Ro' Joestar

Time passes by without a word, without even a greeting, goes a saying in the Arabic world.

A few days have passed since I started working with the stray dog hunter team. No progress has been made in Iggy’s pursuit. Even if we receive information and rush to the scene, we find nothing but chewed up coffee flavoured gum, sticky with saliva.

„The last time he did this, we just had to look around carefully and he was nearby. Maybe he had fun being found and chased by humans on purpose. He must be very confident he’ll never actually be caught. Lately, who knows why, he’s been immediately disappearing, without a trace. Even if there’s a puddle, he gets away without stepping in it and leaving footprints.”

The Spaniard clicks his tongue. Iggy is careful and on his guard when it came to humans. It might have been because I showed him Magician’s Red. I taught him that even among humans, there are some he ought to be cautious with.

According to the Speedwagon Foundation’s reports, other pest exterminators commissioned by the city are also unable to track Iggy down. They put out coffee flavoured chewing gum with sleeping pills hidden inside them all over New York, but Iggy doesn’t even seem to touch it.

Where is he even staying? He must be living someplace. If he has such a den, it can’t be anywhere outside of Manhattan Island, such as Brooklyn, Queens or Bronx. No witness has reported seeing him crossing a bridge.

As the Speedwagon Foundation runs their extensive research, I am also roaming the streets of Manhattan looking for a Boston Terrier on my own. However, I’m only ever approached by malicious people.

As the sun sets, they approached me on deserted streets, pulling their guns on me. They trap me, with one of them appearing from the shadow of the building before me, and the other from behind me.

„Hey, are those huge earrings made of real gold? Or are they fake?” The man raises his gun, pointing its muzzle at me. Gold earrings hang from both of my ears. They consist of several connected discs, the ends of both sides joining together before my neck.

„They are real. Gold gives both the body and the soul power. It feels like it’s filling you with strength when you wear it. Besides, in case anything happens, it is easy to liquidate. Among Arabs such as myself, there are surprisingly many who walk around wearing accessories like these. It is the wisdom of nomads who have no fixed residence.”

„That’s some great wisdom! It makes our job easier.”

As a matter of fact, I summoned Magician’s Red the very moment they appeared. It is impossible for them to see him, but surely they must be feeling the heat.

Magician’s Red touches their guns, and the black metal turns red hot. The men can’t hold their heating weapons any longer, and throw them to the ground with a shriek. In the puddle that the gun is slowly melting into on the asphalt, the gunpowder from the cartridge is heating up, erupting gas. The men decide to escape this frightening situation.

Watching their backs, I suddenly think, „did I also look like that?” I must have resembled them as I have run away with a shriek a couple months ago in Cairo.

Sleeping at the hotel, I’ve come to often see nightmares. When I wake up, my sheets are drenched in sweat. These nightmares would always remind me of that night.

My shop is in the Khan el-Khalili souk of my hometown. The man quietly stood upon the staircase leading to its second story. The moonlight pouring in from the window lit up his figure. He held a sexual allure not unlike a woman’s. The thick scent of incense hung in the air around him, hiding the stench of death. I was terrified, but also captivated by his detached aura. His icy gaze crept right into my heart. His blond hair like gold. Skin so white it appeared translucent. His bewitching lips parted slightly, flashing sharp, fang-like canine teeth. As he licked their points, I understood he was no human. I’d already heard about who he really was from my American friend.

That man was DIO. And he wasn’t human.

„He’s assembling Stand users to aid him in his goals, Avdol. There’s a chance someday he’ll show up at your place too."

„Do not worry, Mr Joestar. If he does come to me, I’ll turn him into ash.”

„If you run into him, get out of there. There’s no shame in running away. Do not by any means approach him! Survive and wait for your chance.”

The truth is, when I actually met him face-to-face, no option other than escaping even came to my mind.

You possess a special power no ordinary man holds, do you not? I would be delighted if you only showed it to me.

The words he spoke put me at ease. That was when I realized how terrifying he was. His dangerous sweetness felt like euphoria flooding my brain.

I jumped out the window and run. Had I not known the souk’s maze so well I would not have been able to escape his pursuit. I fled abroad, never returning to my hometown.

***

My hometown...

The wind blowing in the desert, the heat of the sun, my father and my mother...

The graveyard where my parents have been buried is in the outskirts of Cairo.

I was born in Cairo, Egypt. My father was  a soldier and the firstborn son of a family with honourable roots. My mother made a living with fortune telling on streetcorners. I was still a young child when my father lost his life in the Six-Day War. He shielded a comrade with his own body, protecting him from the explosion of a hand grenade. The comrade he saved told me this himself. Only his arms remained that he held out to push him out of the explosion’s way.

I was raised with my father’s annuity and my mother’s income. However, I also lost my mother before I was an adult. There was a shooting incident in town involving a PaIestinian terrorist organization. My mother was near the site, and was shot in her head and back. Under my mother’s corpse was a little girl, sobbing. She protected that little girl before her eyes from the bullets at the cost of her life.

The comrade my father saved became a teacher later on and passed his knowledge on to countless children. The little girl my mother protected became a nurse saving other people’s lives. The death of my parents wasn’t in vain. This was the relief to my pain.

As an orphan, I had to live on my own. Luckily, since I inherited the talent of fortune telling from my mother, I managed to make a living with Tarot reading. The slums of Cairo are no different from garbage dumps. That was where I based my life. It wasn’t a safe place, but as I was born a Stand user, I could protect myself.

I have seen the ill will of many people. In the slums, everyone deceived the other. It was all people sticking their hands in the pockets of the rich, taking their wallets. Many kids my age dirtied their hands and strayed onto the path of evil. I escaped that fate because I kept the faces of my father and mother in my mind. I thought of them who died protecting others with pride, and they became my guides to a righteous life.

When I was in my mid-twenties in 1985, my skills as a fortune teller were recognized and I became a certain millionaire’s specialist. My employer was a beautiful woman, but of an awful nature. When she travelled to England, I was ordered to go along with her as well.

Our destination was a party of the rich. It took place in a magnificent mansion in a high-end district of London. I was present there as an assistant. My employer wore a beautiful dress, and her good looks drew everyone’s attention around her. Many approached her with compliments, among them was a cheerful white man. He was quite large, and even with his suit on I could tell he had a sturdy build. There was no doubt he was elderly, but still there was a youthful look to him.

The man tried to get her attention with his jokes, but my employer did not sway. He wore gloves on both hands, and his left seemed to be a mechanical prosthesis. His name was Joseph Joestar. I was told he was the proprietor of a real estate agency in New York.

While my lady was engaging in conversation with other men, I happened to spend some time in the company of Joseph Joestar in one of the mansion’s rooms. It was a cold night, like it was about to snow. The women in the room felt cold as the fire in the fireplace died down. They all wore dresses that left their shoulders naked.

Joseph Joestar threw the spare wood prepared next to the fireplace into the fire, but the flames didn’t light up right away. The wood needed time to really start burning.

„Wait just a little. You should be warming up soon” Joseph Joestar told the women. I was standing just before the fireplace, and decided to help warm up the room. I turned to the firewood and held out my right arm.

Burn.

The small, dying flames swelled up. The fire inside the fireplace burned up with a bright redness, swallowing the wood. I toned down the flames so that they wouldn’t turn it to ashes immediately. Their revitalized force started warming up the room right away. The women, seemingly relieved, resumed their friendly chattering as they were freed of the cold.

Joseph Joestar stood a little away from me, on his guard.

„What did you just do?”

„I made the flames bigger. You might not believe me, but this is something I have been able to do ever since I was a child. I can set a fire without a match or a lighter.”

„For a moment there I saw something like an arm. It wasn’t yours. It looked like an arm with flaming wrists appeared and revived the flames to me. Did I see it wrong?”

It was my turn to be surprised. He also saw it. The half-beast arm manifesting separately from my own. The figure shrinking the swelling flames back down in the fireplace with a move just like a conductor adjusts an orchestral performance.

A dog with car wheels. The Stand itself isn’t visible to regular people but the sand it is manipulating is without a doubt real. Apparently this Stand is able to collect and freely move around sand that has mass. The taxi driver said that for the past half year, sand has been passing around Manhattan island – so much sand it even covers the skyscrapers in a haze. The source of it might have been Iggy’s Stand. The collected sand likely wanders off into the sky on the wind after it is abandoned.

Beyond the rusty, crooked fences the „project’s” mansions stand, that is where our team meets up.

From the street running along the riverside, we hear the sound of a hard brake and the echo of a honk. A Boston Terrier crosses the road, ignoring the car.

„There he is! Get him!”, the Spaniard’s voice rings as he runs. He rushes across the road, showering in curses coming from the cars he has to stop. Before us, the Harlem river lies roughly 300 meters wide. The coast across from us is Wards Island. It once served as a place to collect and dispose of the waste of Manhattan, but now it gives place to football fields, tennis courts and a caretaking institution for psychiatric patients.

Iggy is atop of a concrete pier installed on the coast. He is restlessly searching for a place to hide, watching us almost terrified. It seems as if he has run out of places to go when he escaped onto the pier reaching out to the river.

The men following the Spaniard’s lead gather near the pier. Things are in the favour of the stray dog hunting team. It looks like Iggy is cornered in a dead-end.

I watch the team from the pier. The Spaniard holds up his tranquilizer gun to aim. All he needs to do was to fire it. If it hits, the Boston Terrier will fall asleep immediately.

At the very end of the pier, Iggy stops moving around. Did he give up? No, he didn’t. He stretches out, yawning. He seems bored of playing around with humans. He lifts a hind leg, scratching his ear loudly, and he shakes the flabs of his muzzle. It is a humorous look, not betraying any intelligence.

The Spaniard clicks his tongue. „It’s taking us for fools!”

I get a bad feeling. Just until a little ago, he seemed to be scared of the stray dog hunters, but now he acts like he has all the time in the world. Something is off.

The Spaniard aims and pulls the trigger. In that moment, something strange occurrs beneath his feet. The concrete pier slowly starts to sink into Harlem river, and it isn’t just the pier either. The foothold resting on the riverside is losing its shape, crumbling as the water swallows it.

„What’s going on?!” the team cries out in unison. I only realize when I get to them that what we are standing on isn’t a pier made of concrete. It is hardened sand imitating a pier. It only held onto its form and stayed atop the water with great power without sinking because of the control Iggy has over it.

„We’re sinking! Run!”

The team falls into a state of fear, trying to get back onto shore, but we find ourselves unable to move just before we could. Our feet sink into the mix of sand and water and the more we struggle the deeper we get stuck.

Only the tip of the pier where Iggy stands kept its shape. He secured himself a place to watch the chaos among the men and now stretches out. I had no idea where he kept it, but he takes out some coffee flavoured chewing gum and bites down on it loudly – munch munch munch. It looks like he’s having fun watching humans in trouble.

The pier is crumbling, and we are left behind on top of the soft water-sand mixture. We couldn’t move in any direction. If I try to pull out one leg, the other starts sinking again as it holds my body weight. I recognize this phenomenon. It was quicksand.

„Everyone, calm down! If you struggle you’ll only sink deeper!” I yell. Quicksand is particles of sand, mud and clay mixed into water and saturating it. They also call it „bottomless swamp”. Due to its pseudoplastic fluid traits, it picks up vibrations and increases liquidity. The more one tries to escape it, the deeper they sink. „Keep your postures upright and stay still! If you don’t move you won’t sink! You mustn’t lean any direction! If you don’t stand up straight it will close up your respiratory tracks!”

The Spaniard, the rugby player and everyone else on the team stop squirming around in response to my voice. That’s it, this is all. Quicksand has a high density, it is possible to basically float in it. If we only manage to calm down, we should be able to swim freely soon as Harlem river diffuses the sand. Iggy provided it with his Stand power and it is possible that he can maintain its quicksand state, but I know that wouldn’t happen –

For I summon my Stand.

„Magician’s Red!” I call out. That is the name of my Stand.

White vapour erupts from under my feet. The water mixed into the sand begins to evaporate with a noise from the heat. A shining red blinds my sight. It appears as if it was born from flames. The shape of my soul, the guardian spirit accompanying me. Iggy’s Stand takes the form of a dog with wheels, but mine’s is that of a human with the head of a bird of prey. His upper body is naked and toned, just like a man fighting in an arena. His skin is tan as copper. Down from his waist, he is burning bright with flames reminiscent of ruffled fur.

Iggy forgets about his chewing gum and stands up on all fours – he looks surprised.

„You can see it, right, Iggy? The form of Magician’s Red, appearing from flames and vapour. You’re not the only one here possessing special abilities.”

We Stand users move our Stands as if they were our own limbs. I have Magician’s Red take a single step forward. As his flame-covered feet touch the quicksand, the water evaporates from it, blowing off hot steam. The pest control team behind me probably has no idea what is going on.

Iggy lowers his body to guard himself. He shifts his posture forward, threateningly lifting up his behind. As if it was oozing from thin air, his Stand manifests, a giant dog equipped with wheels. This is the guardian by Iggy’s side.

I don’t suppose he understands any human language, but I call out to him anyway.

„Wouldn’t you be nice and let us capture you? If I have to pin you down by force, we would just end up injuring each other. I don’t want to hurt you. Iggy, it would be dangerous to leave you alone in Manhattan. A scary man might come and try take you away.”

The man I met in Cairo...

He is searching the world for those with power, taking the freedom of their souls and making them his followers.

„I can grant you anything you wish. Coffee flavoured chewing gum, or a warm bed. So why don’t you surrender? We can guarantee your safety. A place with no illness or injury, the Speedwagon Foundation’s research facilities. Even if you get badly hurt, they can treat you with the most advanced medical technology.”

Even then, Iggy’s stance does not loosen. Of course it doesn’t. As far as he’s concerned, I am no different from the stray dog hunting team. I have to capture him first.

„We’ll negotiate later. Go, Magician’s Red!” I yell. Magician’s Red’s wrists are constantly wrapped in flames. These now swell up with a red radiance. This ferocious, savage fire expands the air with its extreme heat and extends into the entire area with a shock wave. Vapour blows up from the quicksand.

Magician’s Red’s fiery fists strike down, and swing out into Iggy’s direction in a gouging motion. The flames race like a runaway locomotive, boiling the sand-water mixture into magmalike red-hot substance as they pass by.

„...?!” Iggy watches Magician’s Red in shock.

The sand grains melt where his attack struck. The melted sand becomes glasslike, the grains surrounding it stick to it and as the water cools it down, it forms fragile, porous clumps. I wish it had more time to cool, but I have no choice at the moment. The water surrounding the magmalike straight path cools and solidifies it with a cracking noise.

Holding onto Magician’s Red, I pull my feet out of the quicksand. I try to stand on the solid, glasslike path and find it is more or less able to withhold my weight. I run in Iggy’s direction. In some spots it cracks under my feet, but it doesn’t pose a problem.

First, I have to get closer to Iggy. Magician’s Red is only able to move as far as a couple meters away from me. It changes from Stand to Stand how far they’re able to move away from their users. The stronger the Stand the smaller their range, the weaker it is the farther it can go. In the case of Magician’s Red, he can attack faraway objectives by releasing his flames, but to strike or make someone surrender by force he has to get closer.

I dash across the foothold of melted quicksand, getting him just a little outside Magician’s Red’s range. Behind Iggy is Harlem river, he has nowhere to run to. He will probably face me with his own Stand, I speculate.

However, all of a sudden he relaxes his threatening posture. He throws a glance at me as if he just came to his senses, and exhales sharply.

He lightly sweeps around with his front paw, to which countless grains of sand obscure my surroundings.

„Magician’s Red!” I yell. He is within my range. My Stand’s bird head opens his beak wide, letting out a shriek worthy of a wicked beast as he swings his fist. The swirling sand vanishes in his heat. My sight is clear again – but Iggy is no longer at the end of the pier. He disappeared. The tip of the pier crumbles, sinking into the river. It is proof that whoever  has been controlling the sand is no longer here.

So he chose to escape, possibly jumped into Harlem river itself.

I look over my surroundings, trying to find the Boston Terrier but see nothing. He must have dived into the water. I wait to see if he is going to come to the surface for air, but he doesn’t show up anywhere. There is a chance he figured out a way to stay underwater for a long time by manipulating sand, but this is nothing but speculation.

The river swipes away all the sand, and the stray dog hunters have already swum back to shore. The excursion boats circling around Manhattan pass by at leasure a little farther away. The tourists on board stare at me standing on top of the water with wonder.

***

We all get back in our cars completely drenched and return to the office. Neither the Spaniard nor the rugby player hide their resentment towards the Boston Terrier. As I am listening to their angry voices, I summon Magician’s Red’s power just a little to dry my dripping clothes. Since they don’t see my Stand, they must be certain that I escaped the Boston Terrier by skillfully running atop the quicksand.

„I thought it was the second coming Moses, I was sure you parted the water and ran on top of it,” the Spaniard says as he pats my shoulder.

I inform them I would come again tomorrow, and leave the office.

In the afternoon, I take the subway and go on a walk in Central Park. The giant park in the heart of Manhattan has a long, narrow shape that measures 4 kilometers from north to south and 0.8 kilometers from east to west. In the center of its eastern side stands the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and pinched between its western side and the road resides the American Museum of Natural History.

As I walk, breathing in the scent of the trees, a group of small dogs is lurking in the bushes. None of them wear collars. They probably live in the park, snatching whatever the people eating sandwiches on the benches drop.

Stray dogs, or wild dogs as some call them, can be seen a lot less frequently in the urban districts. If the city is further developped, there will probably be even less of them. Unvaccinated, they pose a threat to humans – people infected with rabies can rarely be saved. Not to mention that even now, stray dogs are attacking and mauling people to death all over the world. If one were to think about human lives, their numbers have to be decreased.

If Iggy were to prioritize the happiness of these stray dogs above all else, he could become their king and take them to a resting place free of human involvement. Just like the prophet Moses from the Bible.

But in reality, Iggy is likely not doing that. He prioritizes nothing but his own survival and living in freedom. He avoided the battle with Magician’s Red and fled the scene because he was not willing to fight.

I sit down on a bench next to a pond. The bench is lightly covered in sand. I wipe it down, pale yellow grains sticking to my hand. It reminds me of the deserts of my homeland Egypt. The red-hot sun, the endless hills of sand, the rising heat haze...

I pull out my tarot pack. I use it for fortune telling. I shuffle the cards, calling Iggy’s Stand to mind. A Stand needs a name. In my case, I used the tarot to name mine. „Magician’s Red” comes from „The Magician”, the first card of the Major Arcana. What tarot card will symbolize Iggy’s Stand?

A dog with wheels. Feathers resembling the Native American’s. Controlling sand, toying with humans, protecting Iggy.

I pull a single card while keeping all that in mind. The number on the card was 0. The number zero card of the Major Arcana, „The Fool”. Its meanings in upright position are freedom, not fitting the mould, simple-mindedness, genuineness, naïveté, probability, imagination, a genius.

The Fool’s card has the image of a man on it walking with a wooden stick. He wears tattered clothing and a small package hangs at the end of his stick. Depending on the tarot deck, there are cases where the figure of a jester is drawn on this card, they even say it originated from the joker of playing cards. The Fool card is also famous for usually having a dog drawn in its corner.

The morning after my arrival, the air is still clouded by yellow. White steam rises from the gutters all over. I buy a toasted sandwich at a corner store to eat. Crispy bacon and fresh lettuce are held between fragnant bread.

I take the subway on my way to the city center to participate in the „stray dog hunt”. Passing ticket control and ascending the stairs, I find myself in a desolate place. It is a district with empty bear cans lying around and closed shutters of shops bearing graffiti. On one side stands a brick building, the ground floor offices of which belong to a company specializing in pest extermination.

Its name is Reliable Pest Control Services, or RPCS for short. In addition to pest control, they undertake everything from vermin extermination and cleaning up buildings to waste management. At this time, the Speedwagon Foundation has contacted the manager, requesting their help capturing Iggy in exchange for financial support.

As I state the purpose of my visit at the reception desk, a large, middle-aged Spaniard shows up. His stern face looks like it was carved from stone, and three vertical lines run down across his right eye – they seem to be claw marks.

„You’re Avdol, right? The chief told me about you. So you wanna catch that damn Boston Terrier?”

„My American friend has entrusted me with this request.”

„I’ll let you watch, just make sure you’re not bothering us!”

„All right. For now, I would like to study your work. I won’t intervene or disturb you, I’ll just watch from a distance.”

„Admirable attitude, Egyptian.”

The Spaniard leads me inside the office. It is like a labyrinth of miscellaneous packages piled up on top of each other with desks, blackboards, a billiard table, a darts board and empty liquor bottles in the gaps between them. On an old sofa set, four men are gathered, exhaling cigarette smoke and playing poker.

„These guys are my team,” introduces them the Spaniard. The men put down their cards, turning their gazes to me, as if to observe me.  They all have vulgar faces. One of them clicks his tongue, putting out the cigarette he’s been smoking on an ashtray. He is a large, white man resembling a rugby player.

„So you’re the Foundation’s buddy? The chief told us if we keep an eye out for you the Speedwagon Foundation would pay us a nice sum. But y’know, this is a lot of extra work for us.”

„I will not bother you. All I wish is to stand by and watch your work from a distance, to see how the dog could be captured. I don’t believe that would increase your work at all.”

„You coming with us means you’ll be taking up a seat in the car. We’ll have to take less equipment like that!”

They are going to drive to Manhattan Island in two cars, one of them a van equipped with dog cages. The space in the vehicles is crammed with all sorts of nets and traps, tranquilizer guns and such. It appears that with my participation, they can load a lot less into the cars. The Spaniard tries to calm down the man.

„Hey, don’t say that. It’s not like animal traps are any good against that Boston Terrier, we’d be bringing them for nothing.” He pulled me away from the men. „They’re just pissed because that shitty dog got the best of them.”

„What do you mean by animal traps?”

„Cages you can’t leave once you’re caught in them, like bear traps. You know bear traps, right? Like the Gustave Courbet painting, „Fox caught in a trap”? The iron trap that the fox’s leg is stuck in. But no such trap can catch that Boston Terrier, they were useless even with his favourite coffee chewing gum inside. I don’t know how but he just ran away with the chewing gum, without triggering the trap.”

A map hangs on the wall, the places where Iggy have been spotted marked on it. He has been seen all over Manhattan. Wall Street, Times Square, he even seems to be frequenting the ferry to Liberty Island with the Statue of Liberty.

„I made some posters with his image and put them up all over Manhattan. I wrote on it that we’ll reward anyone that has any news, so we got some information from the citizens.”

He shows me an actual poster. Drawn on it is a foolish image of a Boston Terrier, drool dripping from his mouth.

„The claw marks on your face, was that also him?”

„A while ago we tried strike him down when he was taking a nap. We got a report and when we rushed there, he was basking in the sun, snoring like hell. I decided to shoot him with a tranquilizer gun from a distance. As I pointed the gun at him and aimed, he woke up but didn’t try to run away. He saw us and yawned without a care in the world. I pulled the trigger and a tranquilizer dart shot out. My aim was sure, no doubt about it.”

However, the dart didn’t hit its target. It flipped midair in front of the Boston Terrier, just as if it was being blocked by something invisible.

„I dunno why. Maybe it was a faulty dart, it changed its direction in the middle of its track. We had to try and catch him with a net, but that damn dog jumped up and scratched my face. He tore out some of my hair and farted once before escaping us. It’s a mystery what he ate that made him fart like that but it was putrid.”

I’m thinking about the invisible thing that was said to have deflected the tranquilizer dart. There was no way the dart was faulty. They couldn’t see it. Something invisible was present before Iggy and it protected him. I have a pretty good idea what that mysterious something could have been.

A bell’s sound echoes in the RPCS office. The staff member from the reception desk at the front entrance calls out to us. The men playing poker stand, leaving the room running.

„Where are you going?”

„The locker room. We’re changing into work clothes and leaving. Tha bell only rings when we get news of someone seeing that damn Boston Terrier. If we don’t hurry, he’ll get away!”

In a matter of minutes, they all finish changing into grey work clothes, getting inside both cars in the garage. I myself accompany them, getting inside the van carrying the cages. The van is driven by a slim, young Black man. The Spaniard sits in the passenger’s seat and I take my place behind them.

„The phone call came from someone living near the Harlem River, they saw that shitty Boston Terrier stealing chewing gum” says the Spaniard, folding out a map to check the route. The two cars take off, rushing towards the area facing Harlem River.

Inside the hurling car, I am debating whether I should tell the man with the strict face sitting before me that the Boston Terrier actually has a name. In the end, I decide not to do so. They wouldn’t care too much for what the dog’s name is anyway.

***

The north-eastern parts of Manhattan are mostly inhabited by immigrants. Most of the people passing us by are Puerto Rican or Mexican, the majority of the conversations I overhear are in Spanish. Many brown mansions stand by the riverside. The city of New York built these for low income citizens and they refer to them as a „project”. There are nearly 2900 of these „projects” in New York City, with roughly 420,000 people inhabiting them. Some apartments are used for drug trafficking, they are a hotbed for crime.

The stray dog hunting team gets out of the vehicles parking on the roadside and sets out looking around the neighborhood. I decide to stick with the Spaniard. First of all, he wants to meet and talk to the person reporting the dog.

The Spaniard approaches a young man of Latin American descent standing by a payphone on a street corner. He smells like marijuana.

„You’re the guys looking for the Boston Terrier, right?”

„Yeah. Can you tell us what you saw?”

„It was just now, like thirty minutes ago. A weird dog came out of that supermarket over there, it was eating something. The store clerk ran after it but it got away. It was black and white. I thought it was a French Bulldog but it had a slim body so I figured it was a Boston Terrier. I called the number from a poster when I saw that.”

The young man rubs his index finger and thumb together in a gesture of requesting his reward. The Spaniard hands him a couple of bank notes but he doesn’t seem impressed.

„Hey, this isn’t even enough for a beer!”

„If you have more info, I’ll give you more.”

The Spaniard sends the young man away and sets off in the direction of said supermarket. It is a small store standing in a dirty, graffiti-covered alleyway.      I call it a supermarket but it is nothing more than a private business, with colourful vegetables on its racks that look fresh and delicious. The store clerk, a fat Black woman, is standing there with a troubled look on her face. The Spaniard calls out to her.

„We heard a Boston Terrier stole some of your merchandise, is that true?”

„Yeah, just look at this!” she beckons. The Spaniard’s work clothes have the logo of his company embroidered, she must know he’s an expert of vermin extermination. Right as we step inside the supermarket we find a candy shelf. The goods have been stolen from it and the empty shelf is sticky with a clear liquid dripping off of it. „It’s just like ’Alien’, isn’t it? The movie. Have you seen it? The monster was drooling just like this.”

The store clerk furrows her brows. The Spaniard takes out a ballpoint pen from his chest pocket, picking up some of the liquid with its end and examining its viscosity and smell.

„It’s drool. Those shelves had coffee flavour chewing gum on them, am I right?”

„Exactly! A small black and white dog devoured it right here. I tried to catch it but it picked up the entire box and ran off. I reported it to the police as well, just in case, but I’m surprised to see that you guys showed up! Then again, there’s so much crime on these streets, the police must be very busy.”

Leaving the store, the Spaniard gets in touch with his men. Each of them carries a transceiver, making it possible to exchange information between each other so long as they are within a couple kilometers radius.

I decide to investigate our surroundings as well. I move through dirty alleyways scattered with trash, looking for a Boston Terrier.

The wind carries the stench of alcohol and urine. It is probably drunks standing in the alleys and taking a piss. A row of cars stand parking on the roadside. It is a lonely street with no people or cars passing by.

Someone from our team is questioning a vagrant, holding the handle of a large net. It is the white man that complained to me in the office and reminded me of a rugby player. It seems like his work clothes were about to burst with his muscles.

„Didn’t you see a dog around here? A small, black and white one. It has a short snout and it farts a lot.”

The vagrant our rugby player is looking down to is an elderly man, leaning back onto a building’s wall as he’s sitting on the ground. He put down a piece of cardboard to make his sitting place more comfortable. His mouth seems to be mumbling something in response to the rugby player’s question, however he can’t form his words properly, having lost all his teeth.

„There... right there...” The vagrant’s words come in fragments. He points a finger at the wall right across the street. I turn to the rugby player.

„I believe this old man is pointing us to around there.”

The rugby player glances at me, turning his gaze to where the vagrant is pointing.

„There’s nothin’ there. Nothin’ strange. Not a Boston Terrier, not a place where a small dog could hide.”

„But this old man is trying to bring our attention to something.”

On the other side of the line of parking cars is nothing but old brick buildings, lined up without so much as a crevice between them. The vagrant is pointing at one of those walls.

The rugby player shakes his head.

„That’s just a wall. We asked the wrong guy. Maybe he’s hallucinating!”

The vagrant, however, keeps on murmuring.

„...weird... how...? It’s gone... I don’t...”

I decide to walk across to the other side of the road.

„Hey, Egyptian! Don’t just do whatever you like! Come back here!” I hear the rugby player’s voice but I ignore him.

I approach the wall the vagrant is pointing to, and trailed a finger along it. Its surface is just slightly damp, but also coarse. It is probably the speckles of sand dancing in the wind that stick to it.

„Hey! Egyptian!”

An odd sense of discomfort comes over me. My finger tracing the wall gets caught in the corner of a brick, which then quickly crumbles. As I try to apply some force, my hand sinks into the brick wall.

„H-hey... what’s that?!”

What we thought to be a brick wall crumbles into sand. It collects into large heaps under my feet and a small alleyway appears on its other side. It looks like there isn’t a crevice between the buildings but in reality, they aren’t stuck together at all. It simply appeared so because the sand’s fine imitation made it look like they were lined up continuously. The vagrant likely found it odd that the alleyway that was supposed to be there disappeared, and tried to bring it to our attention.

Sand speckles dance around me from the collapse. When my vision clears, I realize something is hiding in the dim depths of the alleyway. It is small, small enough for me told hold in my hands.

He is chewing on something very, very loudly. He must have been hiding himself right here all along, creating a fake wall with sand.

„Is that you, Iggy?”

The moment I call his name, the chewing noises stop.

A pair of eyes appears in the dim light. I see the whites of them clearly. Apparently he still remembers his name being ’Iggy’. His self-awareness has him reacting to me calling his name.

Someone grabs my shoulder from behind with great force. It is the rugby player.

„Hey, hey, hey! There he is! I thought it was sand dancing, but there’s a street there now?  Looks like a dead end, so I guess he’s got no choice but to come over here, huh?” He fixes the net in his hands and takes off in the alley’s direction.

„Hey, wait!”

In response to the rugby player approaching him, he gets up on his four legs in the dark. His form is that of a small dog’s, but something is manifesting behind him.

The speckles of sand in the alley rise up, defying gravity, gathering in one place, taking shape seemingly too big to even fit the narrow alleyway behind the dog.

However, the rugby player doesn’t see it. It is a projection of life energy that regular people are unable to detect. Before his eyes, there is nothing but a single small dog.

He charges towards Iggy with his net. The giant behind Iggy moves, picking him up and jumping, scattering sand as it tramples the rugby player. The moment he hits the ground, it rushes out of the narrow alley. Its large body leaps over the line of parking cars with ease.

As it appears in a vast and well-lit place, I can take a good look at it in its entirety. The giant holding Iggy has the appearance of a dog with wheels. Its two front legs are dog-like, but its hind legs are missing, sporting car wheels in their place. On its head it wears feathers resembling Native American ornaments. It is a form blending machinery and organic life, scattering speckles of sand from its entire body.

A Stand. That is what I and my American friend referred as to such entities. Something standing by one’s side like a guardian. This must be the reason behind the odd sand related episodes happening around Iggy.

Stands do not possess a physical body. It is more like Iggy’s guardian. Some would call it a visualization of his psychic powers, others might even claim it as an evil spirit.

Iggy exchanges a glance with me, carried by his own Stand, then turns away as if he’s lost interest in me already. His Stand that leapt over cars so easily rotates its wheels, dashing away on the streets.

The rugby player stands up from where he fell on the ground and calls for assistance with his transceiver.

„He-he’s here! The Boston Terrier! Come right away!” He tries to chase after Iggy instantly, but he fails. The huge mass of sand that until just now has been forming a wall is now covering the ground. Before I could have noticed, it all centered on me. The sand swallows me up to the knee and firmly hardens. Without a doubt this is Iggy’s doing. Pulling as hard as I can, I free my legs but he has already disappeared behind a corner.

„Shit... don’t let him get away!”