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

Chapter 52
Anyone have any aspirin?

I try my best to act shocked over this revelation, but so much has gone on today, I hardly even notice. "You want me to kill myself?" "In the afterlife, we prefer the phrase, ‘pass on’," the dead dog returns. "What will my death have to do with ending the upcoming Armageddon?" I ask, skeptically. "It won’t end it," the dog begins, "it will prevent it from starting." "But it’s already started," I respond, quizzically. "Only in subdivisions of reality," the dog comments back. "You have seen the beginning, but to most – it’s still nine months away."

I begin to slouch, as I become more confused. "I’m sure I’ve seen the same thing everyone else has, unless I have magical powers, or something," I say, doubting very much that I do. "You have amazing powers of observation," the dog says, sounding a lot like some lame "Pink Floyd" lyric; "those observational powers have allowed you to look into different subsets of reality. Different places. Different times. Why, you can even see different emotions." I slouch further down.

Bilbo continues, "what I mean is, you can see hundreds, even thousands of different ways that an individual may react to a specific situation." I slouch further still. The dog tries to explain, "for every situation, there is a hundred, or even a thousand, reactions. Let’s take a joke, for example. You could tell this one joke to the same person, but that person, depending on his mood, his surroundings, how he’s feeling, if he’s heard it before, could possibly have thousands of different reactions to your one joke. These reactions, as unlikely as it seems, can lead said person into possible life and death situations. You, Wayne, are capable of seeing some, if not all, of these reactions before they actually occur. To be honest, you have the power to see them before the joke has even been told."

The Dalmatian sees that I am still lost. "Basically," he begins, "all I’m saying is that the juicy cerebellum sitting inside of that head of yours is a time-traveler, of sorts." I squeak out some weird sound, that sort of resembles a laugh. Only, it’s the kind of laugh you’d let escape during your best friends funeral, and it sounds more like a fart. "I can’t travel in time, Bilbo. I’ve never time-traveled. I don’t even believe in time-travel." I take a breath. " When all those other people were holding up signs, blocking abortion clinics, I was holding my, ‘Back to T.V.’ sign in front of the movie theater playing, ‘Back to the Future.’" The dog puts what’s left of his head between what’s left of his legs, and one of his ears snaps off, and falls to the floor.

I decide to go on with my argument. "Time travel is an impossibility. To go backward in time would mean that everyone would have to live forever." The dog crouches further down, and his entire head snaps off; flecks of dried blood fly from his head, and rebound off of my face. I ignore them, and continue trying to explain myself. "If I was to travel back in time, and talk to, or even look at, someone like Albert Einstein, that would mean that Albert Einstein would still have to be alive. If I went to spend Christmas in the Big Woods, with the Ingalls, that would mean Laura and Mary would still be alive, Ma would still be stuck in the kitchen, and God-awful tunes would still be emanating from Pa’s overused fiddle." I wait for the dog’s response; no words flow from his mouth (but neither does any internal organs, so I count my blessings).

"Do you see what I’m saying?" I ask, "how could anyone time-travel? What if someone time-traveled back 11 years? Would they catch me, whacking off for my very first time, upstairs in my room, over grainy medical books, while my mom is outside doing laundry?" The dog still says nothing. "NOT A CHANCE!" I yell. "That would be embarrassing. I mean, what would be the point in locking the door when you take a dump, when some time-traveling dude could just peek his head in 1,000 years from now? Plus, that’s kinda gross to think that we might be taking thousands of daily dumps 24/7 for all of eternity." I pause, and then ask the dog what he’s doing.

No answer comes, but the Dalmatian keeps pointing toward his freshly headless neck. "What do you want me to do about it? Sew?" The dog just keeps pointing. Upon taking a closer look, I find the object that he’s pointing toward with such a fevered intensity. It’s a black cord, with a socket at the end. After placing the cord into my hand, the dog points toward another one, with two prongs, sticking out of the back of his head. "You want me to plug you in?" I ask. The dog just flails his paws in the air, wildly. I decide that either this means A.) yes, or B.) NO, you idiot – you’ll kill us both! I take the chance, and go with A.

When I plug him in, I realize that I chose wisely, and the dog speaks, once again. "I didn’t think you’d ever shut up," is his first words, "didn’t you notice my damn head falling off?!?" "Yeah," I say, "I noticed, I just didn’t know it would matter so much." The dog looks flustered. At least as flustered as a dead dog can look. "Of course it matters, you idiot! Remember how I talk?" "With a record player?" I ask, already knowing. "Well, they finally forced me to upgrade to CD, but still, how does either one of these items work?" "Uh . . ." I return, before the dog interrupts. "With a cord, you MORON! When my head fell off, I came unplugged. It rendered me mute. Scariest two minutes of my life, at least since I died." I just stand, silently, wondering why I even plugged him back in, and if they’ve ever heard of a thing called batteries, in Heaven.

"Anyway," the dog continues, "in response to what you were saying, I didn’t say you could really go back into time, but you can go forward into a time that may not already exist." "And what will that do?" I ask. "Oh, not much . . ." the dog comments, sarcastically, "maybe just end the impending Armageddon before it begins." I lift up my finger, but the dog continues speaking, before I have my chance to intervene.

"Let me prove it." The dog’s raspy voice crackles, as he speaks, "Remember, toward the start of your day, how Bonnie was pregnant? Then, a few minutes later, she had her kid . . ." I decide to interrupt with a meek sounding, "it was a boy." The dog ignores me. ". . . shortly after ‘giving birth,’ she ran up to you, looking fit as Pa’s fiddle, beaming with pride, as she told you, ‘I’m pregnant!!!’ Remember how you stood there? Totally bewildered? ‘Pregnant?’ you thought, ‘I thought she had just given birth.’" Finally, I am actually shocked. Bilbo may actually be onto something.

"So," I ask, "what does this have to do with time-travel?" The dog huffs and puffs, looking rather ridiculous, with his head hanging to his body by a thin, plastic cord. "It has everything to do with it." He answers. "Bonnie did just become pregnant, she has not had her baby. Her baby is the beginning, Wayne." "The beginning of what?" I ask. "The Armageddon," the dog answers. "That baby is Elvis Presely’s." "So, he really is alive, huh?" I reply, already knowing the answer. "Wayne," the dog returns, "haven’t you put it all together yet?" I slouch a little bit lower, until I’m nearly sitting. The dog carries on. "Elvis Presely is Satan . . . ‘Broken Arrow’ casino is his playground . . . and you’re his only real opponent."

Go to: Chapter 53

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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