Volume One, Chapter Twenty-One: Emotions That Should Not Exist

Under the cover of night, the Flying Squirrel clutched the wound at his lower back as he staggered into a narrow alley. The passage was long and shrouded in darkness.

His stumbling footsteps roused a guard dog, which erupted in barking. One dog barking at shadows soon became a chorus, every dog in the alley joining in, and he worried most that some household might not have locked their doors, letting the dogs spill out.

Outside a house with its door ajar sat a stone bench. He gritted his teeth, braced himself against the mud wall, and sank down. He twisted the cap off a bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey, took several deep swigs, slowly removed his shirt, and bent over, pouring the liquor onto his wound.

A guttural cry escaped him, his mouth drawing in cold air. He tore off both sleeves of the shirt, knotted them into a makeshift bandage, and tied it around his waist. He slipped the sleeveless shirt back on; it was already stained with someone else’s blood, now mixed with his own, and more blood soon colored it deeper red.

Suddenly, he worried about his future virility and couldn’t help but chuckle. His hands never stopped trembling. For years, the Flying Squirrel’s hands shook at night, but a drink always steadied them; he was convinced he had “alcohol dependency.”

Yet the trembling now wasn’t from withdrawal—he’d already consumed plenty of beer earlier. Nor was it fear, but lingering anger.

A thought struck him: Why were there addicts tonight?

This was Yanno’s territory. Yanno, a