by Sal Conte
Baad Dog
Sal Conte
Baad Dog
Published by EViL E Books
a division of Sweet Lorraine Productions Publishing
Copyright © 2015 E. Van Lowe
Edited by SolaFide Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN:--
Library of Congress Control Number: --
SalConte is the horror writing pseudonym for E.VanLowe. To request permission to reprint any portion of the book, e-mail [email protected] and in the subject heading, write the name of the book.
Some dogs are dangerous…
You can’t deny it. Everyone’s heard a story or two about the friendly pit bull, or the loveable Rottweiler who was the treasured family pet until the day he was playing with the kids in the yard and chewed little Liza’s fingers off.
But truth be told, those dogs—Rottweiler’s, Pit Bulls, Dobermans—aren’t born mean, they are mean because they’ve been mistreated. A mistreated dog is nothing more than a ticking time bomb just waiting for the right moment to go Cujo on an unsuspecting public lulled into a false sense of confidence by their giant gentleness.
But my, dog… my dog, the man thought. His dog was loved and cared for right from the start. His was a lap dog, cute and cuddly, and…perfect, which is why he was having the damnedest time accepting the bitter truth—that his cute, cuddly, well-treated dog was also a murderer.
So he lay there, his legs rendered useless, feeling as if they’d been set on fire like Christmas kindling. His world was spinning, spinning, spinning as if he’d been set down on a runaway merry-go-round. Through the pain and the spinning he heard the dog coming for him, coming to finish him off, her soft, doggie footsteps scratching gently toward him on the dust covered road.
She climbed up onto his body as he lay there, eyes gazing up at the moon. She stood on his stomach, teetering for a second before looking into his eyes.
Go get help, he thought. I need help. Of course, he knew better. She was the reason he was in this position in the first place. As the little dog began moving up his torso toward his chest, he thought of all the killer dogs he’d heard about or seen on the news over the years. As his dog closed in for the kill, he wondered: since when did man’s best friend become his very own worst nightmare?
Chapter One
Harry wanted a dog.
It wasn’t surprising. Harry had wanted a dog ever since Queenie, the fuzzy faced mutt that he and his brother, Lenny, found roaming in a vacant lot when they were eight and nine years-old. The boys conned their mother into letting them keep Queenie on the solid condition they would take care of her.
Harry and Lenny did not take care of Queenie. They loved playing with Queenie; they loved cuddling with her while they watched their favorite TV shows like The A Team, calling out I pity the fool at the screen whenever Mr. T was on. But they were constantly forgetting to do the important things, like feeding and walking her.
Forgetting to feed Queenie was bad, although, Angela, the boys’ mother, didn’t mind feeding her. Forgetting to walk the poor thing in a timely manner was a far worse offense because it led to several “accidents” in the house. One particular accident where the boys’ father, Joe, stepped in doggie poo in his bare feet set the boys to laughing up a storm, and got them in some serious trouble.
Yet despite the trouble the boys got in from time-to-time, the burden of their promise rested with Angela, who after several weeks of walking, feeding, and cleaning up after Queenie’s accidents, gave the dog to the nice church lady down the street. The church lady had commented one morning what a cute little doggie Queenie was, and how much she’d always wanted a little doggie of her own. That was enough for Angela, who promised her Queenie on the spot.
While Lenny got over the loss of Queenie very easily, Harry never did. He cried elephant tears the day the church lady came to take Queenie away, praying she’d change her mind. The church lady’s name was Abigail Spence. Ms. Spence was a large woman. The thing Harry remembered most about her was she was wearing a hat—a church lady hat. She looked like the Hulk in a hat.
Abigail Spence didn’t change her mind. She wasn’t the least bit swayed by Harry’s tears. She said: “Don’t worry, little one. Queenie’s going to have a fine life in a fine home.” Then she scooped Queenie into her arms, and surprise of surprises, Queenie licked Abigail’s pudgy fingers as if she’d been waiting for this woman all of her life.
That was the thing that hurt the most, the knife in Harry’s heart—that Queenie seemed ready to go. Queenie and Abigail Spence walked out the front door, and out of his life, and Harry had longed for another dog to call his own ever since.
“One of the beauties of the K9-233 is that they don’t eat or poop,” the salesman said. “So you never have to worry about your dog having an accident in the house.” The salesman’s name was Archibald Galdensen. Archibald had been working for the company that made the life-like mechanical dogs for six months. He had his sales pitch down cold.
Harry didn’t know why he’d wandered into the store that sold the mechanical dogs. He wasn’t interested in a robot dog, and yet here he was, listening to the man’s pitch. “That sounds great,” Harry said, reflecting on the reason he’d lost Queenie. “But I want a real dog.”
“That’s the beauty part,” Archibald said. “The K9-233 is so lifelike no one can tell they’re not real. Robotics have advanced in leaps and bounds over the past several years. You’d be surprised. What kind of dog you want, a German shepherd? No, you’re a golden retriever kind of guy, aren’t you?”
Harry surprised himself that instead of saying he wanted a Boxer or a Pit Bull—guy dogs—he went on to describe Queenie. “A mixed breed, looks sort of like ‘Benjie’, you know, from the movies?”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Archibald said and scratched a few, quick lines down in a small notebook. “Boy or girl?” he asked.
“They’re mechanical dogs. What difference does it make?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Archibald said. “The super computer they put in these babies is quite specific. The makers of the K9-233 want to be sure everyone gets the perfect dog.”
Harry nodded, although he thought there’s only one perfect dog—Queenie.
“A girl,” he said after a while.
“What should we name her?” Archibald asked.
“Queenie,” Harry immediately responded. Again, he surprised himself. The calling out seemed like a reflex. “Wait a minute. I didn’t say I was buying one,” Harry said, distancing himself from the thought of owning a mechanical dog.
Archibald wrote the name Queenie in his notebook. “Come back next Tuesday,” he said. “Queenie will be here. I’ll let you decide if you want to take her home.” He smiled. It was a salesman’s smile and Harry wasn’t about to be taken in by it.
“Don’t waste your time fixing up a dog just for me. I hear the K9-233s are very expensive.”
“They are. And worth every penny. The K9-233 is as smart as a whip. The super computer in these babies is a learning computer. Your dog will be able to learn almost anything. You want Queenie to fetch, she’ll be fetching in five minutes. In ten, she’ll be meeting you after work with the evening paper and your slippers. In fifteen, she’d be able to cook you dinner if she could reach the stove.” Archibald chuckled at his own little joke. “You have kids?” he asked.
“A boy and a girl.” Why am I telling him this? Harry thought, chastising himself for being too forth coming. No sense leading the guy on. I’m not buying a mechanical dog.
Archibald
was writing in his notebook again. “Queenie will be the perfect dog for your children. How old?”
“Eight and five.” Stop talking! Harry demanded of himself.
“Queenie will be the perfect playmate for both,” Archibald went on.
Harry was surprised the man didn’t bother asking his children’s names. Ariel and Jackson, but that was none of his business since Harry wasn’t buying a mechanical dog.
He didn’t linger on the thought of his children’s names for long because Harry realized he was experiencing a pang of jealousy. He’d been hinting to Pam for years that they should get a dog as a companion for her or a playmate for the children. In Harry’s secret heart, he knew he didn’t want a dog for his wife or his children, Harry wanted a dog for himself, and the mention of Queenie being a playmate for his children chased up the dust in his rafters.
Truth be told, Harry had a rock solid reason he wouldn’t be bringing home any dog, mechanical or otherwise. Because after nine years of marriage, he knew his wife, Pam, like the back of his hand, and Pam was not a dog person.
*
Harry was scheduled to meet his agent, Catherine Miles, in the lobby lounge of the Four Seasons hotel on Doheny Drive in Beverly Hills. Harry liked having meetings in the spacious lounge of the posh hotel because he didn’t have to buy a drink to sit there. Harry could sit in the Four Seasons lobby lounge, among the movie stars and industry high rollers as if he could still afford seventeen dollars for a glass of wine.
Catherine was running late as usual, and Harry ordered a water just to have something in front of him while he waited; he knew if Catherine ordered anything more when she arrived she’d pick up her own tab.
As Harry sat waiting, his thoughts circled back to Archibald and the mechanical dog. He didn’t know why he’d spent so much time with the man when he knew Pam would not be pleased if he brought a dog home.
Harry remembered the first time he’d broached the subject of getting a dog. They were on their honeymoon in Ocho Rios, on the island of Jamaica. They were young back then, not a drop of water under their bridge. Pam still had her athletic, high school cheerleader figure, her smooth complexion, and those great, full lips Harry had fallen in love with the first time he saw her. That was before she’d given birth to two children. Let’s just say the figure had been “compromised,” although her lips remained full and voluptuous.
Harry had a full head of hair back then, and while he’d never possessed an athletic build—I’m a writer for Chrissake!—he also didn’t have what he now laughingly called his twelve pack curling the waistband of his trousers.
During a day trip in Jamaica, Harry and Pam were travelling in a group of other very much in love young couples walking through town toward Dunn’s River Falls, one of Jamaica’s national treasures. The tour guide had engineered it so the group had to walk down a shanty town road jam-packed with local vendors hawking their wares. Vendors selling hand carved statues, colorful wraps, Jamaican jerk sauce, and other authentic souvenirs lined the road. An old man selling hand carved pipes had a handsome, lazy-eyed dog lying by his feet.
“Hey, you smoke, mon?” the vendor called in his lyrical Jamaican accent, signaling Harry over.
“No, I don’t,” Harry called back, and kept walking.
The vendor held up a pipe whose bowl had the face of a dreadlocked Rastafarian carved into it. “Good for ganja,” The old man called and winked. He was wearing a colorful dashiki and had long, graying dreadlocks of his own that snaked down to his waist.
“Don’t smoke tobacco or ganja,” Harry called back. Just then, the dog lifted his head and looked over at Harry.
“Cute dog,” Harry said to Pam as they moved past.
“He’s dirty,” Pam responded, not wanting to get too close.
“We’re in Jamaica, Pam. These are poor people. The little fella may be dirty, but he’s still cute.”
“I can’t tell. All I see is a dirty dog.” Pam shrugged and walked on.
“You know what? We should get a dog when we get back to the states. A dog can be a great companion to you while I’m at the studio. A puppy. Our first little bambino,” Harry called. Pam, who was now several feet ahead, pretended she didn’t hear him.
It was then Harry began to suspect that Pam was not a dog person.
Harry sipped his water as he reminisced. As long as he was drinking something he looked as though he belonged in the lobby lounge of the Four Seasons. Hell, he did belong there. A few years ago Harry could have easily afforded the seventeen dollar glasses of wine. A few years ago he would have had two or three without giving price a second thought. That was before the TV show he was writing got canceled, and he’d squandered their small fortune on vanity projects and bad investments.
Just then, Catherine entered and began moving toward him. She was a stylish woman in a gray pinstripe pants suit that Harry knew was very expensive. She was smiling. It was a triumphant smile. Her stride was triumphant as well which caused Harry’s heart to flutter.
Don’t get your hopes up, Harry. They’ve been dashed before. Just because she’s smiling doesn’t mean she’s going to tell you the network picked up your pilot, so calm the fuck down and smile back.
Harry pushed a smile onto his lips, and as he did, Catherine’s smile widened. She seemed downright giddy. Harry’s palms began to sweat. It was then he allowed himself to think that maybe the worst was behind them.
If Catherine was about to tell him his pilot was going to series, he could pay down the debt on his credit cards. They’d been forced to live off Harry’s credit cards the past several months, although he mentioned none of this to Pam. If his pilot went to series he could catch up on the mortgage payments and save the house—something else he hadn’t bothered to burden Pam with. Harry also thought that if his pilot went to series he could afford Queenie. He realized then, he was still thinking about the mechanical dog.
*
One week to the day later, Harry walked back into the store that sold the mechanical dogs. He told himself he was there merely as a curiosity, but he knew better. His TV series about space pirates had been picked up for ten episodes. He’d been paid handsomely for the pilot, and money for the episodes would soon be flowing like river water. His life—their lives—had been saved, and Harry wanted to celebrate. He deserved a special treat for pulling their asses out of the fire.
When Archibald saw Harry walking through the door, he smiled his salesman’s smile. “Just the man I’ve been looking for,” he said. “I have a little friend who’s dying to meet you,” he added.
“I told you, I don’t want a mechanical dog,” Harry responded, even though he’d already come up with the spiel—or flat out lie, if he was being honest with himself—to Pam on why he’d come home with a robot dog.
“I know, I know,” Archibald said. “But she’s here. You may as well meet her.”
“Okay, sure,” Harry said, hoping he sounded uninterested. His palms were perspiring again.
The man went into the back, and Harry quickly ran through all the reasons not to buy the dog no matter how cute it was: 1) If he ever did get a dog, he wanted a real dog. 2) The fake dog was expensive, costing nearly half of what he earned for the pilot. 3) This was not the type of purchase you sprang on your unsuspecting family. A juicer, a new exercise bike, tickets to Legoland—these were the kinds of things you came home with unexpectedly, not a dog. And the most obvious reason: 4) Pam was not a dog person.
After several minutes, Archibald came out. “Come on, Queenie,” he called over his shoulder in a sweet, coaxing tone.
A dog trotted out behind him. A small, fuzzy dog with floppy ears. She wasn’t the spitting image of Queenie (Queenie was darker in color and a few pounds heavier), but the differences were slight. This dog could have been Queenie’s cousin, sister, even.
“I… You,” the words got caught in Harry’s throat. “Mechanical dog?” he finally managed to say.
“Amazing, isn’t it? I told you. Modern robo
tics.” Archibald was smiling that smile again.
Harry didn’t mind the smile this time. The dog’s coat was smooth and shiny, as if she’d just been given a good grooming. Her eyes were sparkling as well. He stooped. “Come’ere, girl,” he called gently. “Come on, Queenie.” The dog trotted cautiously over, sniffed and then licked his fingers. He noticed a slight stiffness in the little dog’s gait as she moved, yet aside from that there was no way he could tell Queenie wasn’t real.
He picked her up and she looked at him, head cocked to the side, tongue lolling, panting.
“Her eyes. It’s like she’s actually looking at me,” Harry said.
“In a sense she is. The computer is studying you, learning your voice, your inflections, everything about you. Remember, she’s programmed to be the perfect dog.”
“She does seem perfect,” Harry said in awe. He was giggling, giggling like a child as Queenie licked his face. It was as if he were eight-year-old Harry all over again, and this was his second chance: a new lease on life for him and Queenie. He wouldn’t blow it this time. He noted as she licked his face that her tongue wasn’t moist. It was dry and soft like kid leather.
“Just one caution. When the battery is drained, do not overcharge her. Charge her overnight and then take your K9-233 off the charger at once. If the battery gets too much juice it’ll boil over. Once that happens you’ll have to get a new one, and a new battery costs half as much as a new dog. Very expensive.
“But aside from that, the battery should last a good five years, and Queenie will last a lifetime. With the K9-233s, dog owners no longer have to watch their dogs grow old and go blind, limping around from bad hips until they need to be put down. Queenie will never need to be put down. Queenie will outlive you and your entire family.”
*
Pam was in the kitchen when Harry arrived home with Queenie in his arms. He’d tied a big red bow around the dog’s neck. She looked adorable, coat shining, eyes shining. Still, when he walked into the kitchen carrying Queenie there was a false smile on his face.