Tootsie's Nose Jesus Elvis Cameron Double's literal approach to writing would fuck me up. That suspicion became evident as we both looked at the little dog's nose and I realized We Were Both Looking At The Little Dog's Nose. Knew what was coming. Cameron was crazy enough, especially tonight, after the chemical waste dump we'd allowed ourselves to become. I knew where we'd end up once this dare shit started. He was still bleeding from my last dare, acting like there wasn't any pain. Maybe there wasn't. With him, anything was possible. That, plus all the anesthetics. He looked from the dog to me and grinned, his lip swollen and bleeding, that tiger-digesting-a-swami grin of his. "Blood tastes . . . " He paused, looked up at the ceiling, and ran his tongue across his lip. "Youthful folly. Death's Wings." Grinned. "Yes ma'am, I do believe I'll have me an order of Death's Wings. To go, thank you." Motioned toward Tootsie with his chin. Then he whispered, "You going to observe it, chickenshit? Or you going to live it? You won't ever know what sucking on a dog's nose tastes like." He winked. "You can fake it . . . but they'll know." Why the hell did I let him push me? Looked down at the acceptance letter from his latest published story, having arrived fresh, earlier this afternoon in the mail. Cameron thought I was looking at the revolver, which sat on the magazine like a paper weight. "Your choice, Shakespeare," he said referring to the other part of our game. The knuckles of my right hand throbbed from where I'd hit him a few moments before. He'd balked, or rather faked balking, at that dare, picking up the pistol, spinning the chamber and pointing it at his head. "A rap in the mouth?" he'd said with mock terror. "My, my, Jack. Such an imaginative dare. I think I may have to go with option B." Put the gun to his head, grinned, waited for effect, then set it back on the table. "Come on, man." Stood, motioned at himself, sticking out his chin, ready for my fist. My left hand still burned from his previous challenge: hand held in the flame of the stove. He'd asked for a line of description. I'd supplied one before the dare to prove my point. "Mangled flicker of quick torture." He'd shrugged, nodding toward the stove. "Not bad. Lets just see, baby." Then after he'd counted to five and I'd pulled my hand out of the flame and staggered around the cluttered kitchen, holding it, he'd whispered, "Like the tongue of Satan?" Grinned. "The tongue of Satan, nestled in your ear. Dig it?" "Fuck you, man!" I'd shouted, surprised at how great the pain was, even through the whiskey. I looked at him now, sitting across from me, reached for the bottle and took a drink. Tootsie's nose? Man, I can't suck a dog's nose. "Cameron - No way, man. It's not relevant." "She's a cute little doggie, Jack." Grinned again. "She's real clean." Nodded toward the small, Wire-haired Terrier. She looked up from the floor, her face inquisitive, one ear standing up. "She don't stick her nose in anybody's business." His grin widened, then faded. He took a drink from the bottle and licked his lips. "To us, everything's relevant." Then he said, "There's always option B, Jack." The pistol had two rounds in the chamber. Cameron had wanted four. I'd wanted one, and we'd settled on two. What were the odds? He'd fucking done it once, just to demonstrate. Spun the chamber, put the pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. The click had been deafening, even though it was pointed at his head. "The end of dreams," he'd said. "Don't you imagine that's the sound of the end of dreams?" I took another drink. "Option C, Jack." He waited a moment, looking at me. "I'll do it, if you don't." He pointed the gun at me. I looked away, picked up the bottle and took another drink. "A, B, or C," he said. "That's all that's on the menu." I glanced back at him long enough to see he was serious. I had no doubt that at this point in the game, and as over-the-line as we both were, he'd shoot me. Stood up and started across the dimly lit room for the door. "Don't come around here whining no more, Jack." Made his voice falsetto. "No one understands me." Then it dropped to its normal, ominous tone. "This ain't no fucking game. Got to live it. Got to experience, Jive Jockey. You want to be a writer? Don't insult the art with your half-assed charade. Don't cheapen it." I spun around. "If I have to go to prison . . . if I have to do all the shit you did to get published, then . . . I'm out." He laughed. "You were never in, kamikaze." Held the door knob. Squeezed it. Over my shoulder he laughed again. His laughter penetrated me. I turned around. Tootsie sat on the carpet within the golden circle of light cast from the antique floor lamp. The explosion of white hair surrounding her nose emphasized it. Moist and black. Trembled like a rabbit's. Moist. I suddenly found myself kneeling in front of her, her dark eyes looking up at me, curious, twinkling. Her nose, black and moist, still quivering around its two small nostrils. Cameron twirled the pistol's chamber. "That's it, Jack." His voice dropped to a raspy whisper. "It's all relevant to the artist." I hesitated, then gently grasped her head and pulled it slowly toward mine. "Ah, yes," Cameron said. "This will be worthy." Reached for a pen on the table, failed to locate one, then shrugged. "Where's that raven quill and lizard's blood when you need it?" Grinned again, pulled one from his large repertoire. "This, Jackie, my boy, might be the first original imagery you compose."