“California, man.”

“Double-you tee-eff, mate.”

“You know, like as in California.”

‘I assume you mean Karli-For-Nyah’ I retort with a rather poor impression of a certain governmental figure.

“Uh, yeah man. That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Yeah and  I meant, what the fuck are you on about.”

“Uh, I dunno. Sound like a rad place to visit I guess. Saw an ad for it somewhere.”

My friend and I continued this stop-start (stop with the coherence, start with the nonsense) conversation for a little over a minute while we ambled slowly along the outskirts of the local shopping centre, leads in hand and dogs on leads. We paused momentarily to lift my mate’s dog ‘Pepsi’ into an abandoned shopping trolley, since the rabid wolf-beast always seems to get a kick out of that kind of random madness.

‘I bet she could be the governor of California.’ My friend continues with a smirk warbling across his face, barely perceptible through that heinous Jesus-style beard that materialises only on a long-weekend.

“Who?”

“Pepsi…. My dog goddammit.”

“Really…” I pause momentarily to consider the pre-requisites for that level of involvement in state operations. “Does she go to the gym often?”

“Nope. I tie her up outside sometimes though. You know, just to watch the odd beef-freak on the way to their car, jump out of their wife-beater singlet when she sneaks up from behind.”

“I don’t think that counts, man.”

“But look at her; she’s definitely been hooking steroids. She out of control!” my friend replies. We both chuckle, turning to look at the black and grey-faced half-breed, its tongue darting from its wiry chops like a fleshy lobster bib or some such. I ponder on this for a moment. I bet even Hannibal Lector can't get through four cans of 'Chum' as fast as this monster. I mean, that shit is chunky...

Now, I’m the first to admit that random fits of hallucinatory perception are not out of the ordinary for myself, although my mate Blue is a fairly straight-laced kind of guy. We both watch in anticipation as Pepsi barks at one of the regular beef-freaks leaving the gym across the road, towel in hand and his torn Rammstein concert t-shirt soaked with perspiration from hours of machine-induced exertion. Meat-head Bruce makes a nervous turn towards his car door. The dog issues a second warning, although possibly only in my own head...

She turns toward us, pinning me with her burning-furniture eyes. Ears perked like knives dipped in black paint.

“Sergio Manwualez, come with me if you want to live!”

[11 Minutes. To be continued?]

[Image by CLG]