Dingo Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Sharp Dressed Man

I ducked, Cerberus pounced, and Mr. Waciejowski screamed like a dying ferret—a soothing and pleasant sound under most other circumstances, but now only distracting.

I felt the rush of air against my face as the crowbar skimmed my head. The man wielding it was in a black three-piece suit and built like a Texas linebacker. His mass seemed to bend space-time in the parking lot as he barreled down on me. All I could see was nearly seven feet of Armani silk.

I stood upright and brought my knee into his groin and gave him a swift elbow in the small of his back and a fist to the base of his skull. Now, I wasn’t the biggest guy in the world, but I certainly wasn’t the smallest either. And I was also acutely aware of how much damage I could do to another human being. But this hulking mass in Italian finery didn’t even seem phased. The blows I sent this guy should have dropped him like a bag of wet cement, but he just turned and hamstringed me with that damn crowbar.

I fell so hard that one of my teeth chipped. The box flew out of my grip and landed just a few feet away. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Pete on the ground, fumbling with his cell phone while Cerberus mauled another suit trying to sneak up behind me. If the fall hadn’t knocked the wind out of me, seeing Cerberus tear into this guy certainly would have.

The dog was all fangs and fur, making sounds like construction machinery. Thick and heavy. The guy was screaming all kinds of nonsense as he kept his shredded arms in front of his face and neck. Blood and fabric flew about as the animal tossed its head in violent arcs.

I reached for the box but the linebacker gave me a quick swipe over the head with his crowbar, then bent and grabbed it himself. I could feel a gash on my forehead as blood began to trickle down the side of my face and along my neck. I tried to stand, but I was too woozy and I still couldn’t breathe.

The linebacker brought the crowbar down on Cerberus’ head with all of his substantial weight behind it. It landed with a deep thud, but the dog’s head didn’t move from the blow. Cerberus just stopped and slowly turned to the man in the Armani while the other guy used the distraction to crawl out from underneath the dog.

I had a visceral dislike toward Mr. Armani and would do just about anything to see him broken in half. But watching Cerberus stare him down, his growl thundering at 80 hertz, almost made me feel sorry for the guy. Almost.

The dog went at him, hitting him hard enough that he moved back three steps. Cerberus was latched onto the arm that held the box while the guy tried to pound him with the crowbar. I wanted to get in there and help the dog tear him to pieces, but one: there was no way in hell I was getting anywhere near that animal and two: I felt like I was going to throw up.

Blood started getting into my left eye making it difficult for me to see, but I could tell that Mr. Armani was faring better against the dog than his partner had. I was finally able to take a breath and get up on one elbow when I heard tires squeal as a black Mercedes came to a screeching halt just a few feet away.

Mr. Armani dropped the crowbar, then took the box and tossed it to his bloody partner waiting inside the car with the window down. The driver was pale and parts of him seemed to be missing. He caught the box then screamed, “Let’s go! Come on!”

The linebacker tried to pry himself from Cerberus but the dog had too firm a grip on him. The guy was able to weasel out of his jacket, leaving the Italian silk hanging from Cerberus’ mouth like a weather worn Jolly Roger. Instead of making a break to get in the car, Mr. Armani jumped onto the roof, the car’s shocks squeaking and shifting with his weight. He started pounding on the car. “Drive! Drive!”

The car barked and started to speed away while Cerberus chased after it, snapping at its tires. After seeing that dog fight, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if it actually stopped the damn thing. But when the car hit the road, it was gone.

Pete ran over. “Oh my god, oh my god. Are you okay?” He knelt down next to me, oblivious of the pool of my blood he was kneeling in. “I thought that dog of yours was going to kill me. And then I thought that guy was going to kill you. And then I thought your dog was going to kill him. And then I thought…seriously, are you okay?”

I sat up and pressed the palm of my hand against my leaking head. The surrounding area of concrete was spotted with patches of blood. Sadly, a lot of it was mine. “Right now you should be thinking that I’m going to kill you. You had to open the box, didn’t you. You had to look inside.”

Pete stood up and took a step back. “I don’t want any trouble, Mr. Dingo. I just thought you might have drugs or something in there and I didn’t want to get mixed up with that kind of thing. That’s all. I told you, I don’t want—”

“Shut up, Pete. There are no drugs.” I forced myself to stand. I was dizzy and wanted more than anything to puke all over this guy, but to my mild disappointment, the nausea had passed.

“But I don’t understand what they would want with a—”

“You know, Pete. Right now I should be chaining my girlfriend to an old cast-iron furnace. But no. Instead, I’m here, bleeding in a Denny’s parking lot listening to you ask me questions about things that don’t concern you. This is a problem, Pete. And like I told you before, it’s my job to solve problems. But how I solve this particular problem is entirely up to you.”

I wiped a fistful of blood out of my eye. “Now, I can solve this problem my way, orrrrr…you can get in you car and just…go…home.”

For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to continue asking questions, but then reason finally entered his tiny brain and he hopped into my brother’s old Z and sped off. As I watched him leave, Cerberus approached me at a playful gallop. My fight or flight instinct was telling me to get the fuck out of Dodge before this thing could get within eating distance of me, but I was too fazed to move. Fortunately the bleeding seemed to have stopped, or at the very least slowed. But if Cerberus had a mind to eat human flesh, there wasn’t going to be much I could do to stop him.

But when he got to me, he just licked my bloody hand and then nudged me until I scratched him behind his ears. I gently felt the area where the linebacker cracked him over the head with the crowbar but the dog didn’t flinch. And there was no swelling. Damn, this dog was wrong.

I walked over to where the Armani jacket lay in a tattered heap on the ground. I picked it up and fished through the pockets, trying to ignore the disgusting feel of fine Italian silk covered with blood and dog saliva. In the inside breast pocket I found his wallet. There were numerous credit cards, roughly six hundred dollars in cash, and this joker’s driver’s license. Mr. Armani had a name.

And an address.

I pocketed the cash and the license, wiped the wallet down with the filthy jacket, and then tossed it. Cerberus pressed against my leg and licked my hand again. I gave him a pat on his furry head. “Come on, boy. Mr. Julius Benoit was in such a rush that he left some of his things behind. So we’re going to do the responsible, neighborly thing…” I bent over and picked up the crowbar.

“…and return them.”

Dingo Chapter 4

For those of you who haven't skipped ahead...

CHAPTER 4: THE BOX

Cerberus just stared at me. The dog didn’t blink, he didn’t pant, he didn’t move. He just sat in the passenger seat as I drove, relaxed, mouth hanging slightly open, looking at me the way someone examines a menu but can’t decide on the chicken or the veal.

The desert sky was on fire when the city came into view. Cerberus turned away from me and stuck his head out from the side of the jeep, his giant tongue flapping in the eighty mile an hour wind while I dialed Luna’s number. The dog pulled his head back in, then rested his chin on top of the overhead roll-bar, his fur blowing back along his head like the spines of a porcupine.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Luna.”

“Dingo! Are you there yet?”

“No, not yet. I’m just outside the city.” Vegas flashed and blinked under the starless sky. “You get in touch with Mr. Waciejowski?”

“Sure did. He’s at the Denny’s near the Excalibur. He’s trying to stay away from the blackjack tables.”

“Yeah, good for him. He has the box?”

I could hear Luna stuffing something disgustingly healthy in her mouth. “Mmm hmm.”

“He hasn’t opened it, has he?”

She swallowed. “Nah. I told him it was filled with old photos.”

Cerberus shifted in the seat and scratched behind his neck with such force that the whole Jeep shook; a rather unsettling motion at 80 miles an hour. “Hey Luna, I’ve got a question for you.”

I looked over to see the dog’s nostrils flared out in the wind while his lips blew back and revealed his frightening set of teeth.

“This, uh, this animal spirit guide you had me try to find. Do they ever show up, you know, in person?”

“What are you talking about?”

I switched hands and tried to speak a little more softly into the phone, but the dog’s eyes rolled toward me, fixing me with a black stare. “Do they ever show up for real? Like in corporeal form?”

“Corporeal form? Dingo, are you stoned?”

“No, no. It’s just that someone abandoned a dog at some nowhere gas station. I kinda adopted him.”

“Oooh, a puppy!” Her squeal got Cerberus’ attention. He pulled his head down and stared at me. His fur stood out in wild directions.

“Puppy. Yeah, um...nevermind. Look, I’ll call you when I have the box. In the meantime, if you talk with Rick, tell him he owes me big.”

Luna gave me the man’s cell number and then hung up. Cerberus started to wag his thick tail at the throngs of people milling the streets as we entered the city. By the time I pulled into the Denny’s parking lot, the dog was halfway out of the Jeep. I stopped and the dog jumped out and pissed on the side of a Thunderbird parked next to me. It looked like a damn good idea.

I got the dog back into the Jeep then called Mr. Waciejowski. When he answered, his voice sounded like it had been abused from years of tobacco use. “This is Pete.”

“Mr. Waciejowski, my name’s Dingo. My friend Luna called and told you I was coming. I’m in the parking lot. Yellow Jeep.” I paused. “And a big dog. Can’t miss me.”

A few seconds later, an older man with that classy touch of grey in his hair stepped out of the restaurant, scanned the lot, saw me, then waved. He was about my height, but had a slight stoop in his posture that made him seem smaller. He shirt was all palm trees and sail boats. “You’re Dingo?”

“That’s me. Sorry about all of this but my brother can be a bit absent minded.”

“Got a couple myself. They’re nothing but trouble,” he said. “I’m parked over here.”

I turned to Cerberus and said, “Stay.” The dog ignored me and turned its attention to sniffing the steering wheel. I was going to have to get a leash before this thing started to get hungry and eat one of the passersby. Eh, as long as he didn’t eat me, I guess.

As we walked to Pete’s car, I saw a man skirt us about five cars away, slowly walking parallel to us. “You got a saddle for that thing?” Pete asked.

“The dog? No.” I took a glance back at the Jeep. “Just the ferret.”

“How’s that?”

I could see Rick’s old Z about thirty feet away. I stopped, bent down and pretended to tie my shoe. Underneath the cars I could see through to the Z but couldn’t tell if anyone was standing near it or not.

“So what do you do, Dingo?”

I stood up and gave a quick scan of the parking lot. The man who had been skirting us was gone. “I solve problems for people.”

Pete’s face crinkled. “You mean like tech support or something? I got a cousin who used to work for a small software company. Did theirs until they shipped his job off to India.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, well he was a bum anyway.”

We reached the Z and Pete started fumbling for the keys. It was strange seeing this familiar car belonging to someone else. Kind of like watching a stranger fondle your ex-wife in that secretive and intimate way that only lovers do. He popped the hatchback, pulled back a black cloth to reveal the box.

It was made of walnut, roughly the size of a bread loaf, and polished to a smooth shine. Oak leaves and acorns were carved along its edges while five names were etched onto the top in rich, flowing script:

Rick Asher, Sr.

Adie Asher

Rick Asher, Jr.

Daniel Asher

Michael Asher

“It’s beautiful,” Pete said.

I’ve never been one for overt emotion, especially in front of strangers while standing in a Denny’s parking lot in Vegas, but sometimes these things hit you when you least expect it. I wanted to say something, take the box and leave, but I couldn’t move. I was lost in those names, the way the script flowed along the lines of the carved leaves, the way the wood grain usually hid the crease of the hinges where the box ope—

“Did you open this?”

Pete gave me another crinkled look. “Well…hey look, friend. When that Luna girl called and said that your brother left something in the car, I thought it was drugs or something. I don’t want to get mixed up in any of that. So yeah, I had to see if—“

I grabbed his shirt and pulled him close. I could smell the cheap coffee and cheaper cigarettes on his breath. “She told you not to open it! How long ago?”

“Hey man, back off.” He struggled to get away but I held him fast.

“How long ago, Pete?”

“Get your hands off me!”

Whenever a person feels threatened, it’s a natural reaction to turn and run or stand and fight. Fight or flight response. The way this joker was pulling at me, I could tell he was more of a flight kind of guy. It was disappointing. “I’m going to ask you one more time. How long ago?”

“I don’t know. Two, three hours ago.” I let go of him. He straightened his tiki shirt over his round belly. “You know, technically that box belongs to me,” he said. “I don’t have to let you have it.”

I reached in, snapped the lid completely shut, then wrapped the box in the cloth and pulled it out. “Pete, get in your new car and go home. You have no idea what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done? I sat around here for five hours waiting to give you that thing. I think you should…”

Pete’s voice trailed off. I stopped and looked at him. He was pale and slowly creeping around the side of his car. I turned to see what he was looking at. Cerberus was there, standing like a small horse, a deep growl rumbling between his bared fangs.

“Oh, puke.” But then I noticed that the dog wasn’t growling at me. Or Pete. I turned to see what it was that had the dog on edge.

That’s when I saw the crowbar coming at me.

Make it stop

In honor of those times that John has scalded my eyes, this is Ross Richie popping in with a Sick And Wrong Update, courtesy MIKE STERLING from Progressive Ruin.

Ulli's Roy Orbison In Clingfilm Website

It always starts the same way. I am in the garden airing my terrapin Jetta when he walks past my gate, that mysterious man in black.

'Hello Roy,' I say. 'What are you doing in Dusseldorf?'

'Attending to certain matters,' he replies.

'Ah,' I say.
-------------------

'Perhaps you would like to come inside?'

'Very well.' He says.
-------------------

Presently I say, 'Perhaps you would like to see my cling-film?'

'By all means.' I cannot see his eyes through his trademark dark glasses and I have no idea if he is merely being polite or if he genuinely has an interest in cling-film.

I bring it from the kitchen, all the rolls of it. 'I have a surprising amount of clingfilm,' I say with a nervous laugh. Roy merely nods.

---------------------

I start at the ankles and work up. I am like a spider binding him in my gossamer web.

------------------

I sit and admire my handiwork for a long time. So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant for him we make small talk on topical subjects, Roy somewhat muffled.

------------------
He never calls me. He sends no tickets. The police come and reprimand me.

DD3

During his absence, John is...

...bah. Y'all know what's up. Enjoy.

CHAPTER 3: CERBERUS

I was lost.

As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn’t take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna’s directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing ‘E’ but fortunately the service station was open.

When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.

I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.

A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.

I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. “You work here?” I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?

“Who the hell else would be working here?” he said.

I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. “That your momma’s car?” he asked.

It’s impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn’t positive.

Jack clocked in at about two-fifty and had hands perfectly suited to crushing the skulls of small children. Unfortunately, I was in the mood to see how I would stack up to Jack Skull Crusher. So I played along.

“My mom’s dead. Doesn’t have much use for a car these days.” I handed him a twenty.

Skull Crusher smirked as he snatched the bill in his meaty hand. “Good thing, I suppose. Not havin’ to see her son drivin’ around in that girly thing.”

“What’s girly about a Jeep?”

“The Jeep? Oh, nothing,’” he laughed. “Just that it’s such a pretty color is all.”

“You don’t like yellow?” I asked.

“Yellow’s a pretty color for a flower.”

I slowly began to turn the cheap plastic carousel of aluminum key chains by the cash register. “Yellow’s also the color of infection oozing from a man’s open skull after he’s been beaten and left for dead in the middle of the desert.” I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “But hey, if yellow makes you think of pretty flowers, well, to each their own I guess.”

Jack Skull Crusher gave me a wad of change and a scowl.

“You got an air pump?” I asked.

He smiled, his tiny tobacco-stained teeth arrayed in his mouth like rows of misaligned baked beans. “Out back. But good luck.”

“It doesn’t work?”

“Wouldn’t know. Haven’t been able to get to it for three days.” Obviously delighted by my confusion, he waved and said, “This way.”

We rounded the building and he pointed to a small pump about fifty feet off. Just a lone slab the size of a mailbox sticking out of the ground. But there was something next to it. A dark shape lay next to the pump in an amorphous heap. “What is that?”

“A dog.” Jack Skull Crusher’s voice was no longer playful or malicious. He now sounded like a man desperately trying to keep his warped sense of reality from slowly caving in around him.

“What the hell is your dog doing out there?”

“It’s not mine. Don’t know whose it is. Been chained up there for three days.”

I could see little bits of fur disturbed by the minimal breeze moving over the desert sands. “What kind of asshole would leave their dog chained up in this heat with no shade? Poor thing’s probably dead.”

The dog looked up at us for a moment then rested its head back down on its paws.

“Sweet God, the thing is huge!”

Jack nodded his head.

“Any idea who left it?”

“You’re my first customer in a week,” Jack said. “I don’t know how that dog got here.”

“Well, did you try to unchain it? Give it some water or something?”

“Damn thing won’t let me near it. Just growls whenever I get close.” Jack turned to me, his pale forehead turning pink in the heat. “There’s something wrong with that animal. And I don’t mean like it being sick or anything. Can’t tell what it is, but there’s just something…wrong. You get close enough to look, you’ll see what I’m talking about. You can feel it.” He pulled his rag out from a pocket and swiped the sweat from his face. “The switch is on the side. If that thing’ll let you get close enough.” He started walking back to the station. “But if it mauls you, don’t think you’ll get a chance to sue me.” He turned and smiled. “Because I think yellow’s my favorite color now.”

I pulled the Jeep up to the pump and hopped out. The dog still lay on its side, not paying me any attention. It sat directly underneath the switch on the side of the pump. Its black fur was still the only thing moving in the slight breeze.

I reached over to the switch and flipped it. The pump sputtered to life with a god-awful racket and began to vibrate. That’s when the dog moved.

The dog stretched, then stood up and faced me. It faced me. The damn thing didn’t have to look up. Its shoulders came close to the height of my chest and its head was twice the size of a Virginia ham. Its mane of black hair stood out in thin jagged lines that intersected at the nexus of its bared finger-length fangs. And I could hear its growling over the thrum of the air pump.

But it didn’t move toward me. I slowly pulled the hose and filled my tires, taking time out every thirty seconds or so to cool my face with a blast of air. The dog followed me with its black eyes as I went from tire to tire, but it never moved from that spot. When the pump shut off, I put the hose back, careful not to get too close to the dog.

But Jack was right. Something was not right about it. Something was just wrong, but for the life of me, I couldn’t tell what it was.

It stopped growling and now was just sitting there in the blazing heat, staring at me, its thick tail slowly kicking away the dust on the concrete. For three days it had been baking under the desert sun with no shade, no food, no water. Hell, even Shane the wolf was able to chew himself free. But this poor thing had no way to get loose. It was simply chained up and left here to die. I couldn’t let that stand.

I pulled a bottle of water out from a cooler in the back and went to the animal. I reached forward with the top of my wrist held out in front of me. The dog snorted at me, took a step forward and sniffed.

I poured the water into my hands and let it drink. It smelled the water before lapping it up with a tongue as wide as my splayed hand from pinky tip to thumb. It didn’t take long for it to finish the entire bottle. When it was done, it took another step forward and gave me a wet, foul-smelling lick on the face. I couldn’t help but laugh.

As I scratched the dog behind the ears, I noticed an old, tattered leather collar buried in its fur. I followed it around its neck until I came to a rusty iron plate the size of a cigarette pack dangling from a metal loop. I moved the fur aside and wiped some dust from the giant tag to see if there was an address, phone number, or something else that showed who might own this thing. But the only thing it had was a name:

CERBERUS.

“Well, your owners aren’t very original, are they?” The dog wagged its tail once and then barked. It was a deep, bowel shaking burst of sound that made me second guess my proximity to the thing. But it continued to just stare at me. “Okay, Cerberus. You hungry? Let’s get you into some shade with some water and some food. How does that sound?”

Again, Cerberus licked me then sat back on its haunches, motionless and staring. I followed the collar around its broad neck until I found where the chain was connected. The chain that held it to the pump scraped against the concrete when I pulled on it. It was rusty, made with the kind of thick and heavy links found in a shipyard. It was a wonder the dog could breathe at all with this thing weighting it down.

I went cold. Even though I was in one of the hottest parts of the country on one of the hottest days of the year, a chill ran down my scalp and along my spine. I realized what it was that made the dog seem so wrong.

It wasn’t panting.

Our Camp Has Been Attacked... By Naked People.

Ross Richie here, publisher, mayor, police chief, town crier, and janitor at BOOM! Studios. Time to interrupt this Michael Alan Nelson DINGO rampage with a little bit of John Rogers Goodness.

The following is the complete 8 page story for John's entry in ZOMBIE TALES: OBLIVION #1:



PAGE 1
PAGE 2
PAGE 3
PAGE 4
PAGE 5
PAGE 6
PAGE 7
PAGE 8

Pick up the one-shot at your local comic shop. In the event that they're punks and they don't have it, or there's no shop nearby, in the USA and CANADA you can order from MIDTOWN COMICS (you can pick up the original one shot featuring John's first story, ZOMBIE TALES #1, there as well -- and I wouldn't protest if you bought Boom!'s GIANT MONSTER #1 which came out last week and JENNY FINN MESSIAH out this week with Mike Mignola art while you're at it).



If you don't want to pick up the anthology, put a tip in the tip jar for John's time, and he'll double it and donate it to the Kashmir earthquake victims.

Over at COMIC BOOK RESOURCES, they're running the entire 8 pages of THE BOKEMONO AND THE CRANES, from Zombie Tales: Oblivion #1 as well, featuring a story written by Johanna Stokes and artwork by the legendary creator of LOBO and AMBUSH BUG, Keith Giffen. Check it out.

Daily Dingo #2

During his absence, John is generously allowing me to re-post my novel DINGO here at Kung Fu Monkey. I will be putting up a chapter a day until he returns. Enjoy.

- m a n


CHAPTER 2: LUNA


The drive up to Rick’s place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band’s over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating ’70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.

I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick’s house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.

I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick’s favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.

I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.

“Dingo.”

“Hey, Luna.”

Her job as Rick’s assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn’t leave any lasting damage.

She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away.

“Want something to drink, Dingo? I just made a rutabaga and avocado smoothie with egg substitute. It’s great brain food.”

“No, thanks. My brain isn’t hungry.” I walked into the living room and cringed at the painting clinging to the wall above the grand piano. Rick simply had too much money and too little taste. He would buy “art” based on the gossip of some self-important intern fetching coffee at a museum who always knew of some Vincent van Gogh-ingNowhere destined to be the next big thing. Common sense should have told him that a life-sized acrylic of Winston Churchill giving birth to a Madonna figure beneath the Golden Arches would never be considered art in this or any other universe, but Rick was never one for exercising common sense. If he was, I wouldn’t have been there in the first place.

Luna must have seen my reaction. “You need to relax, Dingo. It’s all that garbage you eat.”

“Yeah. Wanna tell me exactly what’s going on?”

“Sure. Here, taste this.” She held out a glass filled with a thick, mucous colored concoction. I took it from her and lifted it to my mouth. Anything to take my mind off the unsettling painting on the wall. After I took a swallow, I stared as hard as I could at mother Winston, bloated and suffering with labor pains. Anything to take my mind off the taste in my mouth.

“Well? How is it? How’s it taste?”

“Like a diaper.”

“There’s no need to be mean. Come on.”

She lead me to the den where a reality show was droning away on a larger-than-life plasma screen. “More ‘brain food?’” I asked nodding at the television.

“Just something I TeraTellied last night. Here. I think that’s what you’re looking for.” She pointed to a stack of papers on the coffee table. I sat down on the couch, the leather creaking and whining like Julie’s pants from the night before. I shook my head trying to get the pleasant-yet-horrifying memories out of my head. I took a long gulp of green goo. Winston Churchill. Winston Churchill.

“This the guy he sold it to?”

“Yep. Peter Waciejowski. He was in town with a couple of days to burn, so he decided to do a little car shopping. Rick didn’t really want to sell it, but he needed to make room for his Enzo.”

“Why didn’t he just build a new garage?”

“He’s thinking about moving.”

“What, this place not big enough for him?” I watched a couple argue on the screen in high definition. Nothing like HDTV to see the veins and spittle fly when two people go at it in earnest.

“I called Peter’s wife to get his cell phone number, but he’s turned it off. She thinks he’s planning on stopping in Vegas to do a little gambling and doesn’t want her checking up on him. She was a really sweet lady. A very old soul. She told me she knew the guy who--”

“You didn’t tell her what was in the box, did you?”

“Do I look stupid?”

I took a sip of sludge.

“Peter probably got to Vegas this morning. I’ll keep trying his cell, find out exactly where he is. Rick said you could take any of his cars you’d like. Except the Enzo. He’s still breaking that in.”

“I’ll stick with my Jeep, thanks.”

“Suit yourself. I MapQuested directions.” Luna displayed a couple of print-outs, then started tracing several lines on a foldout map, explaining the astrological implications of each one. Then she devolved into a rambling diatribe about the choices we all have to make in life and that I was somehow ‘chosen’ to make this journey. A journey through the desert in the middle of August. Yeah, I was chosen all right. Because God hates me.

“Yeah, thanks, Luna. I’m sure I can find Vegas, no problem.”

“You know what you need, Dingo?” she asked.

“A sane girlfriend? A life? Hope?”

“An animal spirit guide,” she said.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“No, come on. It’ll be fun!”

She muted the television then grabbed my hands and pulled me off the couch. Luna then sat me down on the floor in front of her, her legs crossed, knees touching mine. “All right. Now, each person has a different animal spirit guide. An animal unique to them. Some people have lions, dolphins, monkeys--”

“Luna, really.”

“Hush. If you don’t learn to relax, you’ll be dead before you’re forty.”

“All right, fine. But if my spirit guide is a ferret, I’m going to kill you.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind, let’s just go.”

“Okay, close your eyes.”

As I did, I became acutely aware of her hands, how soft they were and the way they were nearly engulfed inside mine. I could hear her breathing slow, then become steady and rhythmic. My own fell in time with hers and I could feel our combined exhales stirring the hair on my arms.

“Now, Dingo, I want you to think of a place. A place deep in the forest. The sun is shining overhead, the soft breeze rustling the leaves. You can smell flowers and honeysuckle. You are at peace.”

I was surprised when the image came to my mind rather quickly. I’ve always had a vivid imagination, though it usually involved bikini clad playmates stranded on a desert island and me with the only bottle of Evian. But never about forest breezes, rustling leaves, or honeysuckle for chrissakes. Must have been something in that damn drink.

The first thing that came was the sky. That soft, pale blue that you can only get with Photoshop. There were a few clouds, rather just the idea of clouds floating by. But the trees were the most vivid. Massive oaks towered over me like angry parents, their rustling leaves harping at me with serpentine curses.

“Across from you is a small stand of bushes. They begin to rustle as your animal spirit guide moves behind them. Relax, let your breathing summon your guide into the clearing. Call her forth.”

We sat there, holding each other’s hands for what seemed like half an hour while I watched a stand of bushes with my mind’s eye sway in some imaginary wind. But nothing came out. No monkey, no lion, not even a ferret. Nothing.

When she let go of my hands she asked, “So? Did you communicate with it? What kind of guide do you have?”

“None. Nothing came out, Luna. Is this your way of telling me that your Earth Goddess hates me too?”

“Nothing? That’s strange. Well, sometimes it takes a few times before your guide shows up.”

“Well, I’ve got GPS.”

“That’s not a spirit guide, Dingo. But don’t worry, yours will show up.”

“I’m sure it will.”

I stood up and let the blood flow back into my legs. The giant lithograph of Rick’s band’s logo hung over the plasma screen like some lackluster hieroglyph. A giant letter ‘P,’ yellow and blocked in black on a white background with an oversized period next to it. P·

“Why on earth would they name their band P-dot?” I asked myself.

“You know their label is having a contest to see who can figure out what it means.”

It was one of those mysterious things that fans argued over endlessly on blogs, in chatrooms, on fansites. They all seemed to know what it meant or where it came from. None of them did. Not even close. But all that mystery and speculation still didn’t change the fact that it was a stupid fucking name for a band.

“All right, Luna, I’m going to get on the road.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll call you as soon as I get a hold of him.”

I stared at the printout for a moment. “Are we sure this guy’s going to Vegas?”

“That’s what his wife thinks. Why?”

The longer this guy had the box, the greater the chance he’d open it. And if he didn’t go to Vegas, that meant I’d have to track him down cross country. There wouldn’t be time for any detours.

I pointed to the maps splayed out on the coffee table. “Well if he doesn’t stop in Vegas, he’ll probably head straight home. Which means he’ll most likely take this route instead.”

She watched as I ran my finger along a red line that wound across the map. And then stopped. “Oh. That sucks,” she said.

“Yeah. Little bit. Little bit.”

We both stared in silence at my finger as it rested where the red line stopped at the Indiana border. Fucking Indiana.

Winston Churchill, Winston Churchill.

Daily Dingo

During his absence, John is generously allowing me to re-post my novel DINGO here at Kung Fu Monkey. I will be putting up a chapter a day until he returns. Enjoy.

p.s. Zombie Tales: Oblivion #1 hits bookshelves on Wednesday.

- m a n

CHAPTER 1: SADDLE UP

This was the first time that sex with Julie really scared me. Her macabre desires had always been a little unnerving, like some dark and uncomfortable thing she kept in a mason jar that she would never open, just twist the lid enough to get a smell of the thing inside as it tried to get its tentacles through. It was her thing. Hell, I didn’t mind. We all have our things. But this time… Christ.

This time the lid came off.

“Leave your socks on,” she said.

I stopped pulling then started to unbutton my jeans. “Socks? That’s new.”

“Just wait.”

Julie disappeared into the bathroom, came out ten minutes later wearing black vinyl pants and a thick, riveted, wire-only bra. Her pants were on the verge of dripping off and her breasts looked like a tie-on Halloween gag gift.

“I’ve seen this before,” I said.

She just smiled and hummed as she tied my hands and feet to the bedposts with silk scarves so orange they made my teeth ache.

“Nothin’ new here either.”

“Patience, Dingo,” she said. “Patience.”

When she was satisfied that I wasn’t going anywhere, she took a fistful of my chest hair and twisted, varying pressure and speed that made my grunts and groans jump and jerk.

“It’s like playing the piano. You’re like my own little instrument, Dingo. My very own Dingo-phone. Didn’t know I had any musical talent, did you?”

“I’ve been too distracted by your other talents to notice.”
She bent forward and bit my lower lip. “My, how you underestimate me. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

This time she left the room. I heard her walk through the kitchen, followed by the sound of the garage door opening and things being moved and pushed around. A little later I heard something heavy hit the floor just outside the bedroom door. Julie walked in the bedroom with a small plastic bag cupped in her hand. She gave me a wink as she put three fingers inside the bag and then started to sprinkle tiny green flakes over my socks.

“I think you’re a little south, baby,” I said.

“Oh, Dingo. You’re not man enough for that yet. But we’ll work on it.”

“What is that? Is that weed? You gonna smoke my socks or something.”

“No, no, Dingo.” She laughed. “You’re so silly.”

“Uh huh. Silly. Yeah. What is it?”

Julie gave me a crooked smile. “It’s catnip.”

“You buy a cat?”

“No, Dingo.” She reached into the bag and pulled out another pinch.

“Then what? My feet smell?”

“It has nothing to do with how your feet smell.”

“So they do smell.”

“Hush.” She put the bag down and stepped outside the door.

When she came back in, I almost ripped my arms from their sockets trying to sit up. I could hear my tendons popping over the straining bed frame. “Julie, what the hell!”

She just smiled as she placed three items on the bed between my legs, one by one:

1) a saddle

2) a melon baller

3) and a fucking ferret.

She bounced her finger between the wire bars of the animal’s cage while she gave it baby cooing sounds. The rat-dog just hissed and spat while it spun after its tail like a furry pile of shit caught in a blender.

Cold air from the garage moved into the room, slid up my legs and across my scrotum, short circuiting every synapse in my body. I gave an involuntary shiver and asked the only question I could think of.

“Jesus Christ, Julie. What’s the saddle for?”

When I was twelve I saw a National Geographic Special on a pack of wolves living in the wilds of Montana. One of the local farmers had actually set traps in the hopes of snaring the more adventurous animals that tried to wander onto his land to hunt his sheep. One unfortunate wolf, a mangy animal the documentary host called Shane, got its hind leg caught in the wire mouth of one of the farmer’s traps.

As Julie centered the ferret cage between my legs I couldn’t help but think about Shane, that scrawny animal, chewing its way to freedom, leaving behind a bloody and twisted “fuck you, Farmer Joe” lying in the dirty pink snow. The lucky bastard.

While I was trying to figure out which arm I could most likely live without, the phone rang. Julie grabbed the cordless and held it to her ear as she taunted the ferret with her free hand.

“He‘s busy,” she said. After a moment, she rolled her eyes then jumped on the bed, straddled my chest and put the phone to the side of my head.

“H…hello?” I said.

“Danny, what the hell you still doin’ with that Rebound Rita?”

“What? Rick? It’s 2 o’clock in the morning.”

“I don’t have a watch.”

Julie started to bounce on my chest. Her lips twisted into a sneer then formed the words ‘hurry up.’

“What do you need Rick?”

“Um, we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

The exhilaration of being rescued by a phone call in the dead of night suddenly vanished. “Don’t you mean you have a bit of a problem?”

I could hear Rick light a cigarette and breathe smoke onto the receiver. “Danny…”

“You know what, Rick? I don’t want to know about it. You figure it out.”

“Danny, come on…”

“Stop calling me Danny, Ricky. And no, I will not come on.”

I pulled my feet up as much as I could, trying to keep them as far from the ferret cage as possible, but I could feel its movements disturbing the air around my ankles. Julie grabbed my chest hair with her other hand.

“Okay, fine,” Rick said. “I have a problem. Can you help me out?”

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’? I’m your own flesh and blood, man. Christ, we shared the same womb. Doesn’t that count for something, Dingo?”

“Indiana, Rick!” It came out a mix of growls and gasps as Julie’s minimal weight squeezed my lungs and her hand twisted my chest hair. “Indiana! I’m not talking about a bar or a country club. I was banned from a whole fucking state for helping you with one of your problems! Do you know how hard it is to get banned from a state?”

“Dude, what’s in Indiana anyway?”

“That’s not the fucking point, Rick!”

Julie sighed. She fidgeted for a moment, shaking her breasts as she reached behind her back and pulled out a small knife. She reached forward and cut the scarf tied to my right wrist. She jumped off the bed and tossed the phone to me. I caught it just in time to hear Rick’s tinny bleating of Indiana’s ills.

“Rick, Rick, stop, look. I’m busy right now. Can I call you back, say during daylight?”

“Come on little brother, this is important.”

“Fine. What’s the problem?” I took a quick swing with the phone at Julie when she started to tickle my feet with her Jack Rabbit.

“I sold my Z on Wednesday.”

“Yeah, you told me. You also told me you got ripped off.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s beside the point. Look, I was in a hurry and I forgot to clean out the trunk.”

“I’m sure the guy’ll hit a car wash¬--”

“No man, you don’t understand. I left something in there and he‘s driving the car out to Buffalo.” I could hear Rick hot-boxing his cigarette.

“Well, just call the guy and have him Fed Ex it to you.”

“Yeah. I, uh, don’t think that would be a good idea, Dingo.”

I stretched and tried to lean on my elbow. “Why not, Rick?” I could feel the skin on the back of my skull start to tingle. “What exactly did you leave in the trunk of that car? And Rick, it better be drugs or a dead body.”

“It was the box, Dingo.” Well, my brother was right. ‘We’ had a problem. “Dingo? Dingo?”

“I am going to kill you dead.” My knuckles were white around the phone.

“Okay, I know you’re pissed, but just calm down.”

“Dead, you hear me? Kill. You. Dead. Oh, and by the way, your band sucks!”

“Jesus, I’m sorry, man.”

“Sorry?” The bed frame squeaked as I pulled on the scarves. “I gave it to you to put in your vault. To keep it safe. What the hell was it doing in the trunk of your car?”

I heard Rick pound his cigarette into an ashtray. “We were recording at Damon’s. We needed a short mic stand for the PZM and the box was the perfect size and—”

“Stop, just…stop. Let me tell you what you’re going to do, Rick. You’re going to get into whatever fancy ride of yours moves the fastest, and then you’re going to go get that box back.”

“I can’t, man. That’s the problem. I’m leaving for Europe in the morning. We’ve got seventy shows in ninety days and I’m booked solid. I’m sorry, Dingo. I would if I could.”

Julie was poking her knife into the cage and rattling it against the bars. She didn’t seem to be scaring the animal, just pissing it off.

“Ah, puke. All right,” I said. “Where is this guy?”

“I’ll leave all the info with Luna. Just swing by here tomorrow and she can give you all the details. I’m sorry, little brother. I’ll make it up to you, promise.” The phone clicked and Rick was gone.

I dropped my head against the pillow and tossed the phone against the wall.
“What’s your brother doing calling this late?”

I rested my forearm over my eyes and said, “I’ve got to leave town for a couple of days, baby.”

Her vinyl pants creaked and pouted as she tilted her hips. “Well, you’re not going anywhere until I say you are.” I peeked out from under my arm when her voice dropped an octave. “Now, where were we?”

When the latch on the ferret cage fell open, I remembered that Shane the wolf didn’t hobble off into the blissful western sunset. No. Farmer Joe followed his bloody trail through the gray sludge of the forest floor and shot that three legged mutt dead.

The lucky bastard.

Zombie Tales: Oblivion

Hate to leave on a downer -- here's Tom Fowler on lines and Pamela Rambo on the colors, knocking it out of the damn park on my story in BOOM! Studios' new comic anthology Zombie Tales: Oblivion, available (as far as I know) this week at your local comic shop.

Another Military Blogger Silenced

One last post before I go.

Jesus. Goddam. Christ.

Mail it to your friends. Post it on your blogs, and remember ...

... we have always been at war with Eastasia.

Missing Both Halloween and Fitzmas ...

... because the Lovely Wife and I are off on a long-planned trip to Tahiti. It looks like one of my Filthy Scribblings is actually going to get shot next year: nine days of quality time with my wife and no annoying industry phone calls are mandatory before the storm hits.

You will not be left unattended, however. I'm turning the joint over to some guest-bloggers who'll at least keep the lights on while I'm snorkelling.

Ross Richie runs the comic house BOOM! Studios, and will be putting up promos for their new projects including ZOMBIE TALES OBLIVION. Many of you dug the first Zombie Anthology from BOOM!, and I can tell you this one is even creepeier/nastier/funnier. If he's inclined, Ross may even share a few indie-press publishing tips for you.

Johanna Stokes is a screenwriter and comic book writer -- she's currently writing a column called Girl in the Clubhouse over at Comic Book Resources.

Mike Nelson is the guy who leaves all the really trenchant comments in the political posts, and is blogging his first novel, Dingo. I've asked Mike if he can restart the novel from Chapter One here at the KF Monkey for those of you who have unwisely decided not to click through, and also write about whatever interests him.

Andrew Cosby's television show Eureka has been picked up for 13 by the Sci Fi channel. He's two-for-two pilot pitch to series, and is also a big geek culture Overlord.

If Mark Waid ever hauls his ass back from Australia, he can use this spot for whatever miscellaneous bitching he wants to do.

So, folks, stay warm, stay angry, and keep typing. When I return, hopefully several of my hush-hush projects will have been announced, and I'll be able to use them as examples in our Spec Monkey discussions. Happy Halloween!

Index-Fu for November

Hmm, skipped the Index page for October. Ah well.

New Media Writing (Rage against the Studio Machines, Baby):

4th Generation Media
Video Ipod: 4GM Baby Steps

Writing:

Writing Life
Writing: Beginning
Writing: Whose Viewpoint?
Eternity Has Residuals
Writing: Adaptation (Pt.1)
Writing: Adaptation (Pt. 2)
Writing: Adaptation (Pt. 3)
TV: Corner Gas
Writing: Adaptation (Pt.4)
Writing: Software
Writing: Adaptation (Pt. 5)
Writing: Plot and Story
Writing: How Small a World?
Writing: Q&A #1
Writing: Q&A #1 Followup
Writing: You Don't Need Pg. 11
Writing: Agents & Managers
Writing: The Pitch
Writing: The Pilot Pitch - Background
Writing: The Pilot Pitch - Prep
Writing: The Pilot Pitch - The Room
Writing: Screenwriting The Sequence Approach - Book Review

Our attempt at screenwriting academia:
TV Jargon Preservation (Pt.1)
TV Jargon Preservation (Pt. 2)
TV Jargon Preservation (Pt. 3)
TV Jargon Preservation (Pt. 4)

Global Frequency

It's a "Global" Frequency Now
Miranda is ... annoyed
One Last GF Question
GF wow
GF Reviews and E-mails
GF Update #1

The True Geek Conversations(tm)

#3892: Batman vs. Punisher
#651: Catwoman Edition
# 5643: Ju-On, Red State Version
#36679: In Which Bo & Luke Duke Kick a New York Jewish Election Worker to Death
#36679 cont'd: Sophie Mae's Choice
#436: I Love Lucy -- Issue Zero! The Origin Issue!

Politics:

The Latest Rants:

Somehow We Have Grown Too Small for our Britches
Commander in Chief
Lunch Discussions #145: The Crazification Factor
Defense Against Celebrity Marriage Amendment

The Rest:

Who's Your Daddy, Broward County?
I Miss Republicans (nominated for a Koufax, spiffy!)
Spongiform Sexuality
Win Kamchatka, Win the World
Oh. Oh, Canada.
Gay Marriage
Activist Judges
Will of the People - (the inter-racial marriage/gay marriage polling stats)
I will Punch Florida in the Goddam Neck
SPOILERS! -- the Interview with God
Swearingen for Senate
You Can Know Jesus ...
Learn to Say Ain't - (for some reason, immensely popular and quoted in some serious political websites and magazine essays. Huh. Fooled 'em.)
Senate Quicksand
Learn to Say Ain't - Feedback & Criticism
That Ironic Smell
"Toxic Spiritual Nature" ...
The Groom Grinds a 360!
The President and Intelligent Design
I WISH Hollywood Was That Organized
Hybrids and Hypotheses
Iraq and Roll
Booming Babies Still Want Bidey (MAN did this one piss people off. yay!)
57% of Americans are Traitors
I'm All Out of Reasonable
'ellllooooo Clinton!

Comics and Geekery

Fandamentalism
The famous "Geek Hierarchy" Chart
Moral Advantage: Gamer
Comics: Year of the Bummer
Comics: Womb Crazy!
Wold Newton Universe
Zombie News/ ZOMBIE TALES
Comics: Sweet Four-Color Vengeance
SPOILERS -- the Interview with God
Zombie Tales #1 - Everybody Digs Zombies!

Fundraising

Army Emergency Fund - Total
Katrina Relief - Total

The semi-famous LOST: You Uncurious Motherf*ckers

... and, just because it was always my favorite:

Top 10 John Wayne Titles That Could Also Be Porn Titles.

Thanks for visiting. And leave with the assurance that anything you find interesting or amusing -- that was an accident.