Walking in the liquor store, the man glanced over the selections available. He read the names of some of the fine wines, looking for just the right one. He did not consider himself a connoisseur of fine wines, he was lucky if he could tell a red wine from a white wine. Then there was pink wines, or at least that's what he had heard. It was no matter, he selected the wine he needed from the stand, and then scoured the beer section. Picking up a six pack of Red Dog, he placed it on the counter. The proprietor of the store, a balding man of the name George Thompson, looked at the selection quite unsure what to think.

     "The Chardonnay is for cooking, the beer is for drinking." he explained, with a half-smile.

     "Whatever, you're paying me after all." Thompson punched up the order at the register. The man casually leaned over the counter, sniffing the air idly. The scent was rich, the alcohol did not overwhelm him, he could feel the familiar traces the man left off, his own markings. Interesting, he thought, the man had been fooling around recently, and not with his wife. It surprised him that the whole town didn't know already, but what more could be said and done.

     "The total is $83.78." Thompson read the register. "That must be something pretty fantastic you're cooking."

     "It's an old family recipe for a bread. I like to call it the bread of life, it tastes so wonderful. Heck, maybe when I get it finished, I'll let you have some."

     "It better be damn good for what your paying for that Chardonnay!" Thompson retorted.

     "Trust me," the man replied, pulling the money out of his billfold and laying it on the counter, "you'll never want to eat anything else again."

     Thompson grunted in disbelief, taking the Ben Franklin, and counting out the change. "If that's the case, I better not, I can't afford that sort of lifestyle."

     The man laughed, it was a pleasant laugh, and taking the change, he gripped the bag with his drink, and turned to walk out. "I wouldn't worry too much about your lifestyle, George, you seem to keep it quite tied up." George frowned at the comment, wondering just what the man had meant, not liking the implications it represented. The man felt quite satisfied with his purchases, and the state of moral confusion he'd left Thompson in. It was perfect of course, perfect for exactly what he had in mind.

     Walking down the street, he stepped into an alley near the liquor store. Putting down his bag, he sniffed the air. Given the lateness of the hour, it was approaching midnight, he was not expecting anybody to be here, and fortunately enough, he was right. He could smell the dankness of the alley, the smell of the proprietor George Thompson, the cum and piss of George as well. Plus there was a scent of stale alcohol. Perfect, absolutely perfect.

     He lifted up the dumpster lid, and pulled out the rotting coat that lay beneath the thrown out fast food. He draped it over his shoulders, and already he could feel the cockroaches and other vermin scampering about in the folds of the decaying coat. He delighted in their feverish activity, feeling the numbness as he was bitten in several places. He then sat down, leaning against the wall behind the dumpster. Pulling out the six pack of Red Dog, he popped the first can, and half-drank it half-spilled it over himself. The taste of the beer was warm in his throat, and he felt it sloshing on its way to his stomach. Of course he knew that drinking into excess was wrong, but nothing wrong with moderation, absolutely nothing wrong with it. Finishing the first bottle, barely having drunk a third of it, he started on the second can.

     It took him nearly ten minutes to finish out the six pack, at which time his original scent was completely washed away. Tossing the cans around the alley, he stirred up a minor racket. A rat ran out from the shadows it had been hiding in, startled by the can, and tore off for another abode to scurry into. He felt a bit giddy after drinking some of the six pack. He let his head hang down as if he were drunk, and he held the bottle of Chardonnay unopened in his right hand. He stuffed the shopping bag beneath him, sitting on it as if it were a cushion.

     The streets were lit by the eerie light of street lamps, and he was reminded of a poem he'd read when he was younger, "Gas-lit, fog filled nights with spies, And even your very own private eyes." He knew who the spies were, those rats watching all from their little holes, as the world passed on by, all they could do was watch. The private eyes of course were more a mystery to him, their meaning clouded in the self-same fog of the poem. He wondered just what its scribe had meant when he had said all of that. It had, "All been for you." whatever that meant.

     While he was lost in his thoughts, he heard the clicking of paws on the pavement. Sniffling absent mindedly, he could tell who it was. He waited, invisible to the eye, the nose, and the ear. He smelled of alcohol, he moved not, and between the two was the dumpster. He waited for the dog to come circling the dumpster, to see if his girl were waiting for him. Of course she wasn't, he had seen to that. It was sort of interesting really, to see the look of surprise on the dogs face when he saw what appeared to be a whino where his bitch ought to be. Winos weren't all that uncommon considering the nature of the town, but when one was expecting something else, it would certainly be a shock to the system.

     He looked at the St. Bernard that sniffed at him casually, and then turned from him, obviously convinced he was lying in a drunken stupor, and not to be fretted over. Of course in the dim light behind the dumpster, he would never have recognized the bottle of Chardonnay, nor would he have recognized the face if he had seen it. It was only a matter of time. His watch was just in the visible light, and he looked at the readout, waiting for the right moment to act.

     Then as his watch changed form PM to AM, he lifted the bottle of Chardonnay above his head, a move that prompted the St. Bernard who was George Thompson to turn to look at him. Then with a fierce blow he brought the bottle down hard upon the dog's head, and with a exhilarating thud, he heard the skull crack under the force of the bottle. The bottle itself was still intact, the wine being of the finest quality was in a glass of the finest quality. Not a scratch on the bottle, but the dog was indeed quite dead.

     Pulling out his knife, he rolled the dog over onto its side, and cut it down the middle. He let the entrails spill out, and he sifted through them, before smiling and continuing his job of skinning the dog. He now had one, and it had begun, there was no force on earth that could stop him now...