.45 Caliber Headspace

The other day I had the feeling I was being followed on my way home from the massage parlor. I first thought it was the DEA again, but then remembered it was actually the ATF that shot at me last week, so I ducked behind a bush. I wish these two agencies would just merge already so I could stop getting it in both ends, as if I were finger cuffs. I reemerged moments later disguised in a fake mustache and halter-top. There was no sign of the ATF, but a passing yuppie asked me how much for a hand job. I told him it was free and punched two of his teeth out. When I bent down to collect the teeth for a necklace I’m making, I noticed there was really just a tiny dog-like thing following me. I told the thing to go away, but it ignored me and licked my face, so I figured it was a girl. She later confirmed this when she peed on my bed, but I’m getting ahead of you. It’s impossible to get ahead of myself, because I set my own pace.

Since I couldn’t shake her, I started asking the neighborhood Russian mafia if they knew anything about this dog; I was thinking it may have fled Chernobyl. They said they didn’t know for dogs, but were plenty knowledgeable about internet sex slavery, selling “decommissioned” warheads to jealous Muslims, and smuggling conflict diamonds for the De Beers Corporation. I was most interested in the sex slavery, so I gave them a card with my IM screenname and a fifth of vodka laced with mescaline, for goodwill.

I didn’t want the tiny dog-like thing running around in the streets all night with the other homeless trannies, so I put her in my pocket and took her home. I had planned on putting up flyers the next day, but I didn’t get around to it. You would think I have all the time in the world, and you would be right, except I make a habit of always pissing it away. By now she was starting to grow on me too. I was finding it difficult to be my usual jerk self to everyone with this little furball licking my face all the time. The constant excited affection is like having a girlfriend around without all the nagging and cramps—and other things that are better from an Internet sex slave anyway. I had even stopped calling her Yo!, and had now named her .22 Caliber, or Callie for short.

On the third day, while I was chasing Callie down the street, a neighbor told me she had seen a sign for that dog in the nearby park. Though I was happy I didn’t have to put up signs myself, I knew this meant that our time together as varying-size bullet diameters had come to an end. I called the number on the sign for the missing dog, “Juicy”, and packed her toothbrush for a return trip home. When the chick came to pick up “Juicy”, she offered me a reward. I told her that wasn’t necessary and that I was just happy to have found her owner. I lied (about being happy). But otherwise, as Billy Crudup always says, returning a tiny dog to a very grateful chick: priceless. This just gives you good chick karma. She insisted, though, and handed me a C-Note. Returning a tiny dog to a very grateful chick: $100. What can I say? This would buy me at least a few Perfect 10 Model Boxing DVDs.