A Dwarf Stood At The Door

by Norman Crane

made them fanatics? What made me different? With each step I took, I was half a metre and several seconds closer to carrying out a murder of my own, a murder to protect the lives of my loved ones.

  Dogor the Double Fisted crossed Main Street, and I followed.

  My phone buzzed.

  It was Wayne. "I'm in one piece but that was fucking intense, buddy. I hope your end is rosy too. I have to warn you, though, Annie hates your guts and you're going to have to make up a hell of a story or buy a lot of flowers to make her get that pissy look off her face. But the important thing's she's safe, right? P.S. The dwarf's not nearly as scary when you seem him the second time. I think I could probably take him. Get in touch when you can and let's put an end to that motherfucker."

  Dogor walked for another few kilometres before turning lazily down a side street and cutting across a lawn toward the back of a public library. I hid behind an oak and watched as he scrambled up a pair of plastic recycling containers stacked one on top of the other, jumped, caught the ledge below an open window, and pulled himself up and inside the library. The moment his boots disappeared, I followed, needing to stand on only one container to peer comfortably after him. The lights in the library were dim. The room appeared to be a spare study room, with two tables and a few antique computer stations lining the walls. One of the computers was on, its small green light unblinking. Dogor checked to see if he was alone, neared the computer, touched it with his finger—and was sucked up instantly by its 3.5" floppy disk drive, which whirred to life with a blue light of its own.

  So that's that, I thought. Step one complete, step two ready to proceed. I hopped off the recycling container thinking it was a lot easier to call it step two rather than killing. Operation Gimli Tomahawk, that's probably what the CIA would have called it. Anyway, the name hardly mattered. A few people gave me disapproving glances as I rejoined the light flow of traffic on the sidewalk, and I felt embarrassed, a pepping tom caught in the act, but I refused to let my embarrassment show. Besides, what was there to peek at in a library? No one got changed there. I gave the dirty looks right back, judgmental people and their perverted imaginations.

  There was a bus stop near the library. I waited until the bus came, rode it to a stop close to my house and walked the remaining distance while limply holding my phone and trying to respond to Wayne's email, which meant trying to put my own whirlpool of a head in order.

  If Dogor trusted me, getting him to meet me somewhere wouldn't prove difficult. That was an objective positive. So was the fact that we'd outnumber him two to one, and four to one in terms of height. It was the act of stabbing, bludgeoning, choking, burning or otherwise snuffing Dogor out that gave me the moral heebie-jeebies. I tried explaining to myself that I'd swatted flies and stepped on spiders before, that I'd fished, that Dogor was a character in a video game and if video game deaths counted I was already a serial killer, but my conscience dodged all my attempts to pound it into numbness.

  I took out my car keys and pressed the button for my automatic garage door opener, then burrowed around in my collection of power tools and hoarded junk, looking for anything that could constitute a weapon. The obvious choice was my car. We could daze Dogor and ding him with the might of German engineering. If he was still alive, we could back over him. Nothing suggested we couldn't demolish his body so long as some part of him was left. I entertained gruesome thoughts of killing him, then slicing off a finger or an ear and trying to shove that into the floppy disk drive until Xynk processed it. The main problem with the car was that I might ruin it. Dogor was like a small moose. Actually, that was the secondary problem. The primary problem was that, technically, the car was Annie's and she already had issues with me. For the first time, divorce flashed before my eyes. The pain it dragged with it was at least a reminder that I still very much loved my wife. So: I'd bring the car, but only in case of an emergency. I picked up a battery-powered drill because it resembled a firearm, pulled the trigger, and put it down. What was I going to do with a goddamn drill? A shovel was better. I opened the trunk of the car and tossed the shovel inside. A small sledge hammer joined it. I also took my favourite saw, in case we really did need to separate one part of Dogor's body from another, and a half full can of bear spray. That was one of the perks of living in Canada. A disadvantage was guns. Olaf Brandywine had suggested that I could shoot Dogor if I wanted to, but how was I going to get my hands on a weapon? I could buy an air rifle, I supposed. Somehow, bear spray followed by lots of yelling and banging with a blunt instrument seemed better. What else? I added a tarpaulin for splatter protection and possible corpse transportation, and some good, old fashioned knives—which reminded me that I still had the one Dogor had given me. I took it out and observed it in the dazzling white light of a hundred watt energy efficient bulb. The craftsmanship was outstanding. The blade was beautifully engraved. I left that particular knife on my work bench.

  All packed, I sat on the steps leading up to the door into my home and wrote to Wayne:

  "I know what Dogor uses to travel between worlds. It's a disk drive in an old computer at the public library. That means we're on. If we don't do it in a few days I swear I'll to lose my mind and possibly my marriage, so I suggest we do it quick. I think he trusts me, so I'll get him to meet me somewhere (the old GM plant?) where you'll be waiting, and we'll both turn on him. I've already packed a few tools that might constitute weapons, as well as some bear spray, but pack whatever you can find too. If you have anything we could use against him from a distance, take that especially, because the easier we can avoid his axe the better. He does have his armour, but once we get him down we can strip that off or just aim for the face. I assume he dies like a human. I don't know what happens once he's dead, but maybe nothing out of the ordinary, in which case we'll need to take his body to the library. Tell me if you disagree, but I'd prefer to do this in daylight and then break into the library once it gets dark. I don't know what else to write. I feel sick to my stomach."

  I sent the message just in time to make it outside and throw up all over my driveway.

  I hosed the asphalt clean, then drove to the motel.

  In my room, I clicked on the TV and booted up the Thinkpad, already shuddering at what I'd type or say to Dogor.

  He wasn't in my room.

  Downstairs, the Innkeeper relayed a message:

  > "That dwarf came by again. He didn't leave his name, but said he'd meet you at The Pierced Snout Tavern," the Innkeeper says.

  > ask the innkeeper about pierced snout tavern

  > "The Pierced Snout Tavern is a wonderfully disreputable establishment over in Fog's Bottom," the Innkeeper says.

  I already knew where that was. I exited the The Yawning Mask, opened my spreadsheet map on my phone and navigated to the appropriate district. The tavern wasn't too far from Jacob's House. I wondered if he was still convulsing on the floor, but I wasn't about to find out. I entered the tavern instead.

  > THE TWITCHING SNOUT TAVERN

  > A smoky atmosphere, live lute music and barmaids with glass mugs and matching breasts. It's still not too busy, given the time of day. DOGOR sits at a table. Two ELVES are flirting by the bar. The BARTENDER eyes you with entrepreneurial suspicion.

  > sit at dogor's table

  > You take a seat opposite Dogor, who's concentrating on staring at the bottom of an empty mug. A barmaid brings you both full ones. "Tonight's on me," Dogor says, his slurred speech suggesting he's already a few drinks ahead.

  I moved closer to the Thinkpad's microphone because it seemed silly to type to someone I'd met in real life—although, taken to its logical conclusion, that would prevent me from emailing or sending text messages, so the better explanation was: the least I could do was actually speak to the creature I was planning to betray and kill. "Good evening, Dogor. Thanks for the ale."

  "My pleasure."

  > take a sip of ale

  > It tastes like any decent variety, better in large quantities.

  I wished I had a
real beer. I wondered if Dogor had ever had a real one. Then again, his ale was real to him. He could reach out and squeeze a barmaid's breast if he wanted to.

  > "You ever wonder what would happen to you in your world if you died in mine, John Grousewater?" Dogor asks.

  I hadn't. Obviously, the game would end and I could start over as another adventurer. I mean, that's what happened in games. Just because Dogor could die in our world didn't mean I could die in his. The rule sets were different. More importantly, was he threatening me?

  > Dogor raises a hand. "I don't mean anything untoward. Ale loosens my tongue and makes me think aloud sometimes." He downs another mug, slams the mug down and motions for the barmaid. "It's a fine place this, The Twitching Snout. Once you spend enough time in Xynk, you'll agree."

  If beneath his level twenty-six exterior Dogor was actually depressed, that might present me with an opportunity to escape my murderous predicament. I could lure him out of Xynk based on the trust he apparently had in me, dull his senses and bring out his mental issues by feeding him beer, and then convince him the only way out was to commit suicide. He couldn't kill himself in Xynk, but in my world...

  "Do you think about death a lot?" I asked.

  > Dogor clears his throat. "It's not a frequent topic of