Short Fiction: “DOG”

Man is not dog's best friend ...

He finished skinning the dog and kicked the hide-less, whimpering body into the ditch. He threw the furry skin into the bed of his beat-up old blue pickup, with a rock atop it to prevent its flying out. Then he drove on.

The man had been lucky, running across a perfect specimen in broad daylight with no other drivers to witness him swerve the truck just so to strike the dog but not kill it, and the road’s remaining empty of traffic while he set to his gruesome task.

The noise was awful. Not disturbing, just loud and bothersome. He could cut the tongue out first, but that would ruin the process. So would killing the animal prior to skinning. It had to be right.

And this time – finally – he knew it would be right. Finally.


Home, he ran excitedly into his run-down but not dilapidated two-story house (complete with large parlor, sitting rooms and other such architectural fancies), the hide slung over his shoulder. The man wasn’t bothered about the line of dripping blood that followed him into the house and back to the secret room.

This room was not small but not large. It had a crude, blocky, sturdy table of distorted geometry in the middle of the room. Various arcane artifacts hung upon the walls. Dried splatter of old blood was visible even in the candlelight. In the corner, crucified and twitching, was the young man, man-child, one on the brink.

The man could have used a young virgin but a man-child, virgin or not, was more potent for this working.

Spreading the hide bloody side up across the table, the man began to scrape the crusty jelly of coagulated goo into a bowl. He used a strangely curved and rather large knife. The bowl he set on a much smaller table in a corner of the room. Then he picked up that table and set it next to the big table.

With his strangely carved and rather large knife in hand, the man strode purposefully to the young man pinned to the wall with huge, rusty, gnarled nails through his forearms and lower legs. Then he grabbed the man-child’s penis, stretched it out, and sliced the member free from its owner, who began to wail and moan horribly. To no purpose, as far out in the country the house was, and surrounded, as it was, with much acreage.

With a ceramic pitcher the color of clay, the man gathered the flowing stream of blood from the rubbery stump. When the flow began to stem, he snatched up the man-child’s testes and severed the scrotum entirely from the still living person’s crotch.

This blood was gathered in a second pitcher, like the first, except it had a circle painted on it in red.

His necessary accoutrement gathered, the man closed his eyes, stretched his arms, and said nothing. Words born of diabolical chaos raced through his brain, as active as his body apparently wasn’t. Except that his body was active, but not visibly. Energy coursed through its molecules, preparing the body for change.

Suddenly, the man grabbed the hide and wrapped it around his shoulders. He picked up the bowl of scraped blood goop and, with two fingers, scooped out a mouthful and sucked and licked it off his fingers. The stuff was soft and lukewarm against his cheeks, mashing between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He swallowed. It tasted neither good nor bad but was invigorating.

The cock blood he poured over his head, followed by the blood from the other pitcher. Wracking pain shook him, like electricity that felt as dark as a black hole. His brain seized and he dropped to the hard wooden floor.


When he woke up, he felt soft, like everything was shaped wrong and out of joint. He tried to stand up but could not. Nothing moved right. He felt like a queerly shaped skin-sack of bones, none of which came from the same animal.

Then, without warning, his bones seemed to leap together at new joints. Violent pain fired throughout his body.


When all the bending and cracking and contorting was done, he was a beast of all fours. A vaguely mannish head, but sporting a distinctly canine snout, was mounted on stout shoulders and a wide forebody extending to lean but muscular haunches. Thick, long hair coated his body. He stank of musk and it smelled good. Then, there was another scent. From outside. He followed its trail.


When he was much nearer the source of the scent, its crying helped him to track it. Shortly, he was upon his prey, young, plump and ripe, waiting to be snatched up and snacked upon.

His normal human reasoning was blunted but not absent. The meal was wriggling and crying inside a rectangular – in this form he knew the shape if not the name – container, solid on bottom, with bars around all the sides. But the top was open.

Rising up on hind legs, the beast of all fours, placed its front paws on the top of the container, whose side cracked and crumbled under the pressure of his weight and the force of his strength. A broken wood bar pierced his right foreleg and a keening yowl escaped his throat. It did not deter him, however, from snatching up the baby in his jaws and running away as fast as possible on three legs, through the window he’d broken to reach the small, squealing meal.


Later, the baby dead and mangled but uneaten as yet, the beast managed to pull the wood from his paw. He licked his wound and turned to his food though the pain had not yet subsided. As he ate, he felt his paw begin to heal, the wound knitting itself closed with startling rapidity. After a time, he was whole. But having expended the energy from his meal on healing, he was again hungry, and he set out to procure a second meal.

After walking a long time down a road, a vague smell of familiarity drawing him, he came upon a large yard, fenced in with chain link, packed with dogs. These people might be friendly to me, he thought in his crude beast way, not knowing how unreal his head and face looked.

Nevertheless, a strange woman with wrinkled, skeleton-clinging skin and dry, long, curly hair came outside and found him. Shocked but seemingly not frightened, she called out and soon a man came out. Both were dressed all in black, he in black denim daisy dukes and a midriff t-shirt, she in a black leather miniskirt and a halter top that clung to her small, sagging breasts.

“Ain’t he the damndest thing you ever seen, Jiminy?”

The man nodded, his only response.

“Let’s bring him in.”

Another nod, and the man carefully reached toward the beast, shrouded in shadow. When the beast did not attack, the man more confidently led the thing into the house, down a long wooden hallway and into a room filled with S&M paraphernalia, the exclamation point at the end of the hall’s endless parade of grotesqueries, cheap occultism and heavy metal.

The man opened a refrigerator and tossed a steak onto a slanted table, upon which the beast sprang, instincts taking over more and more from intellect.

Once upon the table, the beast found itself suddenly pounced upon and strapped down. The ugly woman strapped on a dildo and soon the beast’s rear end exploded in pain and gushing blood. When that was done, the man ground his cock into the beast’s bleeding, slick anus and pumped until he came.

“Man, that was on fire,” the woman cheered. “Now come on over here and fuck me, baby!”

Finally, the man spoke in a slurry drawl. “Hang on, sugar. Gotta do this first.” He smiled.

The last thing the beast heard was the first split second of the gunshot, his last sensation the heat of the blast against the base of his skull.


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