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Are you calling me an animal? Some kind of animal? A dog? A hairy goddamn dog? Is that it? Well let me tell you, a dog is an ancestor of the wolf, and wolves rip people to shreds, so watch out! Look at my teeth! I've been sharpening them all day! Sharpening them on the carcasses of young deer.

Mind your mouth, I swear to God, mind your mouth. I've warned you once, Shnell, If I hear you talking such again, so help you God: The rolling pin, The fat crackers. The fat crackers. Now do as I told you and fetch the broom and get sweeping.

Shnell runs off barking and wagging his tail, much like a dog, because in his brain is a chip, and the chip sometimes electrocutes him when he is bad, and not only is the pain horrible, it also unleashes vampant and terrifying memories that make the pain look like ice cream and chocolate chips.

Sheila, his owner, never feeds Shnell chocolate anything, but only crackers, and ketchup. I don't know how many crackers he's eaten, but it's a lot, and it's making him turn.

Woof! Woof!

Although the chip in his brain is inhumane, Shnell is happy to be running. His tongue is hanging out and his ears are flopping and his nose can smell ten trillion things and they all smell like heaven. The shocks, though, have impaired his vision, and as a result Shnell goes bounding into a tree. This illicits a laugh from the icy cold Sheila, which sounds like coughing. At night she coughs up blood and florescent orange. Her doctor, Ricardo, tells her it's pneumonia, but she won't listen and waves him off. "I'm not here to find out I have Pneumonia, dear. I'm here for your abs. Your pecks. Now bury your face in my love nest."

Ricardo does as he is told, as do all men Sheila knows, not for her breathtaking beauty, which is non existent, but for the battery of psychological apparatuses she implements on her prey. Soon poor Ricardo will be running, dumb and happy, like Shnell, eating dirt and grass.

But the grass helps me poo!
That's enough out of you. I swear by christ, I swear, Shnell, one more word. Just one.
And she licks her lips and fingers her nipple. Her tongue like that of lizards, and her eyes to match.

She tells herself, and her army of Idols -- small dolls she's collected from Transylvania -- that what she's doing is for their own good. That it keeps them out of trouble, and that it stops them from uncertain death. Indeed, the burden she bears is great, what with all the responsibility. Because of it she has to do something to release. She used to invite the truckloads of Mexican gardeners to her house and have unspeakable orgies that would last for days and days, but she almost burnt a hole in her nose with all the cocaine. Besides, the Mexicans were getting lazy, and she was getting old, sex not interesting her anymore.

It came to her in a dream, an idea so cathartic it fit like a glove fits a hand. With her sewing skills from 80 000 years ago, she whipped up a fuzzy blue possum costume and went hiding in trees. She would bay at the moon all night and try eating the trees, and she would lick her costume as though she was washing herself, and she'd pee everywhere and eat oranges and attack people in the park. Of course, the fun had to end in the mornings, for when the light started shining the violent truth would once again smack her in the face. She'd go home and shake with pleasure and gyrate on the floor.

So cleansing! I'm an animal! An animal! Like Shnell! Like Gonzo!

And after she bathed, bathed like a bird flapping it's wings, should would take to the streets, smiling and happy, smiling to anyone that walked past. And if someone was foolish enough to smile back, she would berate them with her smiling teeth, and sour breath and voice, withered from all the cigarettes and opium.

On such days, after the elixir of possumness had vanished, and Shnell was once again acting up, and men were prancing about unawares, the weight of the world would once again bear down, but she would be ready for it, and go at it fighting and spitting and frothing at the mouth. The fight almost as invigorating as the possum nights -- those being faint and distant hallucinations, for all she cared. No, they never happened, I am worth three million dollars, and a zoo full of impossible animals. I'll cut your throat, I swear to God, I'll cut it, and use the blood as an ingredient in my meat loaf.

It wasn't until one fine day, while fetching some socks from the neighbours pond, that Shnell found out he could alter the flow of the electric currents from the chip in his head with a large magnet. The magnet he found on the ground in the trees. He thought it looked like a hat, so he put it on, and received a giant erection that wouldn't go away. Of course, being halfway retarded, he ran back to Sheila, who, upon seeing him, and his member, got to tapping the button of the shocker as though she were on Jeopardy and knew the answer. But that just diverted the signals to his penis, and got it bigger. So big it could explode! Worried Shnell. Shnell, in the throes of madness mounted Sheila and had at her all ways from Wednesdays. Sheila, the poor critter, was gone. Shnell's member too big, too fast.

Well, at least she died like she would have wanted to. And not in a nursing home, or the hospital, or in a tree, thank Christ, with her tongue sticking out and her fuzzy blue possum suit smelling of medicine and feces.

But she's not really dead, is she? No, it takes more than a dog with a big penis to kill her. It takes discipline, and meditation. These two virtues, taken together, will wither her into the old burlap bag that she is, and maybe I'll be able to rest freely, without her sticking her tongue in my ear (her tongue going directly to my brain). Until then, we'll fetch her chocolate milk and stuffed ducks, and will like it.

1 comment:

JMH said...

This one is not for the weak.