a dog's life:

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A DOG'S LIFE RICK SUPER

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A funny poignant satire: clever, thoughtful, witty....a guard named Poor Peasant finds himself beleaguered by a host of irritating visitors who have come to disturb his equanimity. You meet a flea who is a priest, termites who are tax collectors, a black carpenter ant who is a greedy realtor, a carrion beetle who sells life insurance, and a wasp who is a travelling salesman....this work proves that brevity is indeed the soul of much wit....

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Page 1: A Dog's Life:

A DOG'S LIFE

RICK SUPER

Page 2: A Dog's Life:

A DOG’S LIFE

(C) 2005 Rick Super

dedicated to Vena Cava

I

Page 3: A Dog's Life:

A DOG’S LIFE © 2005 RICK M. SUPER

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, or television review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

Applications for performing rights should be sent to Rick Super the address of whom is the same as the one given for the location of his publishing company.

Published by PHIONITIDES PUBLISHING COMPANY 2550 NORTH ROAD MODULE 4 COMPARTMENT#5 GABRIOLA ISLAND BRITISH COLUMBIA CANADA V0R 1X7

ISBN-10: 0-9736449-0-7 ISBN-13: 978-0-9736449-0-6

First limited edition: 100 Artwork done by VENA CAVA Copyright 2005. All rights reserved.

Drama/ Satire

Printed & Bound In Canada

II

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“ God is a dog, I believe, doggedly, and the sound of thunder is his snarling at the stupidities of humans

as He crunches their bones. “ Rick Super

“ I'm so fierce with humans, such a wussie about dogs.”

Vena Cava

“ What a dog’s life! Here I am being soaked, no doubt by acid rain. I’m hungry and thirsty.”

Poor Peasant

III

Page 5: A Dog's Life:

PREFACE

Interviewer: Now, tell me, Rick Super, what is satire all about? Rick Super: Well, it’s like a fruit salad, composed of many delicious fruits. In fact, the word satire is derived from the Latin word satura meaning satire and was originally written in verse, and was composed of a medley of subjects which reveals the ironic stance of the writer as he mirrors the follies and foibles of a particular society and its inhabitants. Aristophanes, Juvenal, Lucian, Voltaire, Swift, Dickens were all satirists who, though they wrote in different genres, basically all share the same indignation towards the contradictory behaviors of their fellow human beings and write with scathing vehemence laced with caustic humor. Used as a weapon of conscience satire attempts to put the facts and acts of society on the plate without any icing on the cake: Here is your world, humans, accept it or change it, it’s up to you, the satirist can only provide the fruit salad for the dessert and is not responsible for the bitterness or unsavoriness of the fruits. Remember, humans, he picked the fruits from the gardens of your planet Earth. You’ve made this paradise a toxic wasteland, extinctifying other creatures under your dominance. Interviewer: And Vena Cava, what does satire mean to you? Vena Cava: In most times and places, speaking your mind was a indulgence that could get you fined, hauled into court, or killed. To circumvent this, people created satire – a symbolic play-- to showcase their complaints. In a satire, society’s or individual’s foibles were brought to light in a slightly disguised, but still easily recognizable manner. In fact, many of the children’s stories we grew up with, like Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland and Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, were actually biting satires in their day. With the advent of free speech, satire as an art form is rarely seen today, though the heart of it survives in comic “spoofs” or political cartoons on the editorial page.

And now, without further ado, A Dog’s Life: A Modern Satire.

IV

Page 6: A Dog's Life:

CHARACTERS

POOR PEASANT: a Brown Labrador CATHOLIC PRIEST: a Flea

MUNICIPAL TAX: a Small Termite

PROVINCIAL TAX: a Medium-Sized Termite FEDERAL TAX: a Large Termite

ESURIENT REALTOR: a Black Carpenter Ant

LIFE INSURANCE: a Carrion Beetle

SLICK SALESMAN: a Wasp

V

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ACT ONE. SCENE ONE.

Hot afternoon in July. In the middle of a big backyard a cedar doghouse with a cedar roof. Couchant between a white plastic bowl of water and a red plastic bowl of dry dog food is a big brown Labrador, half his body inside the doghouse, the other half outside, shaded by the roof. His face has a mournful look. Attached to his black leather collar, besides his brass dog tag, is a thick steel chain the end of which is connected to a steel post inside the dog house. Also around his neck is a red flea collar.

POOR PEASANT(Yawns.) I’m dog-tired. I think I’ll spend the rest of this day sleeping. Last night’s graveyard shift was exhausting. I must have barked a dozen times each hour. It’s no easy life being a guard dog. A keen nose and alert ears are essential, a sine qua non.(1) When the lights of my master’s house go out, then I must be vigilant, listening to strange sounds in the night. I bark when I hear something stirring in the yard. It may be a burglar, or a prowling tomcat. Usually it’s only a raccoon trying to get into the garbage cans. It must be tough being a raccoon, always having to scavenge for food. At least, though I’m chained, my master supplies me with food and water. (Yawns again.) I think I’ll get into my house and sleep till midnight. It’s too hot out here. The master’s wife is at home. His house is safe and sound. (POOR PEASANT gets up, laps up a little water, goes into his doghouse, curls up, falls asleep and snores.)

CATHOLIC PRIEST(Approaching from the left) Holy Tithe, it’s a big doghouse. That means, Ave Maria, there must be a big dog inside, maybe a Saint Bernard. I hope and pray it’s not a hellhound. I’m so hungry. I need a new chapel and lots of blood. (Knocks thrice on the roof.) Wake up! Wake up! Is anybody at home?

1.sine qua non: a latin expression meaning, "without which not", in other words, something essential.

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POOR PEASANT(Suddenly awakens, runs outside, barking.) What the hell made that noise? By Sirius(2), it can’t be thunder.

CATHOLIC PRIEST(Standing on the roof, looking down at the irate dog.) Hello, my name is Catholic Priest. Do you, bless your soul, have any room on your skin to rent?

POOR PEASANT(Sejant affronte in front of the doghouse, looking up at the flea) My name is Poor Peasant. Get off my roof! I don’t want a flea in my ear.

CATHOLIC PRIESTDon’t be angry, my son. Anger is a deadly sin.

POOR PEASANTI’m not your son! There’s no vacancy for you. You’ll suck my blood like a vampire. Then I’ll be forever scratching my itchy skin. I’ll never get any rest. Be gone! Find another pelt to pester.

CATHOLIC PRIESTI need you, my son. I can’t live without you. Surely you desire some spiritual comforts. I know so many quotations from the Bible. They will nourish your canine soul.

POOR PEASANTYou paltry parasite! You only want my blood. I will not sacrifice my body to you. Give me a big ham bone, not quotations, to chew on. The latter will give me heartburn or flatulence.

CATHOLIC PRIESTSo little faith you have, my son. I promise I won’t bring others to your skin. You must realize I’m a celibate.

POOR PEASANTI don’t trust you. You are a male, aren’t you?

2.Sirius: brightest star in the sky, 8 light years from Earth, Canis Major.

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CATHOLIC PRIESTYes, but I abstain from sexuality. I experience only spiritual orgasms.

POOR PEASANTYour life is contra naturam(3), at least, in epiphany. But once you’re hidden in my pelt, then what will you do? I’m sure you’ll secretly meet with a female flea. Then, by Procyon(4), I’ll be covered with thousands of your kind. I certainly know that fleas don’t practice birth control. You’ll quickly overpopulate my skin and then I’ll go crazy with annoying itches. No way, you’ll not live on me. Go, colonize some other helpless creature. (Holds his head high, showing his neck) Look, flea, it’s a flea collar, Devil Brand X, containing deadly poison. Once on me, you’ll die.

CATHOLIC PRIEST(Coughs.) I’m already feeling sick. A gust of wind just sent me a whiff of that evil thing. I must depart. The devil can have you! You’re beyond any hope of salvation. You’ve gone to the dogs.(Coughs again, leaps off the roof onto the lawn, then hops away to the right.) I believe I’ll find a cat to hide in. Surely it needs my dogma.

POOR PEASANTWill I ever get any rest? (Takes a lap of water, then looks to this left.) Where are those termites going? I hope they don’t invade my house.(Crunches a few red morsels of dogfood.)

3. contra naturam: latin expression meaning, "against nature".4. Procyon: Dog-star, a double star in the constellation Canis Minor.

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ACT ONE. SCENE TWO.

POOR PEASANT is back inside the doghouse, snoring. A small termite, a medium-sized termite, and a large termite are on the left side of the roof. Each begins to eat a shingle. The crunching noise arouses POOR PEASANT. HE bolts out of his house , barking.

POOR PEASANT(Standing before his house, notices three termites eating his roof.) Get off my roof!. I don’t want holes to let in the rain. Go attack a tree! Wouldn’t a dogwood be more delicious than a doghouse? (The crunching stops.)

MUNICIPAL TAXHello, Poor Peasant. My name is Municipal Tax. My brothers and I have many bones to pick with you. So don’t be doggish with us.

PROVINCIAL TAXMy name is Provincial Tax. You owe us many taxes. They are the bones of contention.

FEDERAL TAXMy name is Federal Tax. You’ve been lying on your income Tax Form. You’re really in the doghouse now.

POOR PEASANTNo, I’m not, because you parasites woke me up. I’m outside now. I dreamt that I was chewing a meaty brontosaurus bone. I had seized it from a fierce Tomarctus, ancestor of all canines.

MUNICIPAL TAXDon’t be cocky with us, Poor Peasant. Or we’ll impound you. We don’t tolerate such doggery.

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POOR PEASANTWhat is my crime? I’m just an ordinary guard dog. It’s no easy life. In the summer I sweat and in the winter I shiver. I’m alone without a bitch. My master had me castrated long ago. Please leave me alone. Persecute some wealthy poodle who’s putting on the dog and who lives in a lordly mansion. I’m dog-tired.

MUNICIPAL TAXPoor Peasant, do you live in the city?

POOR PEASANTThat’s a silly question. Of course I live in the city or town. If I were a country dog, I wouldn’t be chained to a post. No, I’d be running freely through sunny fields or snoozing in shady woods or swimming in cool river pools.

MUNICIPAL TAXThen you must pay city taxes.

POOR PEASANTMy master pays all the taxes. I’m his dependent.

MUNICIPAL TAXYou don’t understand, Poor Peasant. You must pay extra taxes.

POOR PEASANTFor what? I have so very little.

MUNICIPAL TAXThere is an annual tax on your dogtag, on your leather collar, on your flea collar, on the chain and steel post, on your doghouse because it occupies precious space in the city, on your water bowl, and on your food bowl.

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POOR PEASANT

I have no money, sir. How can I pay? My master pays me with food, water and shelter.

MUNICIPAL TAX You owe the city exactly one cedar shake which I am entitled to eat.

POOR PEASANT

But then rain will bucket into my house.

MUNICIPAL TAXThat is not my concern. I’m sure your master will repair the roof. Next year I’ll be back to devour another shingle. The law is on my side. (Crunching a shingle)

POOR PEASANTWhat do you other two termites want? Shingles also?

PROVINCIAL TAXHow often do you bark, Poor Peasant?

POOR PEASANTOn graveyard shift I usually bark twelve times an hour, that is, once every five minutes. If there’s a prowler around, I bark more frequently.

PROVINCIAL TAXI know how many times you bark in twenty-four hours of everyday. I have ears everywhere. You can’t lie to me. Each bark must be taxed because it travels through provincial air.

POOR PEASANT I’m a guard dog. It’s my duty to bark to warn my master of intruders.

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PROVINCIAL TAXYour barking disturbs the neighborhood. If you were inside your master’s house, you wouldn’t have to pay any Air Tax. It’s too bad you’re not a cosseted lap dog living in the lap of luxury. You owethe province two cedar shakes which I’m obliged to devour. I have nothing more to say. (Crunching a shingle)

POOR PEASANTAnd what tax remains, you grinning fat termite? Is there a tax on my body?

FEDERAL TAXYes, Poor Peasant, there is Income Tax on what your body does for a living. You are employed as a guard dog. I have a record of your Social Insurance Number. You must pay now, or else you’re destined to spend the rest of your doggish life inside a Federal Dog Pound. I reckon you owe the country three cedar shakes which I’m authorized to consume.

POOR PEASANTThe roof will leak profusely with six shingles gone. Is there no mercy?

FEDERAL TAXWe have no tears for you, slave. Your master should buy lottery tickets. If he were to win a million, he could then manumit you. You could both live in luxury, unperturbed by me and my brothers.There are loopholes for wealthy people and their pets. They can elude us, but not you, Poor Peasant, not you. Ha! Ha! Ha! (Crunching a shingle)

POOR PEASANT(Growls.) Get off my roof! I’ll bite you parasites! I may have rabies. Who knows? I’ve not had my shots yet. Scram! (Growls again.)

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FEDERAL TAXLet’s go, brothers! We’ve had enough cedar to eat. Let’s go! We’ll find other helpless victims to persecute. We’ll tax, tax, tax them with countless taxes.

PROVINCIAL TAXYes, brother. It’s time to quit this hovel.

MUNICIPAL TAX Yes, I agree. Let sleeping dogs lie. (THEY leap off the roof onto the lawn and scurry away to the right, leaving behind as a bonus a big hole in the roof.)

8

Page 15: A Dog's Life:

ACT ONE. SCENE THREE.

POOR PEASANT, standing on back legs, front paws against the edge of the left side of the roof, examines the damage done. HE shakes his head in dismay. Suddenly a black carpenter ant appears on the right side of the roof.

ESURIENT REALTORHello, chap. My name is Esurient Realtor. What’s yours?

POOR PEASANTI’m Poor Peasant. I need a carpenter, not a realtor.

ESURIENT REALTORHow much do you want for this shack, I mean, palace? I’m sure I’ll find some hungry, I mean, eager buyers.

POOR PEASANTIt’s not mine to sell. It belongs to my master. Where will I live without it?

ESURIENT REALTORYou shouldn’t live outside, chump, I mean, chap. You’re a pure breed. You deserve a better type of shelter. I’m sure your master has room for you somewhere in his big mansion, perhaps, in the basement or in the garage.

POOR PEASANTHe does let me stay inside the basement during lightning storms.And he puts me in the closed garage when he cuts the back lawn because he knows that I abhor his noisy lawnmower. Although it barks louder than I, the neighbors never complain. But, if I were always inside the basement or garage, I could neither hear nor smell prowlers. No, it’s not for sale. My doghouse is my castle.

5. esurient: latin word meaning "hungry".

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ESURIENT REALTOROkay, Poor Peasant. I won’t press you to sell. You’re too dogged for me. But for a small fee I’ll fix the hole in your roof. My real forte is carpentry. I simply eat, I mean, sell houses for a hobby.

POOR PEASANTHow will I pay you? I have no money.

ESURIENT REALTORAs payment, let me have the rest of your dog food. After repasting on, I mean, repairing your roof, I’ll have a ravenous appetite. Do we have a deal?

POOR PEASANT(Looks up at the clouding sky, then at the grinning black carpenter ant.) It’s a deal, Esurient Realtor. Do hurry, because by the face of the sky, I fear, it will soon be raining cats and dogs. I don’t want to retrieve a foul cold. Will you be noisy while repairing my roof?

ESURIENT REALTORNot a whisper, Poor Peasant. Go into your castle and catnap. My work will be quieter than a mouse nibbling cheese.

POOR PEASANTThanks, buddy. Enjoy the dog food. Each morsel has a different canine shape. The poodles taste like chicken, the Saint Bernards like beef, the terriers like lamb, and the bulldogs like tuna.

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ESURIENT REALTOROh, I will, Poor Peasant. It will be delicious dessert after my dinner, I mean, my work. (POOR PEASANT lowers his front paws onto the grass, yawns, then lumbers into his doghouse. Soon HE is asleep, snoring.) Now to get to work, I mean, to dinner. First I’ll drag away that bowl of dog food. (HE leaps onto the grass, slowly drags away the bowl to the right, then along the side of the doghouse, vanishing behind it. Moments later HE returns the now empty bowl to its original spot.) That was easy. My friends behind the shack will pack all those canine goodies into our many caverns. Now it’s time for a big mouthful of cedar. (HE senses someone is coming. HE looks to his right.) Time to run. Looks like a human coming. It may have a can of insecticide. (HE scurries away, vanishing behind the doghouse.)

11

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ACT ONE. SCENE FOUR.

Cloudy sky foreboding heavy rains. In the food bowl is a heap of lamb chop bones with bits of meat and fat still attached to them. Their delectable odors flood the interior of the doghouse. POOR PEASANT suddenly awakens.

POOR PEASANTI must be dreaming. (Breathes in deeply thrice.) I smell the delicious odors of lamb chops. (HE runs out of the doghouse; grinning, beholds the juicy heap of bones.) They’re real! My master’s wife must have brought them out. She’s so kind and obliging. Did she have a late lunch? Perhaps a girlfriend is visiting. Now for a feast fit for Argus. (6)

LIFE INSURANCEDon’t touch those bones! They may be poisonous!

POOR PEASANT(HE turns around, looks up, and sees a carrion beetle standing on the right side of his roof.) Who are you? Why are you on my roof? Don’t make a hole on that side!

LIFE INSURANCEDon’t worry, partner. My name is Life Insurance. I don’t eat ligneous substances. I’m here to protect you. What’s your cognomen?

POOR PEASANTI’m called Poor Peasant. Are you sure those bones are poisonous? My master’s wife wouldn’t poison me. If she did, he would divorce her.

6. Argus: a mythical giant with one hundred eyes; the name of Ulysses' dog; a vigilant person.

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LIFE INSURANCEDon’t be so gullible, Poor Peasant. Humans are not to be trusted. Believe me, I know those bones are poisonous. Perhaps they have been lying on a pewter plate- - - -beware of lead poisoning- - - -for days in your master’s house. Now they must be covered with deadly bacteria. One chew, and you’ll die. Believe me, I know in my bones.

POOR PEASANTWhat are the deadly bacteria called?

LIFE INSURANCEKalmia Angustifolia.(7) They are deadly. You’ll experience dizziness; you’ll vomit; you’ll have diarrhea; finally, after losing consciousness, you’ll die.

POOR PEASANTI’m too young to die. I have, at least, another ten years of barking ahead of me. It’s my duty to bark because I’m a guard dog. I must live to old age to find out what my master, bless his soul, will give me as a pension. Maybe he’ll install electric heaters in my doghouse or in a bigger doghouse. I hope he wallpapers the interior walls with photographs of cute bitches to relieve my loneliness. No, I won’t chew those bones. No way! SLICK SALESMAN(HE lands on the left side of the roof beside the big hole.) I’ll make no bones about (8) those bones. Eat them, man!

POOR PEASANT(HE sees a big wasp smiling at him.) Who are you? I’m Poor Peasant.

SLICK SALESMANFriends call me Slick. My surname is Salesman. I can give you an antidote against any kind of poison. Trust me, man.

7. kalmia angustifolia: not a bacteria but a deadly shrub known as lambkill or sheep laurel.8. Make no bones about: be frank about.

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LIFE INSURANCEAgainst Lambkill, the poison found in Kalmia Angustifolia? I doubt it.

SLICK SALESMANYes, against Lambkill. The antidote is in my stinger. It’s the juice of a valerian root.(9) I extracted some early this morning.

POOR PEASANTI don’t want to be stung. No way! But I’m sure hungry. Those bones with bits of meat and fat are so tempting. Is there no other way of getting the antidote inside of me?

SLICK SALESMANThere sure is, man. I simply squirt a drop of juice into your water, then you take three laps. Trust me, man. Every dog has his day.

LIFE INSURANCEAre you certain one drop will be enough? Poor Peasant is a big dog.

POOR PEASANTI weigh seventy-five pounds now. However, if I don’t eat soon, I’ll be skin and bones. Give the water three big drops, buddy. SLICK SALESMANOkay, man. ( HE flies down to the lawn, walks over to the water bowl, then squirts three big drops into it.) The antidote is ready to be drunk.

POOR PEASANTI’ll take nine laps of water to make sure I get enough antidote inside of me. (HE bends his head down to the water bowl and takes nine laps.) Hot dog! Now I’m ready for a feast fit for Argus.

9. valerian: a herb; a mild sedative.

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SLICK SALESMANNo, not yet, Poor Peasant. Go into your doghouse, close up your blinkers for two minutes and be silent. The antidote must get into your bloodstream.

POOR PEASANTI do need a good forty winks before dinner. See you two in two minutes.(HE yawns.) I feel like I’m under the paws of Morpheus. (10) ( HE enters the doghouse, stretches himself out, closes his eyes, falls asleep and snores.)

LIFE INSURANCEBrilliant scheme, Slick. You truly are a bred-in-the-bone hoodwinker. Let’s get to the chops before Canus Bonehead wakes up.

SLICK SALESMANThere’s no hurry, Life. He’ll sleep for a dog’s age with all that valerian juice in him. We can enjoy our meal in completely safety, making sure the bones are picked clean.

LIFE INSURANCEIt’s starting to drizzle. Let’s get to the fat, bone, and gristle before a torrent drowns us. (HE leaps onto the lawn, then scurries to the food bowl.)

SLICK SALESMANAgreed, man. We’ll work our fingers and mouths to the bone on those chops. (HE joins his partner-in-crime at the food bowl. Both eat heartily, cachinnating between chews at the gullibility of POOR PEASANT.)

10. morpheus: mythological god of sleep and dreams.

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ACT ONE. SCENE FIVE.

A torrent of rain floods through the hole in the roof, soaking POOR PEASANT to the bone. HE suddenly awakens, slowly leaves his doghouse, shaking his head.

POOR PEASANTWhat the hell happened? Where am I? ( HE looks down at his food bowl and beholds six bones, devoid of meat and fat, submerged in rainwater.) Those lying bastards! They duped me! I should have crushed them under my paws! Why was I so stupid? My hungry belly obliterated my sense of reason. Now I have nothing to eat but bare soggy bones. And I can’t drink any water because, if I do, then I’ll fall asleep again. What a dog’s life! Here I am being soaked, no doubt by acid rain. I’m hungry and thirsty. I’ll surely catch a doggone cold. Where’s my master? (HE looks at the bedroom window; the curtains are wide open; a man is embracing a woman.) That’s strange. I know my master’s profile. The man hugging my master’s wife doesn’t look like my master. Of course, it must be him, home from work, kissing his wife. It’s the wretched rain that distorts the appearance of things. I hope he hurries up with his lovemaking. I’ll start barking. He’ll come out for sure. With food and water! Then he’ll patch up my roof. ( POOR PEASANT barks and barks as the rain falls and falls.)

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AUTHOR’S PROFILE : born somewhere between the birth of the cosmos and its final destruction a rock and roll satiric vampyre who lives in a forest on a small island called Gabriola somewhere in spatial time and plays and records his own music and songs under the name of BROOMSTICK WITCHES; many of his tunes ride the airways of underground music sites and currently he has become a publisher in order to self-publish his satires and songs, free of censorship. The cultivation of many varieties of tomatoes has been a longtime passion with him and hanging out at his favorite beach serenading seagulls and mermaids with his guitar and songs occupies the summer side of his mind when he’s not in his studio jamming with demons and ghouls on the wintry side of lunar life.

ILLUSTRATOR’S PROFILE

As a child, Vena Cava enjoyed making up her own bedtime stories to put herself to sleep. In her favorite, she slept surrounded by wolves, her head pillowed on their furry ribs, lulled to Dreamland by the ticking of their hearts. She is a lifelong Goth and was featured in Nancy Kilpatrick’s The Goth Bible, published by St. Martin’s Press. She writes (horror, of course!) under the pseudonym Noctavia Poe, and is currently working on a book of short stories and several novels. She enjoys doodling, playing with her “pack” of four dogs, and visiting the spirits in historic Elmwood Cemetery, Memphis.

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“A funny poignant satire: clever, thoughtful, witty....a guard dog

named Poor Peasant finds himself beleagured by a host of irritating

visitors who have come to disturb his equanimity. You meet a flea who is a

priest, termites who are tax collectors, a black carpenter ant who

is a greedy realtor, a carrion beetle who sells life insurance, and

a wasp who is a travelling sales man.... this work proves that brevity is indeed

the soul of much wit....” Roman Lance, head editor of Phionitides Publishing Co.

“hilarious scathing satire!” Momus

PHIONITIDES PUBLISHING COMPANY

drama/satire printed & bound in Canada

ISBN-10: 0-9736449-0-7 ISBN-13: 978-0-9736449-0-6 $10.00.