Don’t You Love Your Dog

By R.T. Martin

January 16, 2019 There is a man in a yellow jumpsuit standing in the snow outside my basement peephole.

I see his filthy boot and gun-barrel. I’m silent as I peer out the four-inch cavity exposed after I removed the aluminum ducting and insulation for my dryer vent. I hear him taking a piss, whistling the new Anthem.

His comrades, two Tenders in yellow jumpsuits, are across the road confronting my neighbor Albert in his driveway. The Tenders are pointing at the ground and shouting demands in Ahahuascan, the new language of the World Government.

Albert’s wife and chubby teenage son are huddled together in the snow under a Nascar sleeping bag. Albert is being prompted at gunpoint to lay his collection of guns down on his driveway. The Tenders have one of those creepy metallic DogBastards for troop support - it’s the size of a Ford Fiesta AWG's latest model - a mechanized kill-machine. The Dog-Bastard has poised itself between Albert’s family and the doorway of their house. A blue light radiating from the transparent dome on its head signals a passive status.

Albert is pissed off. He’s going on and on about the Second Amendment and rations and the AWG and poisoned food he's eye-popped and shirtless. The giant bald eagle tattooed on his heaving beer-belly looks as if it's going to launch off his jiggling gut at the jumpsuits. Albert spits toward the jumpsuits and storms back into his house for another armload of guns, he kicks open his screen door and comes out with a gigantic American flag draped over his shoulders, wearing it like a poncho.

The Tender outside my peephole sprints across my yard, crossing the road to warn his comrades, shouting “Svat! Svat! Svat!” He points his rifle toward the Dog-Bastard and focuses a

laser-pointer beam at the blue dome on its head.

The dome on the Dog-Bastard’s head flashes from passive blue to stop-light red, a grinding-whizzy sound like a Gyrotron at the county fair erupts from under its ribs.

Albert snaps his right hand out from the poncho. He produces a sawed-off and drives the barrel into the head of the nearest jumpsuit, making it disappear into an explosion of blood and skull, splatting his comrade’s face-shield like pizza toppings. The man attempts to clear the gore from his facemask, spreading blood and gristle across the plexi-glass like a bugsmeared windshield.

The sprinting Tender fires a haphazard rifle-shot - blood spurts from the eagle’s head tattooed on Alberts belly. The impact drives the fat man backward into a snowbank like a starspangled garbage sack.

The Dog-Bastard leaps forward and straddles Albert’s body. A twisting piston is thrust from its ribcage, plunging into Albert, punching through his stomach into the snowbank skin - intestine-coil - flag-scraps - snow. Each time the piston retreats back into the Dog-Bastard's body, it pulls back pieces

of my neighbor.

January 17, 2019

I am hiding this handwritten testimony in a plastic sandwich container, buried in the bottom of my empty water softener salt-basin; the same basin that I hid inside last week while the Tenders cleared my house.

My hard drives were wiped clean by an electromagnetic pulse six days ago, erasing my original computer journal and my electronic contact with the rest of the world. The news-feed is gone. We have gone Radio Beijing.

The Tenders took Abby - I took that the worst - my dog. They found her whimpering under the stairs when their Spiders scanned the basement. I nearly bit a hole in my cheek stifling my rage, silent in my salt-tub. The Tenders forced resident work crews to board up the windows, I am trapped inside my home.

After the outbreak of the Sceptre-A virus, an imaginary disease concocted by the AWG, Americans were encouraged by the

media to get vaccinated against this fictional virus. Like most

of the then-obedient population, I received the flu shot after we were warned about the spreading epidemic. Holdouts who refuse the shot are being hunted down, sent to camps and processed.

The vaccination is taking charge of my will. I feel larvae in my mucus - a pulsing virus in my blood - tapeworms under my eyelids - I feel their intelligence - re-assembling. has become a hive. My body

January 18, 2019

Three holdouts on snowmobiles are trying to open the fire hydrant across the street. A flannel-clad man is twisting on the spigot with a huge wrench while his companions keep watch for Tenders, their snowmobiles idling in the street.

Szee-szip-szee-szip-szee-szip sounds come from the north, out of my line of vision. The two men keeping watch hear the coming threat, arming themselves with chunks of re-bar. Entering the frame are several mechanized Spiders. The pumpkin-sized daddy-long-legs tippy-toe within four car lengths of the holdouts - the Spiders halt - their blue eyes switch to red.

The holdouts haul ass to their idling snowmobiles. The Spiders spring from the pavement. The shrill sszzzzzeeeeee blasting from the Spiders is in a frequency that shatters the icicles hanging from my roof. Two of the holdouts make it to their snowmobiles as the flannel-clad man takes a swing at the nearest Spider with his wrench. He is overtaken by two of the insects at his waist. The first Spider scrambles up his back, contorting the screaming man into a kneeling position. The second Spider skitters forward with an extended leg tipped with a syringe. It drives a needle into each of the man's legs, his lower extremities become frozen in place while his torso thrashes around in a semicircle, making him gag and croak, flailing in a mad aerobic exercise.

Abandoning their companion, the two remaining holdouts accelerate their snowmobiles out of view with three Spiders in pursuit, their surgical red eyes focused on their prey.

It's dark. I cannot see the flannel-clad man pinned in the snow, but his damned croaking is making my blood pop like seltzer bubbles.

Headlights from an approaching vehicle reveal the flannel-

clad man into my frame once again. I see the front end of a converted mail truck, its filthy headlights illuminating the flannel-clad man in a sick yellow glow. Two Tenders in yellow body armor approach the man, chattering to each other in Ahuauascan. They place an egg-shaped beacon in the snow at the man's knees, blanketing him in a red aura. One of the Tenders karate-kicks the poor guy in the chest, snapping him backward then forward, like a kid’s bouncy toy. The laughing Tenders return to the mail-truck and leave the scene.

I need water. I am running out of matches, candles, battery life. I ate my last can of kidney beans. Writing is very difficult. My hands feel like they belong to someone else. I am enamored of the beautiful red beacon, glowing in the street.

Szeet-Clomp-Szeet-Clomp - approaching from the west. A DogBastard with two Spiders march into view behind the flannel-clad man. He’s writhing in the snow like an insane living statue. This Dog-Bastard is the size of a Jersey cow with its skin and muscles removed - a silver-framed monster of perfection with rubber tendons. It stands behind the man and extends a long tubular siphon. It drives the translucent tube into the man's back. His croaking erupts into an agonized scream.

The Dog-Bastard sucks gore through the siphon into a deflated sac hanging from under its backbone. The red dome on its head pulses like the cherry-light on the roof of a cop car.

The man becomes a flannel-clad husk - his juices draining in chunks through the siphon into the Dog-Bastard’s expanding sac.

The metallic beast retracts the siphon, dropping the flannel-clad man’s withered body into the snow like a blown-down scarecrow.

A Spider tippy-toes past my peephole.

I am so very quiet.

January 19, 2019

I drank the last of my water. I was going to scoop snow from outside the dryer vent hole with a measuring cup duct-taped to a broom handle, but I thought against it. Any movement outside the house will alert the motion-detecting drones

scanning the neighborhood. The egg-beacon is still glowing its red invitation outside my peephole. Its radiation has melted the snow in a perfect circle, I tentatively reach my arm through my peephole to feel its warmth.

I felt a beetle scurry across my skull. It's using my scalp as a bed-sheet. I know it is...I know it.

I sliced the palm of my hand open on a piece of sharp copper breaking apart frozen water pipes. My hand hurts less than it should. My blood is thick - a pale pus oozing out. There are tiny silver dots that look like b.b’s in my blood. The little balls are skipping and popping on my bloody palm like water drops on a burning skillet.

January 2submit1, 2019

The egg-man inside the beacon is whispering to me. He’s saying that I can feel its comfort it I kick out the barrier on the second-floor window and jump into the snow. The egg-man says Abby is hungry - Abby needs to be fed.

January 22,


There are Spiders tippy-toeing outside my peep hole. The egg-man is imploring me....don't you love your dog?. I am very quiet.

January, 2019

My name is Derek Ingelstead, I leave this testimony to the
(don't you love your dog)

generations, in this little sandwich container, I hope that somebody

((don't you love your Dog-Bastard??))

will find this and know what happened to


me in my basement the winter of

((SUBMIT!!)) (dont you love my Dog)

2019 and what we gave away

(such a beautiful dog)

too easy, too soon

( I know you love my Dog).

I am going to the egg-man. I am going to fall through the window.

I love my dog.

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