Dan Shanahan slouched in his army surplus coat with the black horse head on the sleeve. His pants, worn and faded, had come from the same surplus, as well as the patched boots on his feet. His graying hair and beard conspired to conceal most of his face in what could be considered a lion's mane if you were charitable.

His only possessions was a wallet with a license that hadn't been renewed in years, a handful of bills some people who felt sorry for him had gave him, a push knife, and the bottle of whiskey he had bought with the money he no longer had.

He walked down Gibbons, heading for a place he used for shelter. It would let him drink his bottle in peace. When he was done, he could sleep in the void of blackness he preferred. When he woke up, he would try to get some more money for another bottle.

He might need to get something to eat tomorrow. He couldn't remember the last time he ate, and he didn't want to when he had a prize like he had in his possession.

Three of the local thugs stood in the way ahead. They loomed over some young woman. She didn't seem pleased at the attention.

Shanahan put one hand in his pants pocket and kept walking. He kept his head down. He cradled his bottle in his coat pocket with his other arm. He only stopped when he was standing in front of the three hoodlums. They didn't pay any attention to him. They were busy harassing the woman.

“Move,” said Shanahan. He didn't talk much, and the words seemed shaky to him.

“What did you say, old man?,” said the lead thug. He stopped looking at the woman, and looked down at the bum confronting him.

“Move,” said Shanahan. He didn't look up.

“What if I don't want to move?,” said the thug. His friends stood beside Shanahan, bracketing him.

A sharp pain ran up the younger man's side. He looked down. The bum had stabbed him in the side.

“If I move my hand, you will die,” said Shanahan. “I wouldn't do anything if I were you.”

“You stabbed me!,” said the thug. “I can't believe you stabbed me!”

“Shut up and listen,” said Shanahan. “I am going to tell you what to do if you want to live. Nod your head if you understand.”

The wounded man's head worked like a bobble in a fast moving car.

“All right,” said Shanahan. “The first thing you need is a bandage. One of your friends is going to need to give up his shirt.”

“What?,” said one of the others.

“Take your shirt off and fold it in a square,” said Shanahan. “When I pull this knife out, your friend will bleed out unless something is holding the cut closed. Don't be a douche.”

“Do it,” said the lead thug. “I don't want to die.”

The buddy pulled his shirt off, but had trouble folding it. The woman took the shirt from him and folded it into a neat square. She held it in her hands.

“I need a belt,” said Shanahan. “Then I am going to show you some first aid so you can get your friend to the hospital.”

The other friend pulled his belt off and held it out.

“Hold on to it,” said Shanahan. “When I pull my knife out, put the folded shirt over the cut. Press down on it as hard as you can.”

The woman nodded. She had a look in her eye like she had done this sort of thing before. That would make things easier.

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“When the bandage goes on, you're going to have to throw the belt over it and pull it tight,” said Shanahan. “That should apply enough pressure until you can get him to the hospital. Any of you have a car?”

There was a chorus of negatives.

“Do you have phones?,” asked Shanahan.

“I do, sir,” said the woman. Her voice was softer than he expected. He glanced at her. She seemed younger on a closer examination, but her eyes were steady enough.

“When we have everything in place, call an ambulance for this chucklehead,” said Shanahan.

“I'm not stupid,” said the thug. Sweat rolled down his face.

“I'm going to count to three,” said Shanahan. “Then we're going to do this. Get ready. One... Two... Three...”

Shanahan pulled his knife out of the guy's side. He stepped back, shaking the excess blood off the blade. The woman pressed the square over the wound. Blood had started seeping through the wounded man's shirt as soon as the knife was pulled out. His friend placed the belt over the bandage. The woman adjusted it so the strap wouldn't slip to one side. The friend pulled the end of the belt through the buckle as tight as he could.

Shanahan wiped the knife off on his pants. He closed the blade and put it in his pocket. He started walking.

“Where are you going?,” asked the shirtless friend.

“Wherever I want,” said Shanahan. He cracked open his bottle and took a sip as he walked. He put the cap back on and put it back in his coat pocket. He walked down to the alley leading to his hiding place. He might have to change his clothes. The police might start looking for him over what he had done.

It wouldn't be the first time he had been in the stir. It was a worry for the future beyond his killing of his bottle.

He walked down to the end of the alley. He shifted a dumpster out of the way after looking around. He didn't want anyone finding his hiding place. He slipped into the opening in the wall behind the dumpster. He pulled the dumpster back in place. He pulled down a shutter and locked it.

He reached to his left and found an electric lamp hanging on a hook. He felt around until he found the activating button on the top. He pushed it in. A dim light flooded his redoubt.

He had found his place after trying to find a place to sleep things off. That door had been in a storage bin on the other side of the inner wall. He had found the bin open and full of stuff. He had rearranged things so he could hide behind the totes and discarded furniture. He had found the inner shutter and been able to open it with his knife.

He found the other shutter after looking around the secret room with some matches. He checked it out and found the dumpster on its sliding pad. That had been another piece of luck since most dumpsters were solid weight that couldn't be moved by arm power alone.

He had moved in things to make things into a small apartment. Then he had rearranged the things in the storage space to hide the shutter from casual searching. Then he put a new lock on the bin to help keep people out.

If the building super needed something from the bin, he would be surprised by the lock but wouldn't know who had put it on. And if he did cut the lock, the only problem would be if he found and tried to open the shutter keeping him out of Shanahan's place.

Shanahan wasn't worried about being discovered. He only had what he wore as far as clothes went, kept his wallet and money close, and didn't care about the amenities that made things easier for him in his apartment.

It was a place off the street where he could drink his problems away without worrying about anyone casually breaking in on him. And he had never been so drunk that someone breaking in either of the shutters to his room would not put him on alert and make him ready to repel them.

He set the bottle down on a small table he had confiscated from the storage bin. He sat down on the floor. He leaned against the wall. He looked down at his hands. He had some blood on his hand. He should wash that off. He decided it could wait until he had a couple of drinks in him.

It had been a while since he had committed some violence on someone. He should have gone around. Now the police would be looking for him. He had no doubt that the three stooges would want to get some of their own back.

He might have to kill them the next time he saw them.

That was something to worry about tomorrow. He didn't have a lot that could be taken from him. Going to jail over the confrontation, or escalating with the three kids, didn't bother him as much as he supposed it should. It was just things.

It had been a long time since he had killed someone. He had not forgotten how. It was like riding a bicycle.

He decided to wash the blood off his hand and pants. He couldn't get money for another bottle in the morning if he looked like he had killed someone in a mugging.

Maybe he could get more money if he looked like he had been the one robbed in a mugging. He smiled at that. It was an idea for consideration after he drank his whiskey.

Shanahan undressed and washed his hands and his clothes in a small sink in the corner of his room. He didn't know why it had been put in the secret room, and he didn't care. The water came from the rest of the building which meant unless someone started looking for the minuscule amount he used, he had free water. He hung his clothes up on a line he had set for that. He opened the bottle again and took a sip.

He sat down and thought that maybe he should get a glass to drink out of instead of drinking the whole bottle down, and going to sleep.