes. They avoided his gaze. All of them.

What would they say to him smacking this dog? Would he become known as the town’s resident dog-hitter, a person infamous for beating up helpless puppies? Would they catch him on video, would he make the news?

Brian Tapper, of Tapper’s Emporium of Fine Used Furniture, a man who had once cornered his crush at a college party and begged her to have sex with him, cursed the dog.

He attempted to pull his leg away and the dog followed with its mouth, then squeezed the flesh of his leg harder, piercing the skin. Brian seethed, feeling a rivulet of blood running from the wound into his sock. He pushed the dog’s head away but it growled and continued clamping.

“Get the hell off me,” he said to the dog through gritted teeth. “Help me,” he pleaded, looking up for the people that had been passing him by. They averted their gazes, ignored him, hastened their steps as they passed the scene by. Some ducked into nearby stores while others crossed the street to continue their journey in a way they could safely ignore him and the dog. The street was empty aside from the cars honking on the busy road next to him, desperately trying to push through the traffic. A garbage truck roared past him when the light changed, its diesel engine crushing his eardrums.

And the dog squeezed harder.