The Great Escape; February 13, 2009

I knew the friend was coming in the morning and I knew Mook A would let me go down to greet her. What they didn't know is that I had been planning this for three days and they expected nothing; I could tell because when Mook A opened the door, he and the friend yelled in horror as I bolted.

Off I ran with cries of, "Léo! Léo!" becoming ever more frantic (and fainter) behind me.

Off across a street where traffic was light. Off across the main shopping street. Off across another one-lane street. Off across a four-lane thoroughfare. Running and jumping and dancing and stopping from time to time to sniff another dog or evade someone who thought I was lost or some collaborator who was trying to prevent my escape.

Now the voices in the distance were mournful. But what was to stop me? I still have the bright red wound between my legs, a collar around my neck and—Jesus H. Christ!—they've put one of those faggy foulards on me that all the other dogs laugh at!

Off west, this time—block after block after block and then...there she was...my ruin; my downfall; my femme fatale.

One thing you should know: just because you don't have balls doesn't mean you don't want to hump something. So I followed the bitch home. Her slavemaster let me. I even followed the lovely-haired madonna/whore into her house and, slam, I was caught. 

My dick had done it to me again, goddammit! And sure enough, 20 minutes later, Mook B appeared. There is some nasty network among them where all dogs belong to everyone and all of them squeal on all the other dogs. It's fascism and we are the oppressed.

All the way home, on a leash, I was angry. All the way home Mook B was weeping. When I got home, though, Mook A shouted at me, "You little bastard!" 

But his eyes were red too. Well lick my empty scrotum both of you. (Except you might like that!)