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lance manion (con’t), big d., matt staley. and rub his belly and then dodge his two powerful robot legs as they flailed around). Eventually we learned all we could about the mistakes made on Pud and it was time to put him down. So I took him home with me. Talk all you want about your purebreds, there wasn’t a more expensive dog in my neighborhood. Of course, there were a few adjustments I needed to make in my formerly-playboy-scientist lifestyle. Like scheduling walks for instance. If I have plans for after dinner I need to make sure I start his walk before noon. On the weekends I like to take him down to the park. I bring a Frisbee and give it a good hurl and then retreat beneath a tree with some shade where I can read for the remainder of the day. Sometimes Pud will get back to me with the Frisbee, other times I see it’s getting dark and go collect him en route. Sitting there with all the other proud dog owners, occasionally someone will ask me “Which one’s yours?” to which I will proudly point to any other dog in the area as Pud lays on his side nearby trying to get back to his feet. Does he make a mess when he tries to eat or drink? Yes. Yes he does. Does he end up covered in his own feces whenever he tries to go to the bathroom? Of course he does. Would I trade him for anything in the world? Nope. Not for six million dollars. Or even a penis the size of a whale’s.

Every Sunday Afternoon By: Big D.

I’m crossing the street now I hope a car doesn’t hit me For it could bruise and kabitz me

Twenty-Two By: Matt Staley

Inside this pen, I stroll around as a member of the heard. With every pass through the maze, I come closer to the end, to my escape. After the final transit grasping at my last pieces of treasure, I turn towards the heard, all waiting. Looking out I see a sea of technology; I canvas the landscape scanning for the quickest path only to discover darkness against the metal sky. A few dim flames flicker and dance on the roof from atop metal poles, and the herd flocks like moths to a porch light. As if cows in a slaughterhouse, each lines up behind the next. I don’t have a choice. I must join them. As I inch closer, the landscape changes. Guarding the exits are hateful hyenas that abhor the world, and each one of us, of the heard, sweats horror. We are all seen as potential prey for the cackling beasts. Instinctively, we gamble with our treasures hoping to pass through undetected, unmolested. The heard is massive, and the line is long. I’m at the back, but as each of my brothers pass through, I inch closer to the laughing mutts. Each with their beady glowing eyes and tongues circling their chops trying to keep in the drool. Dismissing the rest of the herd, I find my spot and lie low. I pray if I look down with my eyes submissive and away from the ravenous hellhound, she will not notice and let me pass. Each of the prey ahead of me passes. One by one, they push through without so much as a glance back at those still left behind. My comrades in the heard shrink and vanish like ships slipping off the horizon: their liberation achieved. My heart races with fear and hope to get out. Time stops; my vision tunnels. Finally, I’m next. The jackal’s demon eyes are right on my treasures and me. I can sense the impending pounce; I know I’m dead already. In a devil’s grin, she brings her fangs to bear in a sinister smile. It speaks to me my song of death. “I’m sorry, sir. This isle is for twenty items or less. You’ll have to move to a different line.”

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Profile for Chris Talbot-Heindl

The Bitchin' Kitsch October 2013 issue  

The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open...

The Bitchin' Kitsch October 2013 issue  

The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open...

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