The Iron Dog stood guard outside the Craigue Center for no one knew how long. It was a fixture, bolted to the concrete as much as the building it was outside.

The Craigue Center was named for a long defunct grocery market from before the rise of actual supermarkets, and had stood the test of time long past its namesake. Even the old timers didn't remember how to properly the name. Was it "cray-goo"? "Crayg-yu?" "Crayg-uh?" Eventually the town settled on calling it "the Craig" and no one complained.

The Craig was a strip of six rooms with no central heating or air conditioning, which made it unpleasant pretty much six months out of the year, despite what the inefficient and outdated window units strived to achieve. Its most common customers were churches who would rent the rooms out for one to two nights a week for Sunday school style classes, even if they weren't on Sundays. Wednesday would see the Presbyterians, Thursdays would see the Catholics, and Sundays were in high demand until the brawl broke out between the Presybters and the Papists, and whoever had inherited ownership just closed it for Sundays altogether.
The graffiti was common, and the Iron Dog did nothing to discourage it, despite no spray paint ever sticking to its distinctly non-iron hide. The walls would regularly get marked and tagged, and once a quarter, the old groundskeeper Willy-his name wasn't actually Willy, but he had a red beard when his hair went grey and had a slight Scottish accent, so all the kids just called him that-would powerwash the vinyl siding, and what got blown away was what got blown away, and once a year, he'd slap a coat of cheap beige primer over the exterior, but he never followed up with real paint.

One night, though, there was a difference. The Iron Dog had seen hundreds of vandals throughout the year, and Larry was one of them. He never did anything profane or offensive, he was just a kid with a name about twenty years out of date and a desire to be heard. The Iron Dog had seen him write his tag, "LarBot" about once a quarter for the last seven years, and honestly, Larry was getting too old to be doing this. It was silly, but it was a ritual. Willy had just cleaned things up yesterday, so, time to make a mark.
Only this time, the trip there wasn't normal. There were new people, the landscape had changed, and Larry found himself sprinting through the alleys trying to get away from them. He didn't know them, but their taunting howls followed him through the night. They'd stabbed him, for fun. Just to warn him they were serious. He was leaking, but not badly-they'd wanted him hurt, not dead.

He ran, and ran, and as his feet pounded the pavement, his boots got heavier and heavier. He thought he was taking random turns until he found himself at the Craig, a place he'd gone to school, been to clubs, and tagged. Once a quarter for the last twelve years, Larry had said he owned this turf. Others did too, but Larry had made it a point of pride to be the first after Willy power-washed.

He could hear his pursuers closing in. They were done taunting, they were closing in for the kill. He staggered, knowing his breaths could be his last. He fell to the concrete a few steps from the Iron Dog's feet, and the spray can in his hand went off, soaking the space between them with bright pastel blue paint which would glow in the dark after a few hours of sunlight. He twisted and slid on his butt through it, utterly staining his pants, as if the blood dripping down from his ribs and onto the concrete wouldn't have done that anyhow.
Larry curled up against the Iron Dog's feet and whimpered to himself, knowing they were going to hurt him before they killed him. He thought about his parents, who loved him enough to send him for extra school, and his siblings who he had brought her regularly for their own schooling. The walls he had painted with his own name, a scream into the heavens to say "I am here! This is mine! NOTICE ME!" And the paint and the blood touched the feet of the Iron Dog, and the Iron Dog moved.

It shifted its shoulders with a screech of brass on brass, though that wasn't a prominent metal in its make-up. As the pursuers burst forth from the alley screaming Larry's name, the Iron Dog stepped over Larry, a sinuous motion which in a living creature would have been silent, but no less protective in its intent. As the chasers started to slow, sensing something amiss, and their compatriots ran into the back of them, a sense of fear and dread settled over the alley behind the Craig.

Something had awoken. And it was unhappy.

The Iron Dog clicked its teeth together and sparks shone. It stepped past Larry, and the growl of grinding gears in a bad transmission came with it. The hunters faltered, and tried to back up, but behind them were friends who had not seen the thing in front of them.

The Iron Dog clicked its teeth again, and this time, the compressed air of thousands of spray paint cans ignited and it breathed flame across those who would harm Larry. It was hot, and swift, and eyebrows and knuckles lost hair, and skin was lightly scorched, but no one was hurt as they universally turned and fled. Then the Iron Dog stalked back to Larry, its motions still a scream of metal on metal, and looked him over.
It sniffed at the paint and blood on his pants, and resumed its watch. As the light faded from its eyes, it growled to Larry, "Larry, don't sit where you paint."