Very Bad Dogs

Here’s some more for the x-files.

The short story in the post just below was drafted in my head back in 2010. I checked out several books from the Minneapolis library on the subject of werewolves. The plan was to write several short stories and compile them under one cover entitled Very Bad Dogs.

Though the original idea was to tell the story of three radicals who drive an entire village insane using the same substance (ergot) to do so, I had never heard of Pont-Saint-Esprit and certainly had no idea that the US Army and CIA had actually done something similar in the 1950s.

Could be the idea came from initially the strange gypsy woman I saw staring at me in horror on the streets of Toronto just two days before the start of the Watts trial.

But I doubt it.

After checking out the books from the library and starting taking notes in preparation for writing, a couple more strange things happened.

First, due to my hair falling out in clumps the Wednesday morning before the sentencing hearing in April 2010, I bought three items that were for hair restoration. It worked, just not on my scalp but everywhere else. I believe my ex noted and acknowledged this on his visit later in the year: I had grown a considerable amount of hair.

Previous to that sad reunion, not long after checking the books out, one night I heard what sounded like werewolf sex or someone f***ing a dog right over my head in the apartment above. I now believe this was projected sound (that apartment above just had too many weird things happen, though the fight resulting in throwing things out the window that same summer was clearly not virtual).

Next, there was a group of people the night following playing the recording of Fido taking it like a man, who walked by laughing and howling. I reckon this was our clearly overpaid and under-intelligent members of Top Secret America. Hey, you gotta throw those tax dollars away somehow!

And, of course, as previously noted, there was the Great Werewolf Robbery of Port Huron where—exactly one year to the day of the events on the bridge from Port Huron to Sarnia, the juror who wrote a letter on the behalf of Peter Watts found herself and her son in legal jeopardy when a schoolmate of her son’s came over to visit, played some video games, left, and glued fur to his face and committed some robberies. He was caught and claimed that the juror and her son “made” him do it. Even stranger, the St. Clair County prosecutors office seemed to be taking it seriously. (Recall the part in the story where Mortime says he was trained to start squabbles and wars. Clearly what’s been happening).

So, between that and the other plethora of harassment events, attempts to weaponize me, the ongoing torture sessions, and the general destruction of whatever it was I once referred to as “my life,” I put the werewolf project on hold. Obviously, since then I have learned a great deal more about our greatest threat to national security, so the emphasis in the story (originally intended to focus on the villagers dealing badly with a werewolf threat with a short reveal of how it was arranged) to focus on the three agents provocateur.

It probably wouldn’t have been as harsh, either, but that’s the result of being gang mindraped repeatedly and coming to the realization that it doesn’t matter who you turn to, there is no help to be had, just more getting f***ed over, because the “bad guys” are so much smarter than the “good guys” (is there a better generic way to put that?).

But the interference with my First Amendment rights to free speech doesn’t end there. No.

I started typing the story (including the title, a reference to MacBeth’s speech) several days ago, and I got this text (the partially obscured portion in white, the green is my reply) the following day or day after that.

Additionally, as I was putting the “finishing touches” on the story (in quotes because it still needs a lot of work and I know there are anachronisms; couldn’t be helped, story/not historically-driven), I also got one from my son asking one of those riddles about asking invisible parrots which door leads to Heaven, which to Hell. (I say waterboard the little feathered f***ers until they say what I want to hear).

Now, unless and until someone shows where the tachyon receptors are inside the human brain AND proves the voice-to-skull/Frey effect/microwave auditory effect cannot work, I’m going with these being veiled threats against my nephew and son via that technology, additional mindf***s emanating from dangerously unhinged minds.

(Further, just so people are clear, these a**holes have made it clear to me that it doesn’t matter what I do, they will not stop. There is no, “stop talking about it and they will leave you alone.” No, live and let live. Doesn’t work that way. As I read somewhere not too long ago, sometimes it takes the smart kids a long time to pick up on that, given the opportunity, the bullies will try it again).

(Finally, off topic, I neglected to mention that I updated the About page. That sums it up. The fiction on this site is clearly tagged. The Black Boot Diaires stuff actually happened.)



  1. […] evening in mid-October, about thirteen months after the peculiar outbreak at Pont-St.-Esprit, the young artist went into Paris to meet a friend at the Café Select. They were soon joined by […]

  2. […] more thing. Note some of the wording here. I’m not clear on the timeline with that other thing, but I posted that before I knew […]

  3. […] evening in mid-October, about thirteen months after the peculiar outbreak at Pont-St.-Esprit, the young artist went into Paris to meet a friend at the Café Select. They were soon joined by […]

  4. […] evening in mid-October, about thirteen months after the peculiar outbreak at Pont-St.-Esprit, the young artist went into Paris to meet a friend at the Café Select. They were soon joined by […]

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