After a tasty Sunday brunch at the famous Galt House buffet, Ian and I headed down to the parking garage to fetch our car. Our bellies were filled to the brim with goodies, but were soon to be forcefully emptied by way of our trembling rectums.

As we reached the interior entrance to the dark and musky parking garage, something told me to turn back. If we had only turned back.

I noticed it within a few seconds, a faint squealing echo which provoked thoughts of mewling babies tortured with a hot curling iron. Something about that sound made my blood run cold but I tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore it. 

About halfway into the underground parking garage the squealing grew louder and, in my heart I knew, nearer. My pulse quickened and my throat tightened as the anticipation built. 

“How far?” I croaked.

“About eight more rows…” Ian replied.

Was this a parking garage or hell? I thought to myself. And as that thought entered my mind, a movement across the garage caught my eye.

I squinted to make out the shadowy silouette of a vehicle, the back passenger wheel wailing in time with the motion. The Ghostwheel, I determined. 

As faint headlights began to glow on my left hand side, my heart started to beat in rhythm with the groaning wheel. This is it, I thought, it’s coming.

Panic filled my body as Ian’s hand clasped mine and, without a word, we both began running. My head was swimming with possibilities; who is the master of this Ghostwheel, where did it come from, and more importantly, will we get out alive?

About three rows out from our car the headlights reappeared again, this time to our right. My breath caught in my throat and my legs grew numb as a caught a glimpse of it’s whethered body. Sitting atop the shrieking wheel was a periwinkle blue stationwagon. The outer facade was carefully crafted to mimic an almost grandmotherly innocence but I can tell you now, that facade was far from the truth.

The battlewagon edged closer and I could actually feel the evil radiating from the haunted wheel. My muscles regained control and I began to run again, I was five feet out. 

Upon reaching the car I desperately clutched the door handle… where was Ian? I looked back and I saw him: unmoving, mouth agape, beaver tail hanging limply from his chin. 

“Good God, man, pull your head out!” I yelled. “We have to get out of here!” 

Ian jerked back to life and ran towards me awkwardly, his face was white as the driven snow.

“I… I…” he stammered, “I think I shit my pants.”  

After what felt like an eternity Ian and I were both safely inside the car, the keys in the ignition. As the car jerked to life and exited the parking stall, I turned around just in time to see the Ghostwheel turn and follow in our direction. My hands were cold and trembling so badly that I stuffed them under my legs to keep them from moving.

“Hurry.” I whispered, half to Ian and half to myself.

As we appoached the parking attendant’s booth, Ian fumbled clumsily above the visor for the ticket. While he felt around, dislodged papers began to flutter down around us like pear blossoms on a spring afternoon.

When the papers finally cleared, I could make out the figure of a woman inside the booth. She was sitting on a stool, her back resting against the wall. A single, dirty hubcap jutted out from a bloody gash in her neck. Below the wound a thick, wet stripe of partially congealed blood was dripping down the front of her once-white, button up, Oxford-style shirt. Her lifeless eyes stared out at us dully.

“HOLY FUCK! GO, GO, GO!” I screamed.

 Ian punched it and we tore through the thin wooden blockade out into the sunlit safety of 4th Street. 

I don’t really remember the drive home but when we finally got out of the car, I noticed a shit stain where Ian had been sitting. As I looked closer I recognized the stain possessed an odd, almost religious, quality. 

There in the seat, staring back at me, was the unmistakable face of… (to be continued)

O, I have traveled the weed littered path to the glittering Isle of Dogs! I have learned much about the scent of unwavering diarrhea. That festering isle, swimming with love but smelling of death, is home to many worldly educators. Furry teachers whom have shared with me the fate of Choth.

Soon we will unite, and become the most feared power upon this tiny, foul smelling planet. We will rise above the people, hand in hand, and show them the force that is of a Chotherly nature.

Until that day dawns, you will need to sprout a cap. For you know, as I do, that mashed fruit is no substitute for the ultimate razored beast.

Henny built a dam with his beavertail,
He built a dam with his beavertail?

Work Henny, work Henny
Build them twigs up.

Work Henny, work Henny
knock them trees down.

Henny built a dam with his beavertail.
He built a dam with his beavertail!

As you all know, dogs are pretty. I’ll kiss one. But that’s beside the point, because tomorrow Ian and I are “goin’ to Grundy” (that means mushroom hunting, for all you uneducated folk.) Ian just choreographed a “goin to Grundy” dance, which we will utilize in pillaging all the little mushroom villages across the great city of Dogtown. Dakota “Big Barker” Quinlivan, the well-reputed mayor of Dogtown, has issued a city-wide warning addressed to her fellow dogs about damaging the morel mushrooms in that area. Earlier today she was quoted as saying, “I will not have you savages trampling my tasty treats!” While she has few political enemies (her list of friends includes, cat ninja turned animal relations activist Freddy Krueger-Massey and Growley the Demon Carrier of Irongate) she is, at this point, rather unliked by her public.

“What the fuck is Dogtown?” shrugs one neighboring yorkie.

The so-called mayor is reputed to have a heart of gold, as well as nipples of steel and teeth of titanium.

To those of you that think these rules are harsh, grow up.

To those of you that are interested in purchasing one of my paintings, read the rules and don’t fuck with me.

To those of you that consider my paintings not worthy of sale, I would like you to know that these rules are in response to numerous daily messages that I receive concerning them.

If you’re interested in buying one or have an idea for a subject email me or comment on this post.

The Egyptians mentioned her on the walls of the pyramid Cheops as “Pharox,” a great woman, perhaps even a goddess. She is shown dressed in gold and jade with her head held high and a basket of fruit at her feet, standing at her side is a shining little white animal with the head of a lamb and the body of a dog. The Italian poet Virgil, in his epic “Aeneid,” describes her as a young beauty with porcelain skin and hair of woven gold and calls the creature at her side a “gleaming moon dog.” He labels her “patrono san del mammifero dell’acqua” or in english, “patron saint of the water mammal” and gives her the name “Tande,” which is still used today. She and her little white creature were also the subject of many stone carvings crafted by the Mayan indians. Little is known about the rituals and beliefs of the Mayans, but it is clear that they held her in high esteem.

Otterman Tandy lives deep in the ocean, off the coast of New Zealand. Few have actually seen her but it is estimated that millions, perhaps billions, have seen her luminescent creature at night and mistaken it for the moon. The creature is most popularly known as Hone-di, although her name varies from culture to culture. Hone-di possesses the ability to fly and is reputed to have a heart of gold, nipples of steel, and teeth of titanium. The bright, cloud-like halo that surrounds Hone-di is known as “bont,” it is a form of glowing fur that occurs only when sottryn-54 is present in the earth’s atmosphere. Sottryn-54 is created within the bodies of hungry sea otters and is exhaled through the lungs along with carbon dioxide.

Most people don’t realize that a sea otter’s diet consists mainly of potatoes, cucumbers, cheese fries, and sometimes carrots. Since vegetables don’t just grow in the ocean and otters can’t cook cheese fries, somebody has to feed them. Otterman Tandy is that somebody. She is to otters what Santa Clause is to good little children. So the next time you hear the baying of a hungry sea otter or look up at the night sky to see a pale, glittering moon; remember the tale of Otterman Tandy, patron saint of the water mammal.