Don't You Love Your Dog

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<ul><li><p>8/22/2019 Don't You Love Your Dog.</p><p> 1/11</p><p> Dont You Love Your Dog</p><p> By R.T. Martin</p><p>January 16, 2019</p><p>There is a man in a yellow jumpsuit standing in the</p><p>snow outside my basement peephole.</p><p>I see his filthy boot and gun-barrel. Im silent as I peer</p><p>out the four-inch cavity exposed after I removed the aluminum</p><p>ducting and insulation for my dryer vent. I hear him taking a</p><p>piss, whistling the new Anthem.</p><p>His comrades, two Tenders in yellow jumpsuits, are across</p><p>the road confronting my neighbor Albert in his driveway. The</p><p>Tenders are pointing at the ground and shouting demands in</p><p>Ahahuascan, the new language of the World Government.</p></li><li><p>8/22/2019 Don't You Love Your Dog.</p><p> 2/11</p><p>Alberts wife and chubby teenage son are huddled together</p><p>in the snow under a Nascar sleeping bag. Albert is being</p><p>prompted at gunpoint to lay his collection of guns down on his</p><p>driveway. The Tenders have one of those creepy metallic Dog-</p><p>Bastards for troop support - its the size of a Ford Fiesta -</p><p>AWG's latest model - a mechanized kill-machine. The Dog-Bastard</p><p>has poised itself between Alberts family and the doorway of</p><p>their house. A blue light radiating from the transparent dome on</p><p>its head signals a passive status.</p><p>Albert is pissed off. Hes going on and on about the</p><p>Second Amendment and rations and the AWG and poisoned food -</p><p>he's eye-popped and shirtless. The giant bald eagle tattooed on</p><p>his heaving beer-belly looks as if it's going to launch off his</p><p>jiggling gut at the jumpsuits. Albert spits toward the jumpsuits</p><p>and storms back into his house for another armload of guns, he</p><p>kicks open his screen door and comes out with a gigantic</p><p>American flag draped over his shoulders, wearing it like a</p><p>poncho.</p><p>The Tender outside my peephole sprints across my yard,</p><p>crossing the road to warn his comrades, shouting Svat! Svat!</p><p>Svat! He points his rifle toward the Dog-Bastard and focuses a</p></li><li><p>8/22/2019 Don't You Love Your Dog.</p><p> 3/11</p><p>laser-pointer beam at the blue dome on its head.</p><p>The dome on the Dog-Bastards head flashes from passive</p><p>blue to stop-light red, a grinding-whizzy sound like a Gyrotron</p><p>at the county fair erupts from under its ribs.</p><p>Albert snaps his right hand out from the poncho. He</p><p>produces a sawed-off and drives the barrel into the head of the</p><p>nearest jumpsuit, making it disappear into an explosion of blood</p><p>and skull, splatting his comrades face-shield like pizza</p><p>toppings. The man attempts to clear the gore from his facemask,</p><p>spreading blood and gristle across the plexi-glass like a bug-</p><p>smeared windshield.</p><p>The sprinting Tender fires a haphazard rifle-shot - blood</p><p>spurts from the eagles head tattooed on Alberts belly. The</p><p>impact drives the fat man backward into a snowbank like a star-</p><p>spangled garbage sack.</p><p>The Dog-Bastard leaps forward and straddles Alberts</p><p>body. A twisting piston is thrust from its ribcage, plunging</p><p>into Albert, punching through his stomach into the snowbank -</p><p>skin - intestine-coil - flag-scraps - snow. Each time the piston</p><p>retreats back into the Dog-Bastard's body, it pulls back pieces</p></li><li><p>8/22/2019 Don't You Love Your Dog.</p><p> 4/11</p><p>of my neighbor.</p><p>January 17, 2019</p><p>I am hiding this handwritten testimony in a plastic</p><p>sandwich container, buried in the bottom of my empty water</p><p>softener salt-basin; the same basin that I hid inside last week</p><p>while the Tenders cleared my house.</p><p>My hard drives were wiped clean by an electromagnetic pulse</p><p>six days ago, erasing my original computer journal and my</p><p>electronic contact with the rest of the world. The news-feed is</p><p>gone. We have gone Radio Beijing.</p><p>The Tenders took Abby - I took that the worst - my dog.</p><p>They found her whimpering under the stairs when their Spiders</p><p>scanned the basement. I nearly bit a hole in my cheek stifling</p><p>my rage, silent in my salt-tub. The Tenders forced resident work</p><p>crews to board up the windows, I am trapped inside my home.</p><p>After the outbreak of the Sceptre-A virus, an imaginary</p><p>disease concocted by the AWG, Americans were encouraged by the</p><p>media to get vaccinated against this fictional virus. Like most</p></li><li><p>8/22/2019 Don't You Love Your Dog.</p><p> 5/11</p><p>of the then-obedient population, I received the flu shot after</p><p>we were warned about the spreading epidemic. Holdouts who refuse</p><p>the shot are being hunted down, sent to camps and processed.</p><p>The vaccination is taking charge of my will. I feel larvae</p><p>in my mucus - a pulsing virus in my blood - tapeworms under my</p><p>eyelids - I feel their intelligence - re-assembling. My body</p><p>has become a hive.</p><p>January 18, 2019</p><p>Three holdouts on snowmobiles are trying to open the fire</p><p>hydrant across the street. A flannel-clad man is twisting on the</p><p>spigot with a huge wrench while his companions keep watch for</p><p>Tenders, their snowmobiles idling in the street.</p><p>Szee-szip-szee-szip-szee-szip sounds come from the north,</p><p>out of my line of vision. The two men keeping watch hear the</p><p>coming threat, arming themselves with chunks of re-bar. Entering</p><p>the frame are several mechanized Spiders. The pumpkin-sized</p><p>daddy-long-legs tippy-toe within four car lengths of the</p><p>holdouts - the Spiders halt - their blue eyes switch to red.</p></li><li><p>8/22/2019 Don't You Love Your Dog.</p><p> 6/11</p><p>The holdouts haul ass to their idling snowmobiles. The</p><p>Spiders spring from the pavement. The shrill sszzzzzeeeeee</p><p>blasting from the Spiders is in a frequency that shatters the</p><p>icicles hanging from my roof. Two of the holdouts make it to</p><p>their snowmobiles as the flannel-clad man takes a swing at the</p><p>nearest Spider with his wrench. He is overtaken by two of the</p><p>insects at his waist. The first Spider scrambles up his back,</p><p>contorting the screaming man into a kneeling position. The</p><p>second Spider skitters forward with an extended leg tipped with</p><p>a syringe. It drives a needle into each of the man's legs, his</p><p>lower extremities become frozen in place while his torso</p><p>thrashes around in a semicircle, making him gag and croak,</p><p>flailing in a mad aerobic exercise.</p><p>Abandoning their companion, the two remaining holdouts</p><p>accelerate their snowmobiles out of view with three Spiders in</p><p>pursuit, their surgical red eyes focused on their prey.</p><p>It's dark. I cannot see the flannel-clad man pinned in the</p><p>snow, but his damned croaking is making my blood pop like</p><p>seltzer bubbles.</p><p>Headlights from an approaching vehicle reveal the flannel-</p></li><li><p>8/22/2019 Don't You Love Your Dog.</p><p> 7/11</p><p>clad man into my frame once again. I see the front end of a</p><p>converted mail truck, its filthy headlights illuminating the</p><p>flannel-clad man in a sick yellow glow. Two Tenders in yellow</p><p>body armor approach the man, chattering to each other in</p><p>Ahuauascan. They place an egg-shaped beacon in the snow at the</p><p>man's knees, blanketing him in a red aura. One of the Tenders</p><p>karate-kicks the poor guy in the chest, snapping him backward -</p><p>then forward, like a kids bouncy toy. The laughing Tenders</p><p>return to the mail-truck and leave the scene.</p><p>I need water. I am running out of matches, candles,</p><p>battery life. I ate my last can of kidney beans. Writing is very</p><p>difficult. My hands feel like they belong to someone else. I am</p><p>enamored of the beautiful red beacon, glowing in the street.</p><p>Szeet-Clomp-Szeet-Clomp - approaching from the west. A Dog-</p><p>Bastard with two Spiders march into view behind the flannel-clad</p><p>man. Hes writhing in the snow like an insane living statue.</p><p>This Dog-Bastard is the size of a Jersey cow with its skin and</p><p>muscles removed - a silver-framed monster of perfection with</p><p>rubber tendons. It stands behind the man and extends a long</p><p>tubular siphon. It drives the translucent tube into the man's</p><p>back. His croaking erupts into an agonized scream.</p></li><li><p>8/22/2019 Don't You Love Your Dog.</p><p> 8/11</p><p>The Dog-Bastard sucks gore through the siphon into a</p><p>deflated sac hanging from under its backbone. The red dome on</p><p>its head pulses like the cherry-light on the roof of a cop car.</p><p>The man becomes a flannel-clad husk - his juices draining</p><p>in chunks through the siphon into the Dog-Bastards expanding</p><p>sac.</p><p>The metallic beast retracts the siphon, dropping the</p><p>flannel-clad mans withered body into the snow like a blown-down</p><p>scarecrow.</p><p>A Spider tippy-toes past my peephole.</p><p>I am so very quiet.</p><p>January 19, 2019</p><p>I drank the last of my water. I was going to scoop snow</p><p>from outside the dryer vent hole with a measuring cup duct-taped</p><p>to a broom handle, but I thought against it. Any movement</p><p>outside the house will alert the motion-detecting drones</p></li><li><p>8/22/2019 Don't You Love Your Dog.</p><p> 9/11</p><p>scanning the neighborhood. The egg-beacon is still glowing its</p><p>red invitation outside my peephole. Its radiation has melted the</p><p>snow in a perfect circle, I tentatively reach my arm through my</p><p>peephole to feel its warmth.</p><p>I felt a beetle scurry across my skull. It's using my scalp</p><p>as a bed-sheet. I know it is...I know it.</p><p>I sliced the palm of my hand open on a piece of sharp</p><p>copper breaking apart frozen water pipes. My hand hurts less</p><p>than it should. My blood is thick - a pale pus oozing out. There</p><p>are tiny silver dots that look like in my blood. The</p><p>little balls are skipping and popping on my bloody palm like</p><p>water drops on a burning skillet.</p><p>January 2submit1, 2019</p><p>The egg-man inside the beacon is whispering to me. Hes</p><p>saying that I can feel its comfort it I kick out the barrier on</p><p>the second-floor window and jump into the snow. The egg-man says</p><p>Abby is hungry - Abby needs to be fed.</p></li><li><p>8/22/2019 Don't You Love Your Dog.</p><p> 10/11</p><p>January 22, submit</p><p>There are Spiders tippy-toeing outside my peep hole. The</p><p>egg-man is imploring me....don't you love your dog?.</p><p>I am very quiet.</p><p>January, 2019</p><p>My name is Derek Ingelstead, I leave this testimony</p><p>to the</p><p>(don't you love your dog)</p><p>generations, in this little</p><p>sandwich container, I hope that somebody</p><p>((don't you love your Dog-Bastard??))</p><p>will find this and know what happened to</p><p> (submit)</p><p>me in my basement the winter of</p></li><li><p>8/22/2019 Don't You Love Your Dog.</p><p> 11/11</p><p> ((SUBMIT!!))</p><p>(dont you love my Dog)</p><p>2019 and what we gave away</p><p> (such a beautiful dog)</p><p>too easy, too soon</p><p> ( I know you love my Dog).</p><p>I am going to the egg-man. I am going to fall through the</p><p>window.</p><p>(submit)</p><p>I love my dog.</p></li></ul>