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


Chapter 61
Piss and Defecation

I really don’t make for a good-looking corpse, and it looks as though I have an erection. Great, now everyone gets to see that those "small-penis" jokes I made had some validity, not that in this state, anyone would even care. What in the hell would I get a boner for, after-death? Does my corpse have a thing for sewage, or something? Maybe it was just getting away from Richard . . . forever that did it.

"Get your mind out of the gutter," I hear a scratchy voice commanding. I look down and see myself. "What?" "Get your mind out of the gutter, and do something about this mess you’ve gotten yourself into. You don’t want to end up lying on top of you, with another erection, do ya? We’ll look like self-infatuated homos." I can’t believe I’m having a conversation with me. And I’m really there. Not to mention, dead. I’m actually being kind of mean to myself. Maybe it’s the missing eyeballs, ticking me off, or just lying down in all the piss and defecation.

"That’s been your problem all your life, Wayne," the rotting-me says, "you’ve never taken a chance when you’ve gotten one. I can see that now, since you died." "But I didn’t die," I respond, "you did." "I am you, only a less fortunate version. It was still you that led me here, which in turn means me that lead myself, and is now dead and warning you, who is actually me." I just scratch my head.

"Okay, monkey-boy, we’ve always been a bit too wordy, during the most inopportune times, so I’ll cut to the chase." "You mean, I will," I return, cracking a grin the eyeless me won’t ever see. The decomposing Wayne looks frustrated, "yeah, whatever, quit smiling. You’re me, I’m you, don’t you think we’ve milked this one for all it’s worth?" "I guess, or you, or whatever." I observe how we both say whatever, that’s kind of cool. Now I’m impressed with myself, how embarrassing.

"Look behind you," I say. I obey myself, and look. "Yeah, what?" "Richard isn’t there, you idiot!" I look again, after getting scolded from me. "You’re right. What should I do?" "Ruuu . . ." I say. "Ruuu?" I ask, confused. Maybe I learned another language, in this time-line, or something. The ugly, posthumous me looks hostile. "Ruuu . . . ruuu . . . ruuu . . ." Before he can say "ruuu" again, the rotten me starts melting into the surrounding filth. My forehead sort of implodes, and then my nose grows bigger. My jaw comes undone, and falls off. I start shrinking.

My flesh ripples, and pops out a bunch of ugly looking goosebump type things all over it. Hair begins growing out of each one, and my arms and legs become increasingly skinnier, my arms finally devolving into another pair of legs. My fingers sprout browning claws, and my buttocks disappear, leaving just a hole. Boy, it must really suck to be me.

Suddenly the hair growing turns into tufts. And I notice a large tongue hanging from my mouth. I can see faint traces of white, with black spots on the tufts of hair left all over my body. This isn’t me. This is him! My guardian angel. The dead dog.

"Ruuu . . . ruuu . . . ruuu . . ." He’s skipping! I kick him lightly, and hear the needle inside him jump over the scratch. "Ruuun, you fucking moron!" "I thought you had a CD-player installed," I respond. "It’s in the shop. Everyone tells me ‘real angels play CDs,’ ‘Compact Discs never skip, they sound sooooo much better,’ so I finally breakdown and get a player, and in less than three hours, the thing breaks. For now, I’m back with my trusty, albeit slightly scratchy, record-player."

"Why did you pretend to be me?" I ask, "No one can see you, anyway." "Don’t worry about it, just RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN!" The dog screams, while nodding toward the right. I turn in the direction of the Dalmatian, and see that Richard is returning from wherever he disappeared to. I pull my hand out of the cuff, standup, and begin running. With every step, I hear him getting closer; his breath is on my neck. "You’ll never get a ribbon, sweetie," I hear my mother telling me, all those years ago, "because you’re just-not-fast-enough."

To be continued February 27th, 1998

1997/98 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.

You know the routine, just click it.