The Hound of Kittenville

The Hound of Kittenville

By: David McGhee

Pugsly the pug was a thug amongst thugs. With his tattoo of a cat's paw, he was an official kitty witty cat cat gangster. An honorary feline. Of the “here kitty kitty” variety. Genus: Kitty widdy cat cat. He had joined the ranks of Tabby the Terrible, Kill Kitten Thirteen, and the smartest cat of all, Drew. Oh he was a cunning monster. Who used his Christian Bible and street smarts to con the rich out of their loot and give it to welfare queens. Sort of like a modern day Robin Hood. Only these riches come in the form of scrumpdiddlelyumcious kitty treats. That's right. He would steal the fat cat's kitty witty cat cat treats and give them to the scrawny assed chick alley cats. He was a Himalayan Persian, so it was generally easy for him to gain access into the toughest of fortresses. Him and his cute fluffy black tail! Look! He's chasing it now! Awe!!!

Smiley face.

El oh el

Those famous feline murderers were also old style bank robbers. Like Bonny and Clyde. They tend to pull similar jobs in both style and veracity of plans, but had yet to collaborate as of this author's knowledge.

Pugsly got his street cred on the mean streets of Evergreen Terrace. Which is just a stone's throw from Spooner St. He would run up to joggers and ice cream men (The kind that pull their cart for a living, the ones where you had a Mexican shouting in Spanish at passerby's all about how awesomely awesome his Horchata ice pops are. And indeed, they rock) and bite the dickens out of their ankle length pants. He would hold on, he would! And the resulting beating that he received to make his jaws go limp promptly sent him to the dogey hospital. He died two hours later. The irate Mailman said he'd kick it in the nuts again and again until the thing fucking died. Again.

Oh he had a beautiful funeral.

Alan, his master, wrote a poem about it.

Oh Pugsly

So dapper and lover of the ladies.

You got me laid

Again

And again

And again

The chicks dig a man in a band with a pug

And for this I am forever in your debt

Which saddens me to say

From your face, I assumed you were gay

Fart fart, I don't give a shit

You were a fucking dog

I just bought another pug today and I'm calling it Pugsly

And it's a bitch dog too

I'm calling a bitch dog Pugsly, because that's what you were

Fucking stupid dog; eats his own poop...

Pugsly 2.0: Looked rather like a Siamese cat with Downs Syndrome. She was in every aspect, the perfect companion. Oh it was fun torture it! Never do any lasting damage. Not like you would with a cat. A cat is a way of God saying “You may now have the animal equivalent to the bitchiest of bitches who happen to have Histrionic Personality Disorder along with a touch of autism thrown in the mix. It was that touch of autism that the cats found Pugsly fascinating. The weird and different yet comfortable and none threatening. It was nice to have a dog around where you can get your pent up kitty cat aggression out on. You could scratch the the fuck out of the bitch and she just pants, smiling “Gee George, that was awesome George.” Pant. Pant. Pant. “Gee George, why are you cutting my tits off George?”

Pugsly gained entry to the “Felines Respect, All Niggas Killed”. Or “FRANK.” Along with another outfit, a pussy biker gang that went by the name “The Mother's of Nature.” Or TMON. Not exactly a good acronym, but the guy who names these things was on a forced vacation, with pay, so an intern had to name it. Blame it on that guy. I bet he totally pets them pussies too. Make's them purr!!!

Both gangs rivaled each other. One a master of ninjabonics, another a master at bikering! Who will the victor be? And why am I talking to myself?

One will stand truer than the other in an epic eight season hit cable TV drama “Toms of Anarchy.” In which a biker gang smuggles something or other and other gangs are in it and the father becomes the leader of the gang but then his son becomes the leader and they all have sixteen litters of kittens. The calico is named “Fido” and the tabby is “Puff Puff.”

The father, Fred Astaire, another tabby, is the leader of this biker gang in the beginning. He formed the “Mothers of Nature” back when he was just a kid riding a Yamaha TW200 motorcycle. O what fun they had as a gang of misfits and Tom cats. A new pussy every night, along with parties where snorting of catnip is sniffed off of the teats of a female Russian Blue. Her name was fish, who was actually a male, and he/she remembers it as follows:

Fish: “I was high. So very high. I'm high right now. I'm so very high. I needs me some kitty kibble!” Fish then goes off camera and the sound of something crunching emanates from parts unseen. The the lens goes dark. A gun goes off. There is a scream.

When it comes back into focus we see that there is a dead Irish Setter laying on the ground below. Above, the ninja like Fish is laughing maniacally at his most recent kill.

“Don't do drugs kids!” Fish explains. “Let the drugs do you!”

Fish then goes on down the road of addiction. Kitty heroin is a scourge that must be stopped. You see, Pugsly 2.0 is actually a spy out to eradicate the kitty drug lords. Goddammit, why does every dog have to be a good guy? Huh? Why are cats looked down upon? Why? Oh God why?

Because they're pussies. Hey-yo! And nobody like dat pussy. It's a rancid and acrid pussy. So smelly and sticky it corrodes her flesh away. Pugsly dowses her with Methamphetamine, she comes back to her normal Fish like self. Still so furry where it counts. Meow!

Pugsly walks up to his bitch master and expects a treat for doing what dogs do best, wasting the space where a cat could be. Who orders these things anyways?

Pugsly looks up at his bitch master and pants. She smiles and her tongue falls out of her mouth. It hangs like a search light, spotting her hand and ravishing it with dirty puppy kisses. But the bitch is ignored by the Bitch Master.

“You should have been a cat.” The Bitch Master says sullenly as she strokes Fish's fur. He purrs in contentment and smiles upon his genetically inferior friend. You had to pity her really.

Pugsly is oblivious to what she said. Because she's a fucking dog! They're stupid mother fuckers. You get?

Ever hear of a dog cleaning up after they poop? A cat will at least bury it's excrement while a dog will... I shudder to say. A dog will eat it's own poop. Scientists say this was developed along the millions of years of evolution as a way of hiding their location from predators. Why if I were a pigeon hawk I'd snatch up old Pugsly and tear at it's insides and then regurgitate it into my young's mouth. Pugsly lay there dead with a smile that would be forever frozen in the pain of its existence.

That's a good dogey, dogey!

Pugsly recuperates then speaks to his Bitch Master.

“Bark.” He says all dignified. “Bark bark. Bark bark ruff bark ruff.”

The Bitch Master thinks this over for a minute or so. Then she turns that radish color bitches be getting when they all pissed off and such. She raises her big twenty four pound hand, ready to strike. Pugsly smiles dumbly “Gee George.” The hand that rocks the cradle also smacks the pug.

Fish sits atop her Bitch Master, pulling strings like a puppeteer. The Bitch Master goes here. Then there. As if held by some sort of master string. String theory. Now there's a wacky concept. Branes and strings and such. But back to the dogey. It was crushed under the weight of her massive fuck ugly hand. When she raised it to see the smashed dogey underneath, she was revolted to find that she had bounced back like an accordion. For this she gave her the Purple Heart. She pinned it to her flesh. Pugsly smiled stupidly and panted.

“Gee George. Stick it to me George!”

On their leather Jackets, the Mothers of Nature insignia is of a robin but with it's head cut off. It spurts out blood like a water gun. The head Cat, Drew, was a demanding and demeaning little ball of fluff. Where ever Fred Astaire, who only got to where he was because he was fucking one of the other higher ups in FRANK, Drew wouldn't be far behind, telling him he's doing it all wrong. He screams. His bitch master's china breaks. He is proud of his tantrum. Outwardly he looks like he has lost part of himself in the ensuing chaos. But inside he relishes it.

“I am far too handsome for this!” Says the eager young male intern.

The dogeys stop in their tracks.

Who was this Master Handsome? And why was he too himself to be put through this ordeal?

“The Bitch Master knows!” Fred Astaire tells Drew and the others. They all head back to the Bitch Master's secret lair. Which is underneath the apartment where I live. But pudgy little Pugsly smiles dumbly at their desertion. “Gee George.” She growled at an invisible woman. “Why'ja leave me George?” She bites at this imaginary Bitch Master and receives a fictitious bitch slapping. “My pimp'n hand is strong!” She likes to say, this invisible bitch master.

Immediately Pugsly wants a belly rub. So she rolls onto her back, belly and tits exposed. After about ten minutes of panting in the dry Colorado heat and dry humping an imaginary male pug, exerting her authority on him. Just like ever other bitch, she was a domineering little fuck pug. But after a close inspection of its inner merit we find an animal that literally is so stupid it thinks its tail is a foreign object. And for this we should care for the little fucktarded pug. For it definitely does not know how to take care of it's self!

Seriously, Pugsly could subsist only on her own poop for weeks at a time. What a fucking retarded animal dogs are. With cats you get cool biker gangs like The Mothers of Nature and FRANK. Vicious little bastards who need no approval from Bitch Master. Just her food and cuddles. Damn they were horrible rotten selfish little animals. And for this we give a cat scratched thumb up for our feline compatriots.

Pugsly runs into the Bitch Master's room and searches under the bed. She spots her chew bone right away and heads for it. She gets to it and pauses. She growls at the inanimate object as if it were a threat. Then she bites at it and accidentally bites her tongue. And for this she thinks the bone has bitten her back. She recoils in fear and scampers away on its fat little pug legs, whining all the way to the couch. There she rethinks her plans and decides to teach that bone who's the Bitch Master of them all!

She runs back into the room and does not stop in time, she butts her head on the bone. She shakes this off and then barks at his mortal enemy. It does not bark back. Because it's a fucking cow's bone.

She wraps her dogey mouth around one end of the cow bone and drags it out and into the Bitch Master's sleeping thingy. A room? She probably heard one of them say that to her a few times. But she lacks the consciousness to either notice nor compute this vernacular into the right neural pathways. Making her pretty much useless for anything but being fed, loved, and walked. The Bitch Master liked walking her. But the Master with the human penis. She'd seen it, but again, she lacked the processing power to notice. His scent always meant that he wanted to fight her. And when he came around she would put her paws forward and bow before him. When he still made that mean scent she went to plan B, She rolled over, exposing her belly and baby feeders. For a dog this is the equivalent of about the most trust you can get from a dogey.

He would say “That's right! You bow before the William Shatner of evolutionary psychologists you bitch!” The he'd pretend to kick her in the face, stopping only inches away. She winces and yelps in terror and the Penis Master is satisfied. He kneels down and pets Pugsly around the ear. “That's a good dogey!” And he starts rubbing her belly, which she likes just fine.

In all truth he really pitied the poor thing. How would she survive if he left her stranded in the mountains of Estes Park Colorado? Can you imagine any which predatory animal snacking on Pugsly's guts? A cat at least has a chance if it's not de-clawed. All a small dog could do is run up to it and for God knows why she runs up to a coyote expecting it to be friendly like the other dogs in the park. Penis Master hated bringing her there. He wished those stupid dogs would just stop being so stupid.

But Pugsly, does he love her? Maybe. It's getting there. It's really all he can have since the Bitch Master is allergic to cats. But she loves them anyway. She will suffer the consequences to love and cuddle them adorable kitty cats. But she genuinely loves Pugsly, so he can't do shit to it anymore.

A pastime of Penis Master was to thunk Pugsly on the nose and tell it how horrible it was. It would whine and grunt and when it barked he smacked her across the head. She started biting at him so he choked her until she passed out. He had actually thought he killed her and threw her out into the back yard. But to his surprise the fucking thing just woke up and ran back to him, panting and bowing before him. That's when he would kick it in the face.

The cats watched in amusement at the abuse in which Pugsly suffered. To them it was like the Roman games where the man would slay the beast. But not right away. You had to make it suffer to gain audience approval. After all, you had to put on a show. If you did poorly and slayed the beast yet the emperor wasn't satisfied, the man would be killed in another battle to the death. Or something like that. Point being that this was awesome for the cats to watch. They all purred with delight.

Then it turned out that the Bitch Master doesn't like him treating Pugsly like a football. No matter how puntable he may be. Saddened, Penis Master still weld immense power over the little dogey. He would throw his fist at it's face and stop inches from it. He would also pretend to hug it but in fact really be choking it. And for what ever the reason may be, Pugsly still tries to wag her curly tail and pants with happiness at the sight of him. If he would have treated a cat like that it would have avoided him. Intelligence, knowing when to get the fuck out. As was the case with Puff Puff and Fido. They were being abused by a big old bully named Gary. He was a womanizer and he hated cats for the same reason the Penis Master hates dogs. He saw them as awful illiterate little creatures with little value. He would hiss at Fido then try to make it cuddle with him. What a bastard, Penis Master thought, unaware of the underlying meaning of it all.

That David finally was rid of him soon after. Gary being the pervert he was wanted to go out and sample the local offering of pussy and pussy related activities. Little piglets like their pig porn too. He worked at a porn store until he was fired for showing up drunk and arguing with the manager. As to where his last whereabouts were, who knows. The broken hearted College Master figures he sold his phone for crack.

Most likely.

“Gee George.” Pugsly looks up at Penis Master sitting in his Lay-Z-Boy, smiling like a dumbass. “Why are you sad George?” He picks her up but drops her because she weighs nearly twenty five pounds. He hurts his hand. He screams incoherently at the wincing dogey. Then he kicks it in it's ribs and sends it clear across the wood floor. She stands up, shakes herself off, and sits there panting like an idiot. “Gee George.” She smiles. “I love the way you hurt me, George.”

Rufio Wallace and the Spoiler

 Rufio Wallace and the Spoiler

By: David McGhee

She looked up at her master and begged with all her cute little pugness for a treat. The man in front of her, her master, was a mean person sometimes. Sometimes he kicked her or pinched her skin with a needle. Just to hear her whine it seemed. It made him happy. But she loved him regardless. He was a human and humans smelled like good things to be affectionate with. The pay off was great (These things make nummy nummy appear in your food bowl twice a day!) and all you had to do was taste their face from time to time. Although she knew it wise to wince when a hand comes near her face.

The master smiles. She knows what a smile means. Either he's going to be a good master and let her have some of the ham he's eating. Oh holy cock of Christ that would be awesome!

Or...

He's going to be a mean master and choke her until her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Although either way meant that the man would touch her. Her skin tingled every time it wasn't searing in pain from his thumb pressed down too hard on one of her nipples. Petting a dog or a cat is always an attractive offer for Pugsly and or Fido and Puff Puff, their kitty kitty cat cats, because both animals have horrible blood circulation throughout their skin. So by rubbing their skin and fur it actually helps promote blood flow.

He always was a good master when he was with her bitch master, Shelly. He would pet her and hug her (which most dogs hate because hugging is a sign of dominance that a dog just isn't willing to share, but Pugsly, named so because he is in fact a pug, loved the shit out of. No kidding, one time the little turd bomber shat herself while Shelly was rubbing her stomach. It just felt so good that shitting was the only way to heighten the experience. It was totally lost on Pugsly that such ghastly pleasures she partook in dumbly, were so vomit inducing to human beings. Most people don't eat their own shit.) and talk to her in pleasant tones. She liked the pleasant tones. When they were more shrill that just meant pain was coming. Master Wallace comes to her and reaches out his hand and makes like he is about to smack her across her cute pug face. Pugsly winces and draws back at the approaching human appendage.

Rufio laughs. “You're such a good dogey dogey!”

That was it. Her mouth dropped open, tongue descended, and she started panting with happiness. She ran up to the hand and was taken back back the sudden smack on the nose, which is a punishment for any dogey dogey. But as for what she had been punished for... Probably not even Rufio knew. He just liked to see her scared. Pugsly whined and retreated back into the comfort of being under the coffee table in the living room. Rufio whistled and said “Here dogey dogey!” And fool me once, shame on you. Fool me three hundred thousand and seventy three times... Whatever. Pugsly stupidly smiled and ran back to meet yet another whack on the nose. She whined but before she could run away again Rufio picked her up.

“I love my kitty cats with all my heart.” He told Pugsly sweetly, who was now happy again because he was projecting his voice pleasantly. As far as she was concerned he could be calling her the worst dogey in the whole wide world, but when he said it with a sweet saccharine laced melody she was putty in his hands.

It's no different than French waiters making fun of you while you order in their stuffy restaurants, Rufio thought. He held the dumb pug in his arms and walked with him into the kitchen and then into the basement. Once down the steps he let Pugsly touch the ground. As always her fat pug stomach was the first thing to touch the concrete. It felt cold. She frantically steadied herself with a flurry of feet underneath her. He always carried her down the steps because she was too pudgy and too short in the legs to make the steps without rolling down the stairs. In which doing so would upset the bitch master, Sherry. She'd done it a few times before and just shrugged it off with her stupid animalness, but just to be sure he didn't have to pay some fuck nut vet to fix a broken bone he had been carrying her down since then. The thought made Rufio snarl at his wife's dogey. Pugsly in turn took the snarl as playing and she barked back. Rufio knelt down next to her and snapped his teeth. Stupid little Pugsly snapped back and barked once more.

Rufio laughed and put his right index finger in her mouth. She playfully held onto it with her teeth and tried to take it away from Rufio. He laughed again and took his finger back. Then he led the dog across the dark trash strewn basement. It was a mess due to the remodeling. It was in a state of half construction. Soon it would be his man nerd cave. A most awesome expectation!

He found the hanging wire for the light bulb and yanked it, spreading a warm phosphorous glow around the shadowy room. It was supposed to become a recording studio but with all the work Rufio had had in the past few years he just couldn't break away to finish it. Pugsly knew the twists and turns of the loose wood work by heart. As much as Rufio liked to torture the poor thing in small ways he would never allow a person to actually lay a hand on her. In some ways he had grown to love the stupid little thing. The beast that was all instinct and dumb dogey smiles.

If it would just stop eating it's own poop we'd be in business, he thought.

There was a secret door in the wall on the right side of the room. It blended in perfectly with the surrounding Stucco. It was here that Rufio had grown fond of bringing little Pugsly. She smelled the sweet aroma whiff through her nostrils. It was the tangy sweet aroma of burned flesh. So tasty. Humans always had (and made) the best food stuffs. She ran first before Rufio could even bring himself to step into the door frame. Her stomach was dangerously low to the ground. Rufio was disgusted by her obesity. Pugs can be such fat ass dogs. She ran down the small seven by seven hallway, made of brick this time, that led to a metal door with a key card reader on the side of it. Rufio walked up the hall to where Pugsly was waiting impatiently for him to open the door.

Rufio laughed and scratched her ear. She started kicking in response.

“Dogey dogey!”

He ran the card. The door's pressurized valves on its sides turned and the door opened with a hiss of decompression. Pugsly ran right in and right at the foot of a man who now only had three toes and immediately attached her mouth to his half burnt foot meat.

He was a tall stout young man of twenty six. He wore glasses like Rufio, but his were decidedly more pretentious. Whereas Rufio's glasses said “Man with a plan,” this man's said “Durh! I'ma hipster!” 2000 called, Rivers Cuomo wants his style back! Who had incidently been asked by Elvis Costello for his look back. But no one was a bigger dick about it than Buddy Holly. He acted all like he made it cool. Well... He did. But still. What a fucktard!

This man with the ironic mustache had been the biggest thing to hit the Colorado blog scene in years, if not ever. He had won a “Best of Denver” award for his online blog in the best of issue of the Westword during the last go around, and he was in talks with Spin about a possible profiling on Johnny Depp.

The problematic aspect however was that this man and his popular online blog spoiled movies and TV shows months in advance. It was in fact him who leaked that Ben Affleck may be the new Batman. And lo and behold! Fucker thinks he's Parez Hilton or some shit. Some think that he uses his trust fund set up by his parents to bribe studio people into yabbing or perhaps uses other means to secure scripts (Rufio wouldn't put it past him to suck cock) of shows and movies way before the general public has a chance to see it. That coupled with his harsh critique and reaching influence make him a bad person in the eyes of the men who had put Rufio up to this. But he didn't mind doing it. They even paid him a little extra to make his death as slow as possible. Which he planned to do with gusto. Because torturing people is fun and exciting for the whole family!

If only Shelly was a homicidal maniac. That would be so hot!

Rufio was a man who loved his work more than he loved caramel on cinnamon sugar toast.

And he was a man who loved his caramel on cinnamon sugar toast.

Rufio took out a Werther's hard caramel from his pocket. He always kept a few on him. And plopped one into his mouth. He then offered it to the naked mane tied up in front of him. The blond man was no more than a kid in Rufio's eyes. He smiled and offered it to him again.

“May not get a chance to eat before tomorrow when I come back down here.” Rufio said as he put the caramel on the table before him. The man's feet hurt the worst. Rufio had set a blow torch to two of his toes the night before (and just plain cut another one off for shit eater to gnaw on). Burnt them up nice and good. Little old Pugsly ate at them despite the man's insistent resistance. For such a small dog it was mighty vicious. This, May very well be why Rufio has allowed the dog to live so long. It was trying to wag it's little snub of a curly tail but just wound up jiggling its butt.

Rufio took a pair of pliers from his box of bloody carpenters tools.

“You should really sterilize that man.” The blond naked movie spoiling little cunt said with a quiver.

Rufio held up the pliers to eye level, letting it shine dully in the dim light. His lips crept into a smile. He bent down and took a bit of the man's blond pubic hair between the pliers' tips and tightened his grip. Then he yanked it out, leaving the underneath part of the skin where the dermis and hair used to be. The man screamed. His voice already horse from yelling for help despite being in a sound proofed room. Rufio held the bit of hair at the man's eyesight and laughed.

Pugsly chewed selfishly at the man's remaining toes, which were blackened to the muscle by the previous day's blow torch fun. Pugsly bit off flesh in thick strips. They tasted like a mix between bacon and and beef. Pugsly was totally digging the charbroiled taste as well. Dogs loved their carbon just as much as the next man. Rufio patted her on the head. She dropped the piece of toe meat from her drooling mouth and looked up smiling at Rufio, panting with excitement. Then it was back to business. Pugsly ignored the piece of toe meat before her and ran for some of the still bloody bits of foot that were stuck to the man's foot bones. It was cute how she playfully growled while biting the flesh off a screaming hipster. If only he could make that into a meme.

Rufio pulled another bit of pubic hair from the man's nether region. He cried out for it to stop but Rufio was just getting started.

“Please sir.” The man begged. “I promise never to blog about anything ever again!”

Rufio liked this. “Unless you have fifty thousand dollars I am afraid that I'm going to have to cut off your penis.” He raised a pair of cutting shears to the man's eye level. The man screamed.

“Please sir! I don't have that kind of money! Can't you just say you got rid of me and we'll never speak of me again? I'll move back to Florida and legally change my name!”

Rufio warm heartedly pulled out another patch of pubic hair from the roots of the man's top padding above his penis. He writhed in pain and kept trying to kick at Pugsly, who was seeing the moving foot as a toy that she could also eat, and was always brought back down a peg with his toe stumps actually hit the dog. They left bloody marks on the dog's black and white face, which she loved to lick from the sides of her lips. It encouraged her to bite at the tasty thing even more. She had no idea how much pain and torment she was causing this poor young man. As far as she was concerned he was a tasty friend.

It was times like this Rufio wondered why he had such a hatred for the stupid thing. In all prospects, they were the perfect pet. As long as you petted them, walked them, and fed them, you could get away with all sorts of horrible shit and they will just love you all the more for it. For those with no self esteem they probably are man's best friend.

Rufio picked up a piece of chewed burnt toe and wiggled it in front of Pugsly's nose. She panted happily and followed the toe as he went from left to right to left again. She licked her chops and barked.

“That's a good dogey!” And Rufio threw it across the room. Pugsly ran after it with great effort; she was a fat thing. If she'd been running on the hardwood upstairs you could hear her coming from the kitchen to the living room from the second floor. She grabbed the human appendage and made a high pitched and very un-scary growl as it tore into it. She bit it and rocked her head from left to right and back and continued that awful high pitched growl.

It pissed Rufio off. So he kicked the dog with only a medium of effort. Just enough to knock the wind out of it. It must have swallowed the toe whole because she started hacking like she was going to throw up. Rufio smacked her across the face and she took a step backward but still hacked. Rufio advanced on her and she turned around but whatever was caught in her throat was at the moment a touch more important than what ever punishment the master can dish out to her. She coughed and hacked and felt her head flood up with blood. It made a tremendous pressure on her face and she felt as if her cheeks were going to explode. The worst pain of it all was that now her head pulsed with her heart. She saw the world grow white and heard the distant bark of her great grand bitch “Toogles”. She was licking her privates and telling Pugsly to come towards the dimming light. Pugsly, being the stupid thing it was, mistook this advance and happily shat herself.

As the world drew away she barked and ran towards the light, which was drawing further and further away. How would she ever reach her great grand bitch now? She stopped for an anus cleaning then started running, but the light sped away faster and faster and then she was aware of nothing.

Perfect nothingness. Much better than being smacked on the nose.

Then there was a pressure on her chest and she coughed the bloody burnt chew toe onto the concrete floor. She felt her face flood with blood again and the whiteness turned back into the familiar black and white the world always was. She looked up at her master. He was saying something in those nice tones again. She felt herself grow fuzzy with that sort of stupid I don't care what the hell you are but I love you more than I love fried chicken feeling. He smiled and she smiled.

“Blah blah blah blah” She heard him say sweetly. Then she felt him pinch her ear. It hurt so bad. Oh why would master do this to her? Ouch! He just kicked her again. She wondered why she never did get the chance to meet up with Toogles. That would have been bitchin!

He said something and ran his hand all the way down onto her face, where it softly landed and spread around her head in a blood flow inducing petting. She loved it when master petted her. He did it hard like he really loved her.

All was forgiven. Now for some more tasty hipster man foot.

The boy also paints

That's right. I paint. Whatchoo gonna do about it?

I love potheads!

Angry flowers!

And nasty little devils!

And this... This is just an amazing picture of a young man who is clearly raising the roof on sexy!

If I had a dogey dogey.

Dogey Dogey

By: David McGhee

They had a pug. His name was Alfred and he had the happiest little stupid face of all puppydom. Alfred loved to partake of the occasional trashcan, as most mutts tend to do. He would lick your hand and la di da. It's a fucking dog. I have a problem with dogs personally. They are stupid entities that have been bred into a state where they rely solely on human help. Most breeds can't hunt on their own like a cat could.

In fact dogs were originally domesticated because they would venture into towns and the townspeople would feed them, causing the hounds to come closer and closer until they had no qualms about having to mess with these wonderful beings with the delicious foodstuffs like bacon and birds. Alfred loved chicken.

For such a small dog Alfred sure knew how to raise hell. Like how I said that little pup loved to eat the fowl he also loved to kill and then eat the fowl. We all thought that Alfred would just bark at the chicken. Well he sort of did that. The chicken just started flapping it's wings and Alfred went immediately for the neck. That little bastard had the bite of a frigging diesel powered machine. Like a god damn deer tractor. I wouldn't be damned if the little fucker enjoyed himself either. When he was done shaking the shit out of the chicken neck he ran up to me and dropped it at my feet. If you've ever seen a pug smile then just imagine a self satisfied serial chicken killing monster dog. All ten pounds of chicken killing machine. I wouldn't trust the little fagot loving dog with my hamster.

Then again I wouldn't trust myself with a hamster. How long do those things live anyways? I could never get one to live past three weeks.

I took Alfred for a walk today and like any good dog owner I carry around trash bags so I can grab the poo for future disposal. It was on this walk that I learned that Alfred could talk. If I am remembering correctly there was a series or is still a series on the FX Channel by that name. But this was my Alfred. My little pug. My little bundle of fur, flesh, and stupid.

We were walking near Cheeseman Park when this tall scruffy blond haired dude walked up to me when I was watching Alfred at his worst. If I didn't know any better I would swear that Alfred was giving himself head! He did that a lot. So much in fact that when I asked my vet if something was wrong with him and he said “Eh... Everybody jerks off.” and left it at that.

One of the many awkward moments this dog has orchestrated just to spite me. I know I talked about dogs having a sort of stupid intelligence but this thing must be the Einstein of poop eaters. That's another thing that pisses me off about this fucking white fuck of fluff. If I don't get to his poo before he does then he will ingest it, then throw it up, and then eat it again. All of this takes place at my door every night.

He has lately taken to shitting on my door step. I can't say for sure but I think that maybe me kicking him in the kidneys for fun just might not be what the little fella is thinking of in a human companion. Little asshole. Once I started petting it and calling it stupid retarded names with a coo in my voice it started to mind my door step. It utterly amazed me that the little fucker could put two and two together.

Dogs scare the crap out of me sometimes. But the cool thing that I like about old Al is that even when he is trying his hardest to come off like a bad ass, he is still a ten pound pug. He's utter hilariousness and sometimes I get caught up in the fun and I punt him like a football. I want to try my pug out for the Denver Bronco's as the franchise's first ever living football. Just imagine Tim Tebow gunning his foot on a ten pound pug ugly son of a bitch? I can imagine it's stomach exploding with the mighty foot force of Tim Tebow's amazing legs. Sigh...

Tim Tebow is the kind of fellow I would love to see in a locker room. But I have no delusions of grandeur. I can take the idea of a six inch Tim Tebow. If the man is modest then all the more hurray for him! And I mean that. Because normal penises are well... Well they're just great.

El oh el.

Smily face.

That little pig faced son of a bitch. I know it was a son of a bitch too because technically all male dogs are sons of bitches. Because females dogs are called bitches? See how I did that? Hilariousness!

Alfred once found a pocket in the ground containing trace amounts of uranium. I shit you not! Little asshole just ate up the radioactive rocks, and this is not to say that he only ate the uranium specks he saw and left most of the regular rocks and dirt unscathed. It was like the little hash tag stupid dog just got the itch that could only be scratched by swallowing lethal doses of uranium. But to all of our amazement the little shit just pooped them out. He stayed radioactive for a few months after that but thank goodness he must have a good metabolism because he's no longer reading on the geiger meter. I mean any more than any normal living thing. I swear this fucking dog has nine lives!

Speaking of it swallowing things I swear this thing must have the internal plumbing of a fucking battery processing robot. Not shitting you, this little pug bastard ate and shit a battery. A double A battery. My dog Alfred ate and shit a double A battery. Beautiful.

“Fucking A!” My dog would shout at me. Oh yeah, remember when I said my dog could talk? Well he can. And he's annoying as fuck!

Imagine if a pug could talk slash bark his way into the American people's heart. I imagine that in some awesome Oriental country they would dine on a delicacy that is a pug bug stupid dogey. They would eat his righteous ass with teriyaki sauce. That smug bastard. Leg of some young chow. If there were any animal that should be eaten it would have to be man's best friend. Those things have an awful intelligence about them, as I have ranted on before, and they know that you don't like them.

But they don't care though. Because they know that by pooping on your door step and eating your third copy of Stephen King's The Stand is yet one line that has long since been drawn. You never have a cat doing shit like that. They know that because they know that if they fuck some shit up then theys are getting boots to their puss! Talking about an angry pussy!

Rowr!

Smiley face.

And let's talk about meat for the military, you could feed our starving troops over seas if we just take a cue from the Chinese. And I don't mean to sound racist but they really do do that shit. Just look it up. When the Beijing Olympics happened the government officials over in China banned the sale of cat and dog as an edible commodity. I shit you not.

Heard it from a reputable sounding site. Then again what can you truly trust on the internet? I mean come on! The most believable things you hear of nowadays are Onion headlines.

Right?

Yeah?

*Grasshoppers chirp*

But seriously. You may think I'm being racist but when the truth is awful to our uppity culture and is delicious on the other side, I tend to side with the deliciousness. If somebody afford me some barbequed chow I'd live to have a breast piece. Because chows piss me off and they be eating dogs. That's why they're called chows!

It's like some big fucking practical joke. But it isn't. And they do and would offer me Barbeque chow. And I would eat it. Because that means they would have had to kill the dog. I fucking condone puppy murder. But I would never hurt one myself.

What can I cay? I'm just a hardcore cat lover.

Either you're with us or you're not.

Although this little shithead is growing on me. Who knows? Maybe I won't eat my doggy after all.

The First Doctor (Zombies, Psychiatrists, Stephen King, oh my!)

It had to have been a good year after my first suicide attempt when I woke up on that cold October morning. The double wide trailer we stayed in was all too big for a little guy like me. I was almost untainted by the world at that point, especially from medications and doctors. I knew I had to go to one today. As I lay in bed and watched the world pour down outside my brother and I’s window I began to feel a little bit emptier than I normally did. I decided to get out of bed and lay under it. I figured zombies were too stupid to bend over so that gave me an advantage.

                I had just watched Return of the Living Dead part two for the umpteenth time and I was even less scared of it than the first time I saw it. No, I wasn’t scared of the zombies in that video. I was scared of the real life zombies that must be walking around somewhere in the world at that very moment. I never bought any of that crap that the good guys always won (I was proved right with the first movie in that series, in the end instead of the army resolving their zombie mess they just nuke that small town in Kentucky. I suppose that’s where our minds were as a nation back in 1984…) and I decided that things in real life were far more complicated than the movies let on.

                Take the cops for example. When I had my break down there wasn’t any supportive people by my side, no… The school called the cops and I was handcuffed and brought to a mental facility. I learned later on that the children’s ward of anywhere charges more for kids to stay than the adults. That’s where most places make their money.

                Anyways cops… They’re dicks.

I knew my mother was up and my little brother had been awake for some time now. When I was a kid with my brother it honestly was like we lived in two separate worlds apart from each other. When we weren’t fighting we were… Actually I am not quite sure how he spent the majority of his time? I was blissfully oblivious to him, and he to me.

                From what I could hear, he was playing my Sega Genesis. That was fine with me because I had just gotten a new Goosebumps book. I think it was the one about the dummy. I had already read it but most of those books were like my shadow early on. I remember I read every one of them and foolishly hoped that someone would die in one of them like they did in the movies. To be truthful I always hoped it would be a character around my age at the time. Bad stuff happening to kids just felt real to me. I always wondered why the younger ones were always left alone in those movies. Sure the people dying were young enough but for my sake it would have been cool if a serial killer decided to check under the bed for the little ones he was so eagerly trying to dice up.

                But that was in the movies. I was too smart to think anyone would have any beef with my family. At least I never thought that at the time. No… What I had to worry about was the undead. My parents and brother were suckers for walking around in broad view like they were doing. If I could just keep myself safe until we went to the doctor’s then I would be OK.

                Did I mention it’s near impossible to read a book while under a bed? It really is because there’s no place to put the dang book. But I kept it by me as if it were some sort of mace can, ready to be emptied into the face of the intruder at a moment’s notice. I didn’t know how exactly it would defend me but the idea was there, as undeveloped as it was.

                My mother never bought my whole undead army coming after me thing. She reasoned they’d have more important people to eat. I never told her this but I held out secret hopes that I just might be the result of an adoption. My real parents were smart and sophisticated people who just happened to have a baby they didn’t want. I never had any ideas about me being someone special but I did have aspirations of one day finding out that I was never related to the people that I currently lived with.

                As soon as my mother stepped through the door with my toast and egg I could see her feet from under the bed. They stood frozen for a moment and I knew she was taking a head count.

                “David!” She cackled. Her feet came closer to the bed. “Get the hell out of there now!” Her voice sounded hoarse. Drink much?
                Then again it could have been the cigarettes. I hated her for smoking those. I never had the best breathing in the world and whenever we were in the car it drove me nuts!
                “Get out from under there and eat! Then get dressed!”
                I was never one to really rebel against authority so I took my chances with the zombies and got out from under my bed. I was dressed only in an extra-large green night shirt and some tighty whiteys. At that point in my life I had no shame about my body. That would come later.

                I took the plate from her hand and she put the other one on my brother’s bed. She never told him it was there, it was sort of implied. As if my mother had better things to do than to explain that she had just made this meal for us out of her own volition and that it was intended for our consumption.

                After a cold glance my way she exited the room. I sat on my bed next to the plate and looked at the meal before me. Something special had ceased to be ever since the whole mess started. It was as if one day somebody turned the depression switch in me on and none of these people that were in  my life now were helping any. It just made me feel more like a dead butterfly on display and it was their job to explain how I ceased to be. What about my tattered wings could tell them about how I lived?

                I was only ever asked general questions. And in honesty I think I could of only have given general answers at that point in my life because to be honest, why I felt the way I did was beyond me. I was just happy for hot showers. Not that we were struggling, we probably were but that never came to mind.

                For what we lacked in material things we made up with food. We never had an empty fridge. And if I’d known how much trouble everything would turn into just because of it I probably would have been a strict anorexic from an early age. The ensuing years bombarded me with healthy looking kids and young men and it’s forever fucked with my sense of self.

                I was small for my age and always was. My family isn’t exactly a tall one but they definitely had an edge over me. That was OK for then though, I wasn’t too bothered by it just yet. After all, I was only like eight or nine so I was sure I’d grow into things like the way kids did in those videos they were starting to show us in school. There was none of the puberty talk just yet but they were getting there. For now I was pretty much a young kid with no idea how anything worked other than my Nintendo controller. I made Mega Man go left to right, up to down, and such. That was good enough for me.

                Except for the books I was reading. I had a lot of Stephen King but to be honest it was just me peacocking. I never read any of them and whenever I tried it bored me to tears. I wanted the monster to just come out and kill people. What the fuck was character development? I wanted blood!

                Only years later I would find out that the books I had were indeed very graphic and to be honest I think my whole little world would have been over thrown if I had actually read one of his books from beginning to end. I never knew he was so fucked up.

                As of this writing I hope I get to meet him before he dies, which statistically speaking he would be more likely than I will to kick over anytime soon. Then again I could die by forgetting a red light and walking in front of a Mack truck during rush hour. But my money is on Stephen King making maggot buddies with death before I do.
                Not to say I’m hoping he will die anytime soon. I’m just saying he’s old. Like really old… And tall. If I knew how tall he was early on I may have viewed him differently. I never have trusted tall people. They have too much life going for them to ever leave me alone to be a miserable little bastard. They always butted in and pretended to want to help. I knew that they would turn on me given the slightest interest in the subject.

                They wanted me to go back in handcuffs. That’s what adults liked to do to people smaller than they are. I was sure of it. One perfect example was my gym teacher. She was always telling me that I needed to make a five minute mile even when I was having bad asthma attacks on the field. If I had had known that that’s what they were at that tender age then maybe I would have had more ammunition to work with when negotiating the logistics of my little legs making enough strides to constitute a mile in five minutes or less. The thin kids did it just fine. Of course they liked to gloat about it and I can’t say for certain that they meant to make me feel bad about it, they just did.

                Fuck them. I mean… Fudge them, I never started to cuss until I moved to Colorado. So pardon my French at least for a little while here.

                Kids are stupid. Adults are conniving. I just wanted to go back under the bed and hide from the zombies again. I looked at my toast and eggs with dismay. My brother had paused his game and was digging into his plate and I envied him for it. He was always happy for whatever life presented. I hated him for his contentment yet of course I loved him the way that brother’s do, which is you only cared about each other if something bad had happened to either one. Otherwise it was business as usual. Sometimes I think back to those times and sort of realize that we were basically acting like dogs pissing out our territory. Everything in the room had an owner. And it was either mine or his. There was no grey area and I doubt there are any between brothers so young.

                He was going to school that day, that made me a little happier at least. It was a rainy day and I was going to get to enjoy it in the car on the way over to the doctor’s office. I loved to ride in the front passenger seat of the Mercury and just make out patterns in the rain drops that fell onto the front side window. It passed the time and I got to imagine the passing places were actually ruined crypts. Our cities had become tombs and I was an unsuspecting college student too stupid to not investigate.

                But as for the task at hand, my toast had gone limp from all the butter on it and my eggs were microwaved, not stove cooked. Eggs always tasted like Styrofoam when you cooked them in the microwave. I felt as if I had been given a little less respect than I thought I had coming to me.

                Mother could’ve fixed them on the stove… But this was fine I guess. After thinking about it for a few minutes I just sighed and ate everything on my plate like a good southern boy. I never once thought of myself as a hick but it was things like cooking eggs in a microwave when your mother is a chef by trade. It just didn’t seem right to me. It was a contradiction, I was starting to fall in love with the idea. Everything about my life seemed to be one.

                I never once thought I was playing any sort of game with the people in my life. It just sort of became my personality. It has always been my experience that anything good will leave you. It never failed. Even at that early age I was always expecting someone close to me to just either drop dead or beat me, proving to me that that person was indeed a pompous dick.

                I dressed in my some oversized t-shirt and put on some of my khakis. Blue jeans are a new thing to me to be honest. I just never thought during that time in my life that I looked anywhere near decent enough in them to warrant buying a pair. For some reason though I thought khakis and green corduroy  would hide my expanding body. I never left the house without my oversized Microsoft hoodie. I remember getting it from a donor at Christmas and I was stoked about it. I could fit my whole body in it at the time and I love to curl up into myself and hide from the world.

                I don’t think I ever thought of myself as being miserable back then. It was just a state of mind. Every day was rainy and dreary in my eyes. I never had rose tinted glasses, I always had a pair of ultra UV ray blocking sunglasses to protect me from the blinding stupidity of life.

                As my brother went into the living room to negotiate his way into staying home I took my Goosebumps book and put it with the others in the cardboard box next to my bed. What can be seen as OCD now was easily mistaken as a normal little hobby. I remember always getting upset whenever I found a wrinkle on the cover or a soda stain on one of the pages and just throwing the whole thing out. It wasn’t just books eithers, it was movies, games, clothes, anything. It had to be perfect otherwise it was flawed, and that reminded me too much of my own imperfection. It had to go.

                But luckily that morning all forty two of my books (always in even numbers) were in mint condition. I was still a few years from beanie babies so I would like to say I wasn’t too bad at that point.

                Then again I could always get weird about it too. Sometimes I would only collect things with flaws. Like after the mint books lost their appeal I started buying used books. They have a certain smell and look to them that appealed to me. If I had known at the time I would of considered this punk but it was a whole new sensation, imperfection! The sad thing is that this became an obsession unto its own self. I remember whenever I got a brand new book after that I would have to wear it in before it could join the other books in my book box. It had to be up to code. I think some small part of me wanted it to fit in with the others so it wouldn’t be the outcast. I don’t know why I apply human characteristics to everything but it still comes through every now and then to this day. Especially with books. I almost feel like I’m adopting them whenever I buy one. Like the book’s previous owner was neglectful and hated it so much that he / she just threw it away out into the cold and uncaring world.

                I think I’d be apt to punch someone if I ever saw a book burning in progress.

                The wet toast and eggs gave me a stomach ache. I remember being groggy too. I had just recently started taking medications and they were fucking my shit up something awful. In fact I don’t think I was conscious much during most of my adolescent years. It was just sort of one big, loud blur or my father yelling and me falling asleep whenever I got into a comfortable position.

                I knew the zombie thing was stupid. But part of me has always warned that I am a stupid ugly little fucker and that anything I believe in is probably not true anyways. I knew how the world worked but I just wanted to stay in my bubble for as long as I could without getting any older or taller. I thought of being an adult and that scared the shit out of me. I was in no shape for such thoughts so I generally drowned out all stimuli with Nintendo and horror movies.

                My brother lost out on the battle and was soon out the door into the rain and off to the bus stop. I can say I did feel a little bad about it. I never had grasped the severity of my actions before a certain age (sometimes I still feel like I am incapable of feeling these things even now) and I just saw the doctor as a nice little distraction from school. I’d just be sitting in class already knowing what Miss Longshore was teaching and I felt bad about wasting her time. I was also nodding out a lot which always embarrassed me because she always chose to wake me up during class whenever I got to the point I was snoring. That’s like waking a sleep walker mid stride. I think they say you shouldn’t wake people like that because the embarrassment would be so much that they’d be libel to grab the nearest pen and stab their left eye out if for anything but to get away from the situation. That and the pain medications too.

                I don’t remember how long I sat staring at my empty plate but my mother soon surfaced after the scuffle with my brother and took it back into the kitchen for me. I had wanted to do it and make her happy but I knew that I’d just get the same dull expression if I did it anyways so I opted to have her come to me. At least it would make her a little more responsive if she had to come to me. It wasn’t necessary to do this but I still had no fucking idea how to get positive reactions out of any of my family. It was sort of like a horrible crap shoot from hell where if I’d landed on snake eyes I would of most likely have been put out in the shed for the remaining season if I even burped at the wrong person.

                It’s sort of like dominating a dog. It won’t ever listen to you until you smack it a few times. I always hated using force to get my way but if I was anything like the dogs I would encounter later than life, I would of beaten the shit out of me to make me act like a normal little kid.

                My thoughts weren’t normal. I knew this, although I liked to think that it would get me somewhere in life, but the reality is that special people usually stay special and wind up being in the care of the state later in life.

                I don’t know why but I began crying, hard. I don’t know what brought it on but it was the same feeling I was having when I looked at my breakfast. I felt like I was existing only to be stupid. The only thought going through my head is that of my grandma telling me that God doesn’t make mistakes. He was too good to make a defective product.

                I countered that God also allowed Satan to continue living. Where exactly were his morals if he was always smiting people and allowing the Devil to be around doing the things he was doing. I remember one Sunday school when I was young when I insisted that they must be in cahoots. Lest to say that I was never popular in those classes.

                This just made me feel even more distant from reality than I already was. When I get really upset nothing is real to me anymore. I think that’s why I liked drugs so much. They gave me that intense feeling of not really being anything in life but a casual observer. With proper knowledge I am figuring that these feelings were my defense mechanism. I know that whenever I went to jail in the past I totally disconnected from everything. Nothing was solid and everything was fluid. I was on auto pilot. I ate, drank, read, and shit, but I was never really there.

                I was putting myself into a funk so I opened my door and walked the two feet to the bathroom, where my mother was putting on her makeup. She didn’t like to be interrupted so I walked back into my room and picked out a Super Nintendo game to play. I was always into the second generation knock off games. Stuff like Plok and Bubsy were always more enticing to me than the standard Mario fare. When I have to think about it I suppose that was my early hipster showing through. It is always a great feeling when you are sure you’ve found something awesome that no one has had the opportunity to look at and fall in love with yet.

                That and I had a preference for black shirts.

                When she was ready she called out to me from the living room. I didn’t even bother to turn off the SNES when I left. I just sort of left it on pause and exited the room. My shoes were the Velcro kind because I still hadn’t grasped the concept of tying my own shoes just yet and to be honest I always felt like a total dick whenever I had to have someone tie them for me. This was for the best, even if somebody brought it up, I knew that I had my limits and I wholly, and depressingly, accepted every flaw I perceived I had with sort of a detached sadness.

                After putting on my shoes I could see my mother in the car already through the fogging living room windows. I had a second thought and went back to my room for a book. It wasn’t though as I even read them things really, I’ve probably only read maybe three out of the forty ones I had, it was more like a totem for me to hold onto to reassure myself that I was safe.

                I had a doll and two stuffed animals (all three of which I still have) that served this function up until the age I realized that everyone would laugh at me if I held onto them in public. So I traded one of three objects for another. It didn’t really matter what book I took with me. It just mattered that I had one.

                Plus people were always impressed when my eight / nine year old self would come into a room holding a book in my small hands. If I wanted to impress someone I would bring a thick book. I basically knew the gist of whatever I had and could usually bullshit my way through a conversation. Even back then people cared dick about books. This of course was in my favor. I know I was at the age most kids are devouring little story time tales by the truck load but I still couldn’t even spell ‘but’ back then. I had to be deemed retarded and put into a special catch up class for reading soon after the events I’m describing. I was young and they were just beginning to find out how fucked up I really am.

                I shouldn’t had eaten those eggs… I had such a bad cramp. Once I got into the car I buckled my seat and we headed out into the rain soaked morning. The grey was comforting and I curled up into a little ball under my hoodie. If a cop would have stopped us he probably would have gotten onto us about how I was sitting with my seatbelt, but thankfully that never happened when I was around (at least while I was violating the seat belt laws at the time.)

                My mother was drinking a Coke-A-Cola and that made me sort of angry. I had seen not even a week before on TV that it was bad to drink and drive. I made myself vocal but was instantly shot down because apparently you could drink certain things in the car while you were driving. I had such a fear of being caught that I never drank anything in any vehicle until well after I was sixteen years old (That is probably about the year that I started to really fall apart, for now the current meds were keeping me settled.)

                I was always bad with names and directions. For some reason I could go to a place a million times and take the same way each time but I’d have to show you where to go because I was always dyslexic when it came to anything involving directions.

                I forgot exactly where this place was but the God honest truth is that it seemed to rain whenever I went there every single time. There was also a pawn shop on the way in the basement of this old decrepit building. I normally went there after t my doctor to look for old Turbografx 16 games. It wasn’t exactly the best system in the world but it had Bonk for it and that was fine by me.

                I think all little kids like playing a bald headed caveman with personal space issues on a shitty game system at one point or another in their lives.

                The doctor’s office was just like I remembered it from the last few times I went. Basically it was a narrow rectangle shaped room with manila paint on the walls. It was clearly made with kids in mind because the floor was always littered with toys. I always skipped over the baby games and went for a magazine. I never read anything but as I said I had a cover to keep up.

                I never had any friends growing up so talking to the doctor was always a plus when it happened. Although I was too young to feel as if I was being played I found out later in life that my parents were fucking with me the entire time. Whenever I told the doctor that I was sad he would give me placebos because my mother would tell him that I have nothing to be sad about. That I was faking it for attention.

                That just irritates me to no end. I hate people who discount mental health. Just like all those dopes who say Kurt Cobain couldn’t of killed himself. It’s always the argument that he had everything going for him therefore he couldn’t of been in the midst of a gut crunching depression.

                Those of us in the know those sort of envy him for his courage.

                That and his knack for being really blond. He was pretty good at that shit.

                I don’t remember the specifics because it was so long ago but I do remember that my mother was always present. To be truthful I felt protected like this. I still had faith in my mother and I was too young to realize she was really a pill popping drunk backstabbing German / Dutch woman who only was looking after herself.

                I wanted French fries… But I was stuck there for at least thirty minutes. So I talked about whatever came to my mind. It’s surprising to me that I was never diagnosed right until recently. I think they saw my unhealthy obsession with round objects and circuit boards as a just some sort of phase. I remember being enamored with stuff like that. It bordered on obsession but it was always swept under the closet door whenever I saw that lady in that small office. It was painted and decorated in the same bright colors as the waiting room but I could swear to you those walls bled the blood of virgins when the lights went out.

                I talked and talked and she kept asking me stupid questions about what I was trying to say. I wasn’t the walking talking David broadcasting system just yet. It was all too new to me. The more I got frustrated the more I just told them that I’d rather be anywhere right now than Earth. I remember she told me that I couldn’t breathe in space or on other known planets and I told her that this was exactly my point.

                I was very young but I still felt like life had skipped out on the check, leaving me to wash dishes to pay off the tab.

                I’d rather be dead than have to wake up to school and this all the time.

                She was crafty though… She would ask me questions that sometimes went over my head but I was in that young phase where I thought I sounded smart if I put a technological spin on things. I didn’t know exactly what the web was back then but I wanted to sound like I did. I thought computer nerds were the most awesomeness that could be contained in human flesh, so naturally I wanted desperately to be one.

                My limitations were always shown to me and I was always brought back down to Earth by this person. I hated coming out of my bubble. In there I had zombies and video games, out in the open like this I just had a bad stomach cramp and soda withdrawal.

                Did I mention I was still skinny? This started the ball rolling toward getting me on those pills that bloated me up like a horny toad.

                I did what any young person would do when I was faced with someone who called me out on everything. I just started making shit up.

                I don’t really know how to end this. Basically I spent thirty minutes talking to a lady who was under the impression that she could wrap her mind around mine. Sometimes I think I told some of the stories I did because I genuinely like telling stories. And the thing about it is that they weren’t exactly lies. It’s all about how you tell it.

For example:

Bad way – I was drinking a cup of coffee when the cat scratched me and I spilled it all over me!

Good way – I was sitting on the sofa on that mild summer day back when I was a kid when Nightingale (my kitty witty, witty woo!) and she was meowing for me to give her a little attention. I was tired I have to admit so I didn’t respond in the timeliest of manners, which upset her greatly. She started pawing at my bare leg until I finally felt a striking pain in my knee; with surprise I jumped out of my seat and took the lightly sweetened coffee with me.

                I don’t know what hurt more, the scratch or the coffee burns!

The Stephen King way – It was a desolate and mild summer’s day in the small town of Duluth Georgia. David McGhee was unaware that he was about to meet a fate worse than a bully’s punch. He had made coffee from some of the instant stuff his parent’s kept in the cupboards just a few minutes before he took a cup and sat down on the family’s well worn out couch. It stood in the living room like a body with its flesh coming off the bones. Probably smelled a little like that too if he remembers correctly…

                Nightingale, his faithful cat companion, spied him from across the room. It all started off innocent enough. David maybe could of paid a little more attention to it and none of this would have ever started…

                She stalked slowly toward him like a lion hunting down its prey. The hunger in her eyes meant she wanted something and she would stop at nothing to get it. As David drank his scolding hot coffee she slinked in between his legs, purring as she did. David did not respond so she began to swat playfully at his bare legs. David giggled at the touch but did not do much else other than stare off into the distant nothingness outside the living room window.

                Her blood went ice cold and she revealed her monstrous bitch woman fangs! She extended her claws and made one mighty swoop for the poor young man’s knee. The pain immediately registered and David made a jump in horror, spilling the scolding death drink onto his lap. Skin began to peel off, revealing the inner layers as bloody as the day he was born.

                It could have been avoided… But instead there was mayhem!

                See? There are ways to tell a good story. Although if I want to be honest with you then I have to say that the most cataclysmic thing produced by that session was a new medication that I was to take.

                Prozac…