06: Exposure

Make yourself sheep

and the wolves will eat you.

Benjamin Franklin

“I’m still not sure this is wise,” Phil said as they strolled along the promenade. “After all, there are multiple people seeking to identify me and now we’re walking into the jaws of the primordial beast.”

“Nonsense,” Emma said, patting his arm. “They’re looking for a public figure frequenting parks and isolated areas. We’re exploring the city, far from the areas you visited before, not straying from the shopping district. We’re unlikely to draw any unwanted attention.”

“Yeah, a blond Chinese-American and a pudgy, overweight, older man; no way that garners notice.”

“You know what I mean. Out of context, it’s unlikely anyone will notice you. However, I’m eager to analyze your technique. While Ethan has plenty of schizophrenic friends, I want to witness the extent of what you’re facing. This may provide additional clues about how to deal with them. After all, one group may be the natural enemy of another. Understanding that will benefit all of us.”

“They might, if I had any way to communicate with them. As it is, they all have reason to fear me. After all, I can either expose or harm them, spoiling their plans.”

“Just focus and tell me what you’re observing,” she suggested, understanding the less he obsessed, the better off he’d be. She wanted him relaxed, not stressed and paranoid. That was more likely to attract undesired attention—especially in the middle of a tourist mecca.

Phil indicated someone to the side of them with his head. “Manic-compulsive. His consist of several smaller critters carrying lists.”

“You mean paper lists? What kind of creatures are these who use human tools?”

“I’m not entirely sure. They mostly look like cartoon caricatures. I’m unsure whether I’m projecting familiar forms onto unfamiliar beings my mind can’t deal with, or they’re where the stereotypical images originate from.”

“Don’t undermine yourself. You’re the only one to see them. There’s no reason for them to be anything other than how they appear. Go on.”

He indicated someone else. “She’s got a couple different types, typical when someone has multiple issues. I’m not familiar with these.” He edged closer for a moment before pulling back. “They’re telling her to cut herself. The others are saying how fat she is.”

“An anorexic cutter,” Emma said. “Years ago we didn’t even have those terms, yet these creatures probably evolved over thousands of years to take advantage of our emotional flaws. Still, it seems culturally dependent. Maybe in other times, they stressed different things.”

“I doubt it. We’ve had knives for millennium, and women were always told they are either too fat or too thin. However, these are waving scissors.”

She giggled, as they approached a fashionable boutique. “File that discussion for later, though it’s interesting they’re so invested in imagery when they’re invisible to us. Who’s next?”

“Another one I’m unfamiliar with. We seem to pick up different types here, than in the parks. He’s got little accountants in pinstripe suits and pocket protectors, each about yea big. They’re shoving him in differing directions.”

“That’s fairly specific, but you never mentioned they wear clothes before. You mean like ours? Are they imitating us, or did we get the design from them?”

“I assume they adapted the part based on their victims. The cutters’ wore seamstress outfits, complete with scissors. However, not all wear clothes, only a few. The major mental illnesses don’t bother with the extra effort.”

Phil directed her around a local patrolman, undoubtedly watching for undesirables. “I’m not comfortable with those. If I try to treat them, they’ll likely shoot me. His are tiny red devils, like you see on candy packages.”

“I must say, our mental illnesses don’t look anything like I imagined. If we could see them, we may not take them as seriously.”

“No, believe me, these guys are deadly serious. However they appear, they’re not comical in the least.” He indicated a young woman with pink hair, a nose ring and one half of her head shaved. “She’s got fairies. I’ve never quite figured out what they represent. It looks like...” he moved nearer, following her for a short distance before she turned away. “Yep, they were throwing sparkles at her.”

“You’re kidding me? Like pixie dust?”

“Cross my heart, that’s what they were doing. It’s certainly better than stabbing someone in the head with pitchforks.”

“You know, given the personality type and the professional apparel, I’m guessing it’s tied to creativity. They may not all be bad. It’s possible they’re inspirational, giving artists material to work with.”

“You mean like artistic muses? It’s feasible. I’ve always heard artistic types have a higher incidence of mental illnesses. It would make sense they cross-pollinate each other, but she only had the one type.”

“Maybe she’s too obsessed with her work to attract any others,” Emma guessed.

“Hold on,” he said, slowing her down. They began following a middle-aged man with a long face. Phi didn’t say anything further, but seemed to be listening to some inaudible voices. Leaning over, he whispered to Emma. “I’ve got to do something. This guy’s in trouble.”

Letting go of her hand, he moved ahead, matching the man’s pace. Phil stopped using his cane to walk, carrying it at the ready in his right hand and studying the man intently. Just as he swept it forward, someone across the street waved at him with both hands. Caught unaware, Phil modified his movements, using the cane to wave to disguise his movements. Distracted, he didn’t connect with the dragon he was chasing, the one who kept insisting “Kill yourself! You’ve got the gun, you wrote the note. Do it. Do it!”

Instead of delivering a killing blow, he struck it off-center. It spun in mid-air, and once it got it’s wits about it, began screeching. The other dragons bedeviling the man responded, focusing on Phil.

Knowing he’d bitten off more than he was prepared for, and was in the middle of hundreds of people, he started backing up. However, he was too late as they abandoned their host and assaulted him.

Trying to disguise his efforts to defend himself, he spun in a circle, offering his back so they couldn’t attack his sensitive face. He then slashed at them as he came around, only to pivot in the other direction, again shielding his face. To avoid hitting pedestrians, he stepped into the street. There wasn’t much traffic, but a yellow cab honked his horn, alerting anyone who hadn’t noticed him yet.

Phil twirled and struck, bobbing and weaving. The dragons were larger than most of the other mythical creatures, and they were tougher, many of his blows bouncing off their scaly hides.

He connected with another, breaking its leg, producing another shriek. The other species harassing other pedestrians stopped to observe Phil’s battle with the dragons, their teeth barred and tails snapping in anger.

Wandering farther into the street, he spun with his cane fully extended, connecting with one using his full strength. It disappeared instantly, signaling he’d killed it, but the others redoubled their attacks. Bending over and guarding his face, he wound up and swung again, realizing he needed more force with these. He connected again, sending it slamming into a parked car before he shied away, backing away from the rest.

Still they pursued him, screeching at him despite their obviously knowing English. Turning again, he held his weapon with two hands and spun, waving it overhead, crashing down on the neck of a third dragon.

The last one hesitated, and Phil grasped his cane tightly. This was now a fight to the death. It fluttered backwards, its mighty wings outstretched, and he gave chase. It tried evading him, but he stuck to it, not swinging but holding his cane ready for his opportunity. Instead, it flew at him, scratching his face. He got another glancing blow before having to protect his face again, only it attacked the top of his head. Clasping his cane with a vice-like grip, he spun, swinging like a major-league batter, hitting the final dragon with his full strength. Instead of sailing into the bleachers, it flew through some pedestrians—not affecting them at all—slamming into a fire hydrant, snapping its back.

Exhausted, Phil doubled over, panting. It was only then he had time to consider those around him. The shopping plaza was deathly silent, everyone staring at him. Several had their phones out.

“I told you I recognized him. He’s got the beard and the identical cane.”

“Man, he’s friggin’ out of control!”

“Someone call the police! He’s likely to injure someone.”