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Injun

Injun

There are two types of dogs in this world. The friendly ones you see about your every neighbourhoods.

And the other kind.

I used to have this friend back in school who longed for nothing more than his own, pet pooch.

He was borderline obsessive when it came to dogs. When he saw one in the street, he’d run to greet it. If the opportunity to talk about one of those little mutts presented itself, he’d take over the conversation and steer it towards that end.

The kid would hound his dad day and night to let him have one. The more he went on about it, the more his father’s resistance waned, until inevitably – the old man returned home one afternoon with a waif and stray he’d found out on the prairie.

At first, my buddy was as happy as happy can be with new companion.

After all – it was all the little fucker ever talked about.

But as time passed by and the reality of the dog’s primitive nature became apparent, my young associate soon came to realise that not all dogs were the perfect little tail-waggers he first imagined them to be.

You know something, Spirit Walker? When I look at you I can’t help but think of my old pal’s feral fucking bow wow.

Just like that abandoned mongrel his pops found out in the pastures that day, your kind roam the wilderness of the land like a pack of untamed wolves

Enrobed in your faggot skirts and feathery fucking crowns, you scale the savanna – beating your chests and barking at one another like a horde of queers all trying to be crowned queen bee on Ru Paul’s Drag Race.

Your kind know nothing of benevolence, of culture, of decency, and when you’re thrust into the throws of a civilised community – the tameless dispositions that precede you stick out like a bunch of sore fucking thumbs.

For dog’s like you and your species, there can be only one way to deal with you.

When that little pal of mine came to realise he’d bitten off more than he could chew with that old dog of his – he knew what had to be done.

And come O-S-Dub Forever, Tommy, ol’ Viper Roberts promises to hand your ass the same grizzly end.

You see, when that wide-eyed acquaintance of mine came face to face with a wild animal – he wanted no further part of the deal.

Those cute little doggies he saw in a previous light went out the fucking window and he pleaded with his pops for that four-legged bastard to be gone.

On Saturday night, live and for the final time, history repeats itself.

The Head Snake will put a muzzle on you and lead you down the garden path, son.

He’ll tie you to the nearest lamppost, take a page out of your book, and piss on you like the dog you are.

Why?

Because you’re nothing but a fucking animal, Injun.

And come Forever…

It’s time to put the animal down.