don't you love your dog
TRANSCRIPT
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Dont You Love Your Dog
By R.T. Martin
January 16, 2019
There is a man in a yellow jumpsuit standing in the
snow outside my basement peephole.
I see his filthy boot and gun-barrel. Im silent as I peer
out the four-inch cavity exposed after I removed the aluminum
ducting and insulation for my dryer vent. I hear him taking a
piss, whistling the new Anthem.
His comrades, two Tenders in yellow jumpsuits, are across
the road confronting my neighbor Albert in his driveway. The
Tenders are pointing at the ground and shouting demands in
Ahahuascan, the new language of the World Government.
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Alberts wife and chubby teenage son are huddled together
in the snow under a Nascar sleeping bag. Albert is being
prompted at gunpoint to lay his collection of guns down on his
driveway. The Tenders have one of those creepy metallic Dog-
Bastards for troop support - its the size of a Ford Fiesta -
AWG's latest model - a mechanized kill-machine. The Dog-Bastard
has poised itself between Alberts family and the doorway of
their house. A blue light radiating from the transparent dome on
its head signals a passive status.
Albert is pissed off. Hes going on and on about the
Second Amendment and rations and the AWG and poisoned food -
he's eye-popped and shirtless. The giant bald eagle tattooed on
his heaving beer-belly looks as if it's going to launch off his
jiggling gut at the jumpsuits. Albert spits toward the jumpsuits
and storms back into his house for another armload of guns, he
kicks open his screen door and comes out with a gigantic
American flag draped over his shoulders, wearing it like a
poncho.
The Tender outside my peephole sprints across my yard,
crossing the road to warn his comrades, shouting Svat! Svat!
Svat! He points his rifle toward the Dog-Bastard and focuses a
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laser-pointer beam at the blue dome on its head.
The dome on the Dog-Bastards head flashes from passive
blue to stop-light red, a grinding-whizzy sound like a Gyrotron
at the county fair erupts from under its ribs.
Albert snaps his right hand out from the poncho. He
produces a sawed-off and drives the barrel into the head of the
nearest jumpsuit, making it disappear into an explosion of blood
and skull, splatting his comrades face-shield like pizza
toppings. The man attempts to clear the gore from his facemask,
spreading blood and gristle across the plexi-glass like a bug-
smeared windshield.
The sprinting Tender fires a haphazard rifle-shot - blood
spurts from the eagles head tattooed on Alberts belly. The
impact drives the fat man backward into a snowbank like a star-
spangled garbage sack.
The Dog-Bastard leaps forward and straddles Alberts
body. A twisting piston is thrust from its ribcage, plunging
into Albert, punching through his stomach into the snowbank -
skin - intestine-coil - flag-scraps - snow. Each time the piston
retreats back into the Dog-Bastard's body, it pulls back pieces
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of my neighbor.
January 17, 2019
I am hiding this handwritten testimony in a plastic
sandwich container, buried in the bottom of my empty water
softener salt-basin; the same basin that I hid inside last week
while the Tenders cleared my house.
My hard drives were wiped clean by an electromagnetic pulse
six days ago, erasing my original computer journal and my
electronic contact with the rest of the world. The news-feed is
gone. We have gone Radio Beijing.
The Tenders took Abby - I took that the worst - my dog.
They found her whimpering under the stairs when their Spiders
scanned the basement. I nearly bit a hole in my cheek stifling
my rage, silent in my salt-tub. The Tenders forced resident work
crews to board up the windows, I am trapped inside my home.
After the outbreak of the Sceptre-A virus, an imaginary
disease concocted by the AWG, Americans were encouraged by the
media to get vaccinated against this fictional virus. Like most
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of the then-obedient population, I received the flu shot after
we were warned about the spreading epidemic. Holdouts who refuse
the shot are being hunted down, sent to camps and processed.
The vaccination is taking charge of my will. I feel larvae
in my mucus - a pulsing virus in my blood - tapeworms under my
eyelids - I feel their intelligence - re-assembling. My body
has become a hive.
January 18, 2019
Three holdouts on snowmobiles are trying to open the fire
hydrant across the street. A flannel-clad man is twisting on the
spigot with a huge wrench while his companions keep watch for
Tenders, their snowmobiles idling in the street.
Szee-szip-szee-szip-szee-szip sounds come from the north,
out of my line of vision. The two men keeping watch hear the
coming threat, arming themselves with chunks of re-bar. Entering
the frame are several mechanized Spiders. The pumpkin-sized
daddy-long-legs tippy-toe within four car lengths of the
holdouts - the Spiders halt - their blue eyes switch to red.
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The holdouts haul ass to their idling snowmobiles. The
Spiders spring from the pavement. The shrill sszzzzzeeeeee
blasting from the Spiders is in a frequency that shatters the
icicles hanging from my roof. Two of the holdouts make it to
their snowmobiles as the flannel-clad man takes a swing at the
nearest Spider with his wrench. He is overtaken by two of the
insects at his waist. The first Spider scrambles up his back,
contorting the screaming man into a kneeling position. The
second Spider skitters forward with an extended leg tipped with
a syringe. It drives a needle into each of the man's legs, his
lower extremities become frozen in place while his torso
thrashes around in a semicircle, making him gag and croak,
flailing in a mad aerobic exercise.
Abandoning their companion, the two remaining holdouts
accelerate their snowmobiles out of view with three Spiders in
pursuit, their surgical red eyes focused on their prey.
It's dark. I cannot see the flannel-clad man pinned in the
snow, but his damned croaking is making my blood pop like
seltzer bubbles.
Headlights from an approaching vehicle reveal the flannel-
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clad man into my frame once again. I see the front end of a
converted mail truck, its filthy headlights illuminating the
flannel-clad man in a sick yellow glow. Two Tenders in yellow
body armor approach the man, chattering to each other in
Ahuauascan. They place an egg-shaped beacon in the snow at the
man's knees, blanketing him in a red aura. One of the Tenders
karate-kicks the poor guy in the chest, snapping him backward -
then forward, like a kids bouncy toy. The laughing Tenders
return to the mail-truck and leave the scene.
I need water. I am running out of matches, candles,
battery life. I ate my last can of kidney beans. Writing is very
difficult. My hands feel like they belong to someone else. I am
enamored of the beautiful red beacon, glowing in the street.
Szeet-Clomp-Szeet-Clomp - approaching from the west. A Dog-
Bastard with two Spiders march into view behind the flannel-clad
man. Hes writhing in the snow like an insane living statue.
This Dog-Bastard is the size of a Jersey cow with its skin and
muscles removed - a silver-framed monster of perfection with
rubber tendons. It stands behind the man and extends a long
tubular siphon. It drives the translucent tube into the man's
back. His croaking erupts into an agonized scream.
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The Dog-Bastard sucks gore through the siphon into a
deflated sac hanging from under its backbone. The red dome on
its head pulses like the cherry-light on the roof of a cop car.
The man becomes a flannel-clad husk - his juices draining
in chunks through the siphon into the Dog-Bastards expanding
sac.
The metallic beast retracts the siphon, dropping the
flannel-clad mans withered body into the snow like a blown-down
scarecrow.
A Spider tippy-toes past my peephole.
I am so very quiet.
January 19, 2019
I drank the last of my water. I was going to scoop snow
from outside the dryer vent hole with a measuring cup duct-taped
to a broom handle, but I thought against it. Any movement
outside the house will alert the motion-detecting drones
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scanning the neighborhood. The egg-beacon is still glowing its
red invitation outside my peephole. Its radiation has melted the
snow in a perfect circle, I tentatively reach my arm through my
peephole to feel its warmth.
I felt a beetle scurry across my skull. It's using my scalp
as a bed-sheet. I know it is...I know it.
I sliced the palm of my hand open on a piece of sharp
copper breaking apart frozen water pipes. My hand hurts less
than it should. My blood is thick - a pale pus oozing out. There
are tiny silver dots that look like b.bs in my blood. The
little balls are skipping and popping on my bloody palm like
water drops on a burning skillet.
January 2submit1, 2019
The egg-man inside the beacon is whispering to me. Hes
saying that I can feel its comfort it I kick out the barrier on
the second-floor window and jump into the snow. The egg-man says
Abby is hungry - Abby needs to be fed.
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January 22, submit
There are Spiders tippy-toeing outside my peep hole. The
egg-man is imploring me....don't you love your dog?.
I am very quiet.
January, 2019
My name is Derek Ingelstead, I leave this testimony
to the
(don't you love your dog)
generations, in this little
sandwich container, I hope that somebody
((don't you love your Dog-Bastard??))
will find this and know what happened to
(submit)
me in my basement the winter of
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((SUBMIT!!))
(dont you love my Dog)
2019 and what we gave away
(such a beautiful dog)
too easy, too soon
( I know you love my Dog).
I am going to the egg-man. I am going to fall through the
window.
(submit)
I love my dog.