"According to victims, one of the newest groups to emerge is called the Rastas, a mysterious gang of dreadlocked fugitives who live deep in the forest, wear shiny tracksuits and Los Angeles Lakers jerseys and are notorious for burning babies, kidnapping women and literally chopping up anybody who gets in their way."

Saturday, December 1, 2007

Chapter 5

The ground is full of dirt and rocks and some leaves from the trees in the park. The ground smells like shit and I wish someone would just come over and sit on the bench and light up a cigarette so I could get some smoke moving through these longs. I feel like I need to cough. The shit I just took is still steaming in a pile in the middle of the park. I can see some flies buzzing around it. Man, flies love my shit. A fly comes past my nose and I bite at the air as hard as I can trying to catch it but I miss.
The Captain and I arrived late today so I missed the thin man with the scarf around his throat who sits on the bench everyday and pats me on the head and scratches me behind my ear and tells me things like how death is like an empty shoe and how the bottom of the sky is going to one day come falling out and consume each nation. He tells me that he gets scared sometimes just thinking about it. He scratches my ears better than anyone when he talks about how scared he is. And when he does that I just move closer to him and rub my wet nose underneath his arm that rests on his skinny thigh. And he picks up his arm just enough to let my face slide underneath and he tells me that I’m a good boy and I move my tail from side to side letting him know the same.
The leash I am tied up with is red and coming undone at its sides. When I was younger I used to think I was invincible and could bite my way through anything. I get tied up to a statue of a dog every morning. The Captain thinks he is really clever sometimes. He tells me to stay put and I sit down in the park cause I know he knows how to tie a double knot so I know I’m not going anywhere. Plus, even if I could go somewhere where would I go? Every day The Captain goes across the street and comes back with burger straight off a plate for me. I don’t see many places around here giving me fresh burger off a plate. All I see is my shit still steaming.
The sidewalk has many cracks. This statue is supposed to look like a dog and as The Captain eats I pass the time sitting next to it trying to make myself look more dog like, more defined for the passers by. When I see anyone smoking a cigarette I flex my leg muscles as tight as I possibly can. I clench my jaw together and act like those fucked up dogs that are sometimes on the glowing screen when The Captain sits down on Monday nights to watch pro wrestling. When he expects to see body slams and sees dog prancing around a rectangle instead he gets pretty pissed off and so the dog shows never stay on for too long. But I have seen enough of them to know that those dogs, no matter how pretty those judges say their hair is or how proper their step looks are still fucked up. I know people love to see things acting like they know that they can win something. So I sit next to that shitty statue and I look as majestic as I can. I try to win some pats on the head. I try to win some stares from small children in strollers. I try and win a cigarette right up in my face. I want to hear those “awwwweesss” and “ohhhhhhhs”
I want to be seen as the most adorable dog of all time more adorable than that puppy in the window. I want to win the hearts and feel the warmth of all that is around me. I want to take the eyes of the people in the park and take them in my paw and hold them. I want to take them away from all those fake statues of real things. I want to show them something still bona fide and warm, something still steaming, a lot like my shit but with a greater urgency.