Dead Dogs Don't Roll Over
Written by: Alex Sandell


Chapter 40
Everything's Gay In Limbo

As I walk to my bank, I notice someone is lurking around the corner, again. How does he do it? How does Richard always know when I’m coming (ooh, that sounded kinky.)? I try to duck around the corner, and blend into the crowd without him noticing, when I notice that it isn’t him. Actually, "it’s" probably worse.

"Already trying to avoid me, huh?" My dead Dalmatian asks with a cynical stare. "What do you expect? It’s not like you smell like a bed of roses." Jeez, I’m glad my life’s not a movie, I keep having the lamest dialogue. "Hey," the dead dogs spits back at me, "no matter what I smell like, I’m still your guardian angel." "Don’t they have some kind of deodorant in Heaven?" The dog just looks pissed for about 30 seconds and then comes back with, "I’m not in Heaven yet, remember? I’m stuck in Limbo, working on your sorry ass."

"Speaking of Limbo," I start in with my burning question, "and working on people’s asses, do they allow gay dudes with a flaming throat and glowing, yellow eyes up there?" The dog gives me his patented, "cynical look," before commenting.

"What makes you think he’s gay?" He asks, as some weird, dried-up organ comes falling from his mouth. "Um, he was hanging out with me in my locker room bag, and after a cryptic warning not to enter the gateway, he grabbed my buttocks." I figure my use of the word "buttocks," in lieu of "butt," would sound less accusatory.

"So, that makes you think he’s gay?!? It’s 1997, are you earth-dwelling people this primitive? One male can’t even grab another’s ass, without you thinking he’s queer?" "Well," I respond, timidly, "it’s allowed if you’re playing football, if you’re a football coach, or if you’re really drunk, but anywhere else, I guess you probably are considered gay." "What a joke," the dog responds, making him sound just a little too human.

"God used to be homophobic," the Dalmatian begins "back around the time they wrote that outdated Bible, then he saw how fucking annoying the religious right was, and figured Hell would already be overcrowded with all of them there, so he decided that gays were cool with him." "Well," I return, "it is becoming more accepted down here on earth, as long as you say something like, ‘I don’t mind people being gay, as long as they keep their hands off of me.’" The dog looks as though he’s going to vomit. "That’s mental," he begins, obviously overlooking the fact that saying "mental" in a derogatory sense is sort of retardphobic. "What makes all you humans think a gay guy would wanna touch your hairy-asses, anyway? Homos usually have pretty good taste in men. In Heaven, they usually go straight for the angels." "It’s just a macho thing," I reply, ending the conversation.

"Well, to answer your question . . . answer your question . . . answer your question . . ." I kick the dog, and let the needle jump over its skip. The same customers that have been watching me talking with myself, stare even harder as they watch my leg kicking the open air. "DAMNIT!" The dog screams, "they said they had this fucking thing fixed!" "I still think you should get a CD player installed," my comment just annoys the dog further. "I already told you, THEY SOUND LIKE SHIT!"

The dog calms himself down, and begins speaking again. "To answer your question, the guy with the flames in his throat was probably Leroy, who’s the head guardian of the gate, and he is gay. But I don’t see what he would see in you." "Oh, thanks, that makes me feel real good. Now I’m getting negative commentary on my looks from a dog-corpse." "No," the dog replies, "from a guardian angel."

"So," I ask, stress taking its toll on my voice, "what brings you up from Limbo, this time? I thought you were through with me." For the first time ever, the dog looks depressed. "I didn’t do whatever it is I’m ‘sposed to do with you. I don’t understand this part of it anymore than you. As a matter of fact, I don’t think anyone really understands this part of it." "Why are you here then?" I ask. "I’m here to warn you. Your little dreamgirl is in danger." "SUE!" My eyes light up as I yell her name. Curious onlookers jump at the sound, then quickly return their focus back to their gambling machines.

"Is she in danger?" The dog bows his head and grumbles, "I just said that, you idiot." "What can I do to help her?" I ask. "Maybe pay more attention," the dog snaps back. "Now, I can’t say, and don’t know, exactly what’s going to happen to her, but I do know that, if something isn’t done, her eyeballs are gonna be staring down at you from one of those cameras by the end of the day."

Go to: Chapter 41

1997 Alex Sandell but, if you're a book publisher and, you wanna get this puppy out, please get in touch with me, hand me a nice, big contract and, of course, a 12 pack of Grape Soda and maybe we can do lunch.

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