There's a Good Dog... , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Chris Middlehurst

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31 pages

English

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Meat trucks on fire and chiennes fatales. Sadistic toddlers and murderous bouncers. Television pirates and toilet wall haikus. Sarcastic sofa sellers and perverted policemen. In one word: England. Join Ezra the dog on a unique journey into the heart of an immense weirdness. A violent, hallucinatory and sometimes enlightening vision of the world seen through the eyes of a very strange canine mind, There's a Good Dog... is the ultimate flipside of twee, family-friendly picnic adventures. Like a plate of frozen spaghetti or a road trip with a rabid grizzly bear, this experience will leave you shaking, spitting and howling by the end of it: unlike frozen spaghetti or a road trip with a rabid grizzly bear, you might actually end up enjoying it.Are you sitting uncomfortably? Then I'll begin...

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	22 juin 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781785387135
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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There’s a Good Dog...
Chris Middlehurst

There’s a Good Dog...
First published in 2017 by
AG Books
www.agbooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2017 Chris Middlehurst
The right of Chris Middlehurst to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter One
“Go on, son! Fetch the ball! Go on, son! Fetch! Fetch!”
Get it yourself, you lazy bastard. Why do I have to do all the running?
“Go on, Ezra! Go on, son! Go on!”
Ugh. The pain.
I don’t remember running much. You might say I’m more of a streetwise kind of thing. A junkyard animal, perhaps. Though I’ve never been to a junkyard and I have no intention whatsoever of frequenting one. But you wouldn’t catch me running in fields of green or any crap like that, you know. For a start, I hate running. You might have guessed that by now. It’s bad for me, you see. Just like exercise, cats and cheap food. Gives me an allergic reaction and I get an awful pain in the side of my stomach and it only goes away when I stop, you see. Some people call it a stitch: I call it a fucking caesarean birth.
“That’s it, you silly thing. Try and hold them all in your mouth, why don’t you?”
Does he really think I’m that stupid? Can’t he see I’m trying to see how many balls I can fit into my mouth? He looks at me like I’m subhuman. Right, that’s it. Time to show him who’s the head honcho in this dirty playground. How many times must I remind him? Does he think I enjoy doing this? I stare back into his eyes and let out the biggest turd that I can manage. I thought my anus was going to snap into two halves like a knife slicing a melon and a giant hand peeling the two pieces apart slowly, carefully, waiting for the sound of the ccccrrrrrrrrrrr as the pieces slowly fall to the side of the chopping board. Snap! The short sharp crack of the wishbone of an overcooked seasonal turkey. My knees shake with the effort and my face twists into a triangular smile, the sides of my eyes stabbed by the cheekbones. My erection bobs up and down, poking against my belly and sending waves of electric radiation pleasure through my spine.
Ooooooooh. Yeeesssss.
I see him grimace with disgust and pull out the flimsy blue bag that he has kept in his sports jacket pocket the whole time we’ve been out. I want to laugh. He’ll need a bigger one than that that’s for sure. Either way he does it his fingers will smell of the stuff, even if he double-bags it. That’ll teach him to pick his nose when he thinks I’m not looking, the fool.
Aaaah.
Still haven’t finished. I feel a quarter of my body flop out onto the wet dewy grass. I almost have to stand on my front two legs to prevent myself from sitting in the stinking mound that I’ve made. I almost lose my balance and fall backwards on top of it but I’m an agile little thing you see and I gracefully bypass the turd by forcing the remaining three quarters of my body weight forward so that it looks to him like I’ve skipped out towards him so that he finally sees the giant brown hill that I’ve made. Ta da! Hey, arsehole! Look what I’ve done! Should I pose for the papers?
I sit next to it, my tale thumping up and down on the ground, tongue stretched out beyond my mouth as far as possible so that he thinks I just want him to throw the ball at me again.
In a way, I’m quite worried. That’s a hell of a lot of shit right there. What if I ejected some of my vital organs? My heart, perhaps? Nah. That tore out my rectum years ago. I wonder how much of me is left inside. There’s a hell of a lot of me that’s going to end up in his little blue bag. I almost feel protective of it now as I see him move his hands reluctantly towards the mound, the bag wrapped over them in a flimsy attempt to avoid getting them dirty. I feel almost protective of my dump now. Here you. That’s my pile of shit. Go pick up your own.
“What you barking at, you dumb little shit?”
You, you cunt. I bark back.
“Here, you want to pick it up yourself, you mangy little cur, you?”
That hurts my feelings, Greg. Oh well. I wag my tail at him to show him that he can say all he wants about me: I’ll never pretend to understand what he’s saying. Something red darts in front of me. A little blob. Ooh, a ladybird. I try to touch it with my nose but it smudges instantly. That’s odd. Ooh, there’s another one. Here, little ladybird, come and climb on my nose. I won’t bite. Yet. Here, there’s a good girl. There’s a good girl.
Aw. Smudged again. Is my nose as sharp as all it’s cracked up to be? I feel a tingling down the inside of my back leg. Is he tickling my balls? Oh no. Just a few more ladybirds traveling down my body. Must be nice, being a ladybird, but they keep smudging into the grass into little liquid blobs. Then they just sit tight and watch me with their microscopic eyes. Aren’t they supposed to move? I thought the little fuckers had legs.
Only when I look up do I realise. Those aren’t ladybirds. Greg is beating my back sunburnt red with the leash buckle. But I don’t mind. My anus is still so numb from my most recent toilet break that if it wasn’t for the legless-ladybirds-cum-drops-of-pumping-blood trickling down my leg I might never have noticed. But some other man walking his eight rescue lapdogs down the lane we’re at does and Greg looks like he’s in big trouble. This is a big fellow, alright. If it wasn’t for one of the sexy lapdog sweethearts staring at me with those watery bulbous eyes it might have seemed like I was enjoying the beating if you looked between my legs. To be fair it was fun at first but now that Greg’s stopped and is waving his doggy bag and leash at the big fellow like a deranged electrocuted scarecrow turns out I am starting to feel the stabbing pain of the lashes on my back. Still, she is one sweet lapdog. So skinny I bet she lives off carrot salad. Look at her! Playing stupid and darting her eyes this way and that like she doesn’t know I’m staring straight at her! Boy oh boy, what I could do to her hind flanks and make no mistake, I would. But I still feel quite numb. Maybe later.
“Come on, you good for nothing little shit! See the fine mess you’ve got me into!”
Trying to be cruel, eh? Ha. But I know he’ll be the one scrubbing my paws and legs like a galley slave before letting me back in the house. That’s something I always look forward to. The way he squeezes my paws like a wet sponge and rolls my soaked body in the pink plastic basin by the front door before he wraps me up in a towel like a pampered Maharajah and scrubs me dry hard as sandpaper central. I feel all warm and clean afterwards, mind. Not like him. Not like Greg. He’s the one who smells of wet dog by the end of it all, not me.
He yanks me by the neck, almost hooking my ear with the leash catch instead of the collar. I feel like a sex slave on sodomy row with a gang of horny hyenas ready to take me up the back alley of Anal Boulevard. Once he fixes it firmly to my collar he tugs me violently, lifting me up on my two hind legs. I let out a scream that shows the big fellow I’m just a sweet little poochie-pooch. But mainly I do it so that sexy lap can see my piston pointed straight at her adorable pneumatic receptacle. This is for you, baby. I feel so proud displaying it I even tug at Greg deliberately so that he’ll lift me up a second time. Yeah. Get another good look at it, sweetheart! This is what you’re missing.
She turns her head away and sniffs at a dandelion, poking it with her nose. Is this lapdog lesbian or what? Maybe she just can’t see it. She does have a lot of dirt around her eyes. Her goody two shoes rescue-dog-collecting owner can’t be that thoughtful after all. Maybe he rescues them for his own depraved gratification. Watches them go blind with their own eye sand. God knows why he can’t even see that she’s practically tripping over her front two legs with the amount of dirt and dried mucus blocking her sight. Maybe he let them get covered deliberately so that he wouldn’t have to see his actions reflected in her eyes. Lap dogs have a way of doing that. Their eyes are like wet mirrors when they’re clean. I’ll bet that’s why she won’t look at me and my beautiful specimen. I bet it’s the RSPCA dog protection fraudster right there pretending to kick off on animal cruelty with Greg. Humans are all the same. Take Greg’s missus for example.

Chapter Two
She tensed for a moment, hissing between gritted pearly teeth. Then her body flapped violently against mine and spit bubbled at the sides of her mouth, eyes wildly roving like a dying fish on dry land.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”
As she pushed and pulled me inside outside inside outside of her faster faster faster faster than a merry-go-round but just as dizzy her legs clamped around me like some fleshy seat belt with me strapped in for the ride to end in blood and screams. Her breasts came in and out of focus as I bounced up and down on top of her up and down on top of her. When I scratched her - it was an accident I swear Shirley I swear! - she pressed me harder and harder against her with tears of