Summer 1988. Apollo’s white-hot chariot blazed through the blue sky over East Village Grocery on Avenue A. A gray-haired grocer sprayed rainbows across his fruits and vegetables in front of the store. On the sidewalk in front of me, a little old lady in a lavender moomoo and matching bob walked her poodle.

Approaching from the opposite direction, a long-hair muscleman in a wifebeater, tight black bike shorts, Doc Martens boots, and fingerless weight-lifting gloves, yanked the choke chain throttling his German Shepard as it lunged against the leash at the old lady’s poodle.

Like the Oracle at Delphi, I saw the future.

The big dog clamped the frou-frou in its jaws and shook it like a punctured paint can in a haywire paint-can shaker at the hardware store, spraying blood and guts across the glistening fruit, vegetables, and flowers.

“Butch!” the muscleman barked, jerking the choke chain back as tight as he could.

Butch resisted like a swordfish twisting midair and broke free of his master’s clutch, stepped ahead, then splayed on all fours, tossed the poodle up and down in his jaws to get a better grip.

“Mitzi!” the old lady cried.

The grocer sprayed the berserker with water, and seeing that didn’t work, cautiously tapped Butch’s head with the brass nozzle of his hose, which only multiplied the beast’s rage.

“Help!” the old lady screamed.

A growing crowd of rubberneckers milling around the storefront spilled onto the street and blocked traffic both ways. A baby-faced rookie in blue made his way through the commotion. The crowd retreated and advanced around the snapping mad dog.

“Shoot it! Shoot it!” they chanted.

The rookie waved his revolver back and forth trying to get a bead on his target, which sent the crowd scrambling out of his wavering line of fire.

Suddenly, he took his moment and shot the monster between the eyes, splattering blood and guts over the produce and flowers.

“You killed my dog!” the muscleman cried.

“Shoot him! Shoot him!” the crowd chanted.

There was no more to see but the old lady’s tears and the muscleman’s wailing. The mob thinned and the shopkeeper sprayed the gore from his fruits, vegetables, and flowers like nothing had happened.

***

Daryl Edelman has been a writer and editor for Marvel, Archie, and DC Comics. Lydia Lunch published his short story “Every New Day is a Shove” alongside work by Nick Tosches, Jerry Stahl, and Hubert Selby, Jr. in the legendary anthology Sex and Guts No. 4. He lives in Manhattan with his wife, the writer Regina Edelman.