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


Chapter 53
I Want a New Layer

"So, Elvis Presely is Satan, I’m his only opponent, and you want me to kill myself? Great plan." I look down at the rotting canine and let out a feminine little giggle that was initially meant to sound condescending and cynical. "We don’t actually need you to die . . ." I interrupt the dog, "what?!? You just told me . . ." he interrupts me in return, "could I have a minute, here?" Bilbo, the dead canine, starts sounding amazingly close to my seventh-grade teacher, Mr. Shelstead, the living jerk. "You need to kill yourself because this casino is surviving through your alternate reality." I would slouch even further, but I’m already on the floor, and there’s no slouching room left.

"Actually, what you’re saying is that I’m the cause of this Armageddon?" The dog sighs. "The cause, but also the solution. It couldn’t happen without you, but it’s very likely that it wouldn’t be stopped if you weren’t already here." My head begins spinning. "But, if I wasn’t here, it wouldn’t need to be stopped, because it wouldn’t happen at all." "Yes!" the dog grows more and more irritated with his every word, "It just wouldn’t happen at this time, in this reality, but it would still be here." The dog stops a moment to gather his thoughts. He tries sucking in a deep breath before speaking, but remembers that he’s dead. "JFK is alive, retired, and sipping lemonade in a whole ‘nother world, but at the same time it’s the identical world that you live in now, only another layer of its reality. Ronald Reagan has now entered his fourth term, in yet another layer of this very same timezone." I cringe at the thought. "Eww . . . couldn’t I go save that world instead?" "You’ll save that world at the same time as you save this, because no matter where you are, you’re still going to save wherever it is that you could be." I sit on the floor, hoping I don’t look as confused as I feel.

The Dalmatian lets me know that I do, by simply giving up on all explanations. "Okay," he whispers, "you’re not getting this. You don’t really need to." I laugh. "Typical," I say, "we never need to know anything. Whether it’s rotting Dalmatians, or Jesus Christ; we just have to die, and hope one of these crazy stories holds true." "Trust me," the dog replies cryptically, "this one will." After all that I’ve seen today, I can’t argue with him about that.

Go to: Chapter 54

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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