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[MM] Señor
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About Dabs

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  • Birthday 10/01/92

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    LMFAO i watched this
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  9. Oomf

    Part 1: The Dogscape I awaken. I don't know it at the moment, but this day marks my fourth straight year of existing in the dogscape. I push myself up from the carpet of writhing, twitching dogflesh beneath me and rise to my feet, stretching in the morning sun. It took me a while to learn to balance on the layer of solid dogs that now blankets every inch of solid ground, but nowadays I can walk and run as easily and as fast as I ever did on soil or concrete. perhaps faster... This was a city once, I think, though which one I can't remember. I only owe my guess to the massive pillars of dogs jutting into the sky, perhaps ancient buildings now completely filled and overgrown by canine biomatter. I climbed one once, sinking my fingers and toes deep into the dogwall to gain purchase, and after hours and hours of climbing was rewarded with an incredible vista - fur and eyes, panting tongues and wagging tails, hugging the contours of the once-barren land and stretching in a single aeomebic mass farther than the eye can see. Now I don't do that, though. Now I merely go about my day. I hike to the Gardens, where the dogplants sprout up in bizarre shapes from the floor of the dogscape, and reach up to pluck the fetal puppyfruits right off the wagging, energetic branches. I bite into the succulent flesh, the juices dribbling down my chin and dripping down to be reabsorbed by the groundflesh, and revel in the savory taste. I'm thirsty, so I range until I find one of the Mothermounds, and there I suckle at a teatpatch until I've had my fill of milk. Sometimes I see other humans around me, as well-adapted to the dogscape as I am, but I barely acknowledge them, say nothing. What, after all, is there to say? The world is different now - what meaning would our old words have? Free-ranging dogs are becoming rarer and rarer to see now, and those I do see seem as lost, as passive as I am. They too graze on the dogplants, step carefully over the undulating, bleeding dogfloor, dimly acknowledge myself and one another. In the distant sky, and on the far horizon, I sometimes see massive forms sail or crawl or undulate, and I wonder if in this new world normal, singular, ambulatory dogs have become as obsolete as I am. I dug down once. down beneath the dogs. Beneath the hair and the ears and the barking. It was hard, and took a lot of planning - I had to destroy one of the dogtrees with my hands, rip out the twisted, yards-long communal spines that served them as branches and lash them together with tendons and skin. But soon I had tools - pitchforks, spears, shovels. I picked a spot where the dogfloor seemed shallower and set to work. The blood started spurting when my spear first broke the surface, and didn't stop for hours and hours and hours. I was drenched in gore and viscera, covered in flecks of bone and meat and brain. but I learned to ignore the sickening squelching sounds, ward off the smell, and just kept going deeper and deeper, spearing and levering out dogs of stranger and stranger size and build, dogs with two heads, dogs with human hands, dogs with writhing tentacles where their back legs should be. Eventually I came to the end of the dogs. or perhaps the beginning of whatever lies beyond dogs. An expanse of multicolored, patchwork fur that extended as far as I could dig in any direction. I could pierce it with great difficulty but it barely bled, and try as I might I could only barely peel the skin away, revealing a layer of striated greyish muscle beneath. It started to tremble as I watched it, shaking the very dogmatter around me, and I realized that the dogscape was beginning to regenerate itself, close in over me, seal me in - so I fled, climbing back up into the light. The stream trickled warmly past the black leathery edges of the puppy mouth stream. The saliva waters churned as they flowed from the bed of the stream lined with the ever-lapping tongues of eager greeting puppies. To feel a rock on the shore is to find sharp milk teeth of weened dogs, cast to the tufts of mange weeds growing into spits and bank. The head of the stream is split by a single mound of golden fur. Like an upholstered boulder set with a large golden eye that swerves to see passing visitors. The waters will bubble and froth should the eye see you. The tongues lapping nervous loving greetings with gurgled yips. The Dogscape. That's what we call it. Us humans that banded together, I mean. We sit around campfires and cook the whelps we collect from the dogtrees. The only flammable material we have is the acrid fur that grows everywhere. It offends all senses, but soon the meal is prepared. The only food sources are the dogtrees and the mothermounds. Some foolish enough dig for meat. Though the reward is great, many don't come back, for the dogflesh regrows above them, trapping them inside the moist ground. Primitive tools are forged from bones and leather, such as shovels and knives and clothes. I have lived here for as long as I can remember. There are faint shimmers of the time before the Dogflesh, but what use is there dwelling on the past when it cannot fill our stomachs in the present? I am our tribe's scribe. My name is Dok. I used to have a real name, but it escapes my memory. I record all of our findings and knowledge in my leather pages, using dog blood as ink. There were times when there were more of us. The tribe started with as many as sixty people. Now, our numbers are as few as twenty. Our leader is Keef. He instructs us to find food, build shelter, and bring fire. He abuses his power, taking five wives and eating more than his share of the food, but those who speak against him meet death in the night. It is hellish, but there is no other choice. Without guidance, we will die out here, so we must remain under his leadership. I had a dog right after the dogscape happened. His name was Carl, he always followed me around. When I was almost dead from starving, he got me dogfruits. When I was dying of thirst, he held milk in his mouth and got it to me. One day his foot got stuck in a mouth and I couldn't get him out so I watched while it swallowed him. A few years later when I went back, Carl was right there but he was stretched out and I went to pet him, except it wasn't him and he bit me and wouldn't let go. I wonder if people can be part of the dogscape too? I miss Carl. Part 2: The Cold Dogscape It's cold here. Jets of moist breathe dot the landscape amid undulating hills. There are no proper dog trees, only short piles of huddling dog limbs. Teats are few and far between, and when I find one I must work to coax the milk into a skin bladder. I move across the hills, my feet numb through the shoes I have fashioned. I move in the direction that seems easiest, a subtle and mangy slope that I only just noticed was guiding my path in a general downhill fashion. Where there is fur it is thick and rancid with matted oil. I don't know why The Mother does what it does, but all of her fruits have their uses. I hack at a fur clump, separating it from the flesh below. There is only a little blood from a grazed skin tag. I fold and shape the waxy fur onto the insulating hairy coverings on my body. The dogflesh rumbles beneath me in a more than disconcerting way. It has been doing that for the past several weeks, moreso the further I have traveled. It is getting colder. I can hear only the wind now, tearing across The Mother. The howls, warbling and mournful, have stopped. The sharp barks and yips no longer form a background cacophony. I huddle into my coverings, and shoulder ahead. I have no path to follow but forward. The ground feels harder here. The gentle give of the dogland has ceased, giving way to a dull sound absorbing thud of matted fur. I slipped yesterday on what seemed to be a lake of solid p**s. It was not reabsorbing into The Mother. My own shivering seems to syncopate with the occasional rumbles of The Mother. Her flesh no longer seems like a living being, but I know that deep within her the blood flows. It is so cold here. I continue forward every day. The ground slopes more, and I struggle to sleep in a forgiving skin fold. There is no purpose but to move forward now. One foot in front of the other. It has been dark for as long as I can remember. How long will this night last? The air is dry. The land is mostly featureless and hard as I walk. The wind blows clumps of brittle hair across my face, and they hurt. A soft pop, a subtle blue flash, and then they blow past me. My hands are deep within my coverings. They are numb, and if I expose them to ward off the shocks then the cold will take them from me. I have already lost three toes. I can no longer feel that foot. I no longer bother to light fires in the deep crooks where I sleep, but the last I saw of that foot it was black and swollen. It felt like it was burning My travel is slow. I have heard soft subtle tapping sounds, but when I investigate I find only dog claws moving against the ground. The rumbles have continued, and with them now come subtle rending sounds, like a mouth chewing on a bone. When the sounds intensify I move faster. I don't know what causes them, but I do not think it is The Mother. I have not found any teats in a long time. I am thirsty, and my skin bladder is almost empty. I would kill my own parents for a fresh puppy fetus. I passed a small pile of humans, almost buried in billowing dried fur. They were dead and dessicated. They looked like they were strong when they lived. I keep moving. There is only the road ahead of me. I do not know what it leads to. The ground shifted beneath my feet, and I pissed in fear. Not a mouth, but a great hard chasm of flesh and bone had torn open beneath me. A stinking humid burst of air bellowed out, then hung in a cold cloud around me. On my ***, I peered into the gloomy hole that had nearly swallowed me, but it was now still. I sat and contemplated it, breathing heavily, and thought of my empty skin bladders. Slowly, I could hear sounds several dozen feet below me start to play and echo in the cleft. A soft slapping. Then a gurgle. I don't know how, but I knew that this was my chance for sustenance. I slid into the meaty maw. I climbed down a shorn slab of giant ribs, still red and moist, and finally landed on the steaming dark floor of the hole. It writhed beneath my feet. I felt around, not knowing what I was looking for, when my hands fell upon a thumping tube set into the meat wall. An artery. I grabbed it, pulling at connective flesh, and then bit at it. The blood shot out in spurts, and I drank my fill. I was covered in viscera. I struggled to fill my skin bladders. The cleft shuddered around me, and I knew I must leave it immediately. The walls were starting to hang tendrils of meat, feelers, to heal this damaged canyon. I exhausted myself climbing out, and nearly feel back in as I crested the edge of the crack, out into the cold night. The dog flesh slowly mended behind me as I panted on the hard ground. Before I left it, I considered it, and cataloged it. A stretch mark. The Mother was still growing. I am so weak, and it is so cold. My filled bladders of blood are gone, and the gray dogscape stretches before me. I must make it to my goal, but I do not know what my goal is. I have walked for what seems like months in the darkness. I climb down a huge mass of frigid dog flesh. It is like a great heap of small dogs, a pile of dog heads and legs, a mound of tails and torsos. It is cold and lifeless. A slow, low creaking can be heard deep within it. I grip an ear and lower myself to the bottom of the wall of dog. And my foot lands on something else. I gasp, then get caught in a fit of coughing. I don't know what I am standing on, but it is not The Mother. I feel queasy, nauseous. What could possibly be not The Mother? It's frigid and hard, but I scrape at it and bits of dandery coldness come up off of it. I hold them close to my face and my breath turns the stuff to water. I try to eat a handful of it, but it is so cold that it robs me of almost all of my remaining energy. The moisture trickles down my throat. It is good. I look behind me at the dog wall, with its exposed frozen bones and happy looking faces, then ahead of me at the featureless dark. I am too far gone to turn back now. I continue walking for hours, then sleep, then I walk more. My footsteps are leaden. Finally, ahead of me, I see light. I make my way towards it, slowly, over the course of several hours. It is a beacon to me now. A bright glowing steady fire. As I approach I see that the guiding light stands on a pole before a series of low dark structures. They are like solid walls of bone, but not. They are not of dogflesh. The billowing hair and cold dandery water pile against the sides. I know that this is what I was destined for. At one end, near the light, is a dark panel set into the wall. On it are markings placed their by some person's hand, but I do not know what they say. "AIS-1" and "ENTRANCE". I shoulder against the panel, but it barely shudders. I try again, and again. I am renewed with purpose by the discovery of this place, but I am weak from my travel. I lean my back to the panel and slide down it, exhausted. My back catches against a low bar set into the panel, pushes it down, and then clicks. The panel gives way and I fall into the darkness within. I am in a small dark, dry cave. It is alien to me. The wind blows debris and fur into the room with me. I look around. Strange dark masses seem to leer at me. There are soft white skins hanging on the wall, and more of the unusual markings everywhere. "Procedure List:" and "KEEP CLOSED" and "Warning" and "Wear Radio At All Times". A bright red cylinder with yellow stripes is inside a small box. I reach for it but my hands scramble against a clear covering across the entrance to the box. I look at my hands now. They are purple, and I can not feel them anymore. Another panel is on the opposite wall, like the one I had opened. I move towards it feebly. I am so cold. I pull on the handle set into the panel, but it does not move. A small red light flashes above it. I pull harder, but it does not move. I pull again, jumping, but lose my balance, and lurch to the ground. I smack my head with a dull thud. The cold is blowing in fiercely from the opening behind me. I scrape against the hard panel, but it will not move. More markings adorn it. "Close Outer Door First". I do not understand them. I sit against the panel. My vision is blurry, and a trickle of my own blood seeps across my eye. I go to sleep there, leaning against the dark doorway. I sleep and do not wake up. Epilogue "My name is Charles Mountel, of Arctic Ice Station one. The abomination is not here, it is too cold. Tigger and I are the last survivors. We are 14 nautical miles South of the North Pole, directly North of Vancouver. Triangulate our position based on this radio signal. This message will repeat in five minutes." The radio broadcast the message again, as it had thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of times. A cold, dead, dessicated body sat huddled before the radio systems in a chair. At its feet lay the curled, dead body of a mutt. END
  10. Wish Us Luck