Dog God

The only thing that Andy Whitman could compare it to was an orgasm, and that disgusted him slightly, and it did because people with "bathroom humor problems" really got on his nerves, to no end. Even though an orgasm was a thing that technically belonged in the bedroom, or a car, or in the woods, on the floor, or in any other part of a building, but because an orgasm happened with the same part from whence a man urinates, typically, it belonged in the bathroom. And certainly not in anybody's mouth. Jeez, that where my pee comes out. I feel back enough sticking it in there. It often had been in the bathroom for Andy, who now was wringing his hands, as he pondered what ought to be changed about himself, his clothes, his name, his facial hair, should he get a haircut if he was going to represent mankind and go and meet face to face with the devil?

Of course he couldn't ask anyone else's opinion, not even the family member who was closest to him, his son Flopo. Flopo, which is an abbreviation for Flower "Power," would not be able to hear something as outrageous as that and give his dad a thumbs up. He would get this mournful, "Oh my God, my dad's crazy" look on his face, because Andy was a Vietnam-war veteran hippie and that spelled fried cerebellum sandwiches for all.

"But only because that was my era," you know, Andy explained once. "I didn't ask to be born during a time when this period in the life of American society would rise up and try to eat everybody's brains -- which the government had a hell of a lot more to do with ... than the Beatles. Hail Mary."

Flopo thought his dad often made good points, and that at times he was brilliant, offering observations about sociology and psychology, being none the worse for wear, being happy enough now so that he can reflect not on the war, never on the war, but on the Sixties as they happened over here. And sometimes Andy was just out of his fucking gourd.

"Just what the hell happened?" Andy said one day to his mother-in-law. "One could say that a million people as one had experienced an orgasm together, as one, which gave rise to the Sixties. The Fifties don't even compare with the Sixties. The Forties, who gives a shit ... it was like a Godzilla movie. But the Fifties and Sixties, when Disney began to be not only in movie theaters and on your new television set at the same time, but Disney was also in your bathtub with you, floating around your privates, and brushing your teeth, and caressing your family jewelettes, in which you used to have an occasional accident. But Mickey and Donald, Minnie, Goofy, Pluto, talking animals except for Pluto, all of them never seemed to mind." Andy believes the denizens of hell will be like that. Andy believes that the Nephilim, the fallen angels, whom Andy believes have never seen an orifice they didn't wish to penetrate, "like a horny worm," have "interbred with one another -- humans, animals, whatever -- to the point that the Egyptian bird-head styled people seemed not only plausible but passe.

In short, Andy believes that the whole Disney franchise, from Oswald to now, has been a tool of the devil to get humanity ready for their new "creators." "Or, sons and daughters of creators, like royalty, which would be like Julie Nixon and David Eisenhower showing up, when their two dads were supposed to have been there." Flopo took his father's observations with a grain of salt. Though he remained on the lookout for a gem, because one would could come flying at you and go right past your head if you weren't thoughtful and paying attention. So, Flopo had taken this one with a grain of salt about the size of a breadbox. What he gathered was that his dad had gone and whipped up the Sixties pastiche as if to say the corporations and the government have been more in bed with one another than the average person realizes, and that this had given rise to those who have naturally risen to leadership positions. And "the highest of the high -- which some people thought for a time could be Regis Philbin --is sitting in the catbird's seat, Andy had explained. "Like a general manager listening to the owner, except the owner of the Mephistopheles Martins has one extra horn than Tommy Steinbrenner."

"George." Flopo knew his baseball. It was the one thing that they shared together where they were on even ground, and it was their favorite thing to do.

Flopo did not disagree with his father on this point. In fact, he thought it was dead on true.

But none of this deterred Andy, who, in his private moments, when he wasn't trying to make Flopo laugh ... was deadly serious, stern, focused, almost like he was a different personality. And he was rich, because of the close proximity of the deaths of this parents and his grandparents. And what Andy had done with the money was build a beautiful but very unusual home, partially beneath ground with giant boulders as part of the house. Flopo loved it. Smoothie hated it. She was cold natured, and the damp conditions made her sick and if not sick, whiny, which is worse. Smoothie's name was the nickname his mom Sue had given Andy, and which she called him for weeks," after she had finally seduced him at Woodstock, crawling through the mud, among tents and lean-tos to find him, cuddled up to a big dog. Neither Flopo nor Smoothie could handle it when their parents blurted out sex stories. Andy's for some reason always involved urinating. Thinking once that Flopo might be getting a little too addicted to online porn, Andy and Sue, at Andy's suggestion, began speaking more openly about their sexual past hoping by grossing Flopo out he would lay off the smut.

This was a private moment for Andy ... and he was in command central, which he called the Pit. It was a room made almost entirely of boulders as they were actually set naturally in the ground, and they had been painted black. Andy had hoped to get his car up the mountain, next to the Pit, so that he could actually drive down from the Pit, instead of having to go through the laundry room, when something big broke in any one of three cities in the Tri-State area in southeastern Tennessee -- unless the Pinscher didn't have use of the Pinmobile, for whatever reason.

To recap the evening thus far and any progress he had made, he pulled out his easel-sized blackboard and, wielding a piece of chalk, and began to write: 1. It has taken some getting used to but I think the family is beginning to understand who I am and what I am, and go with it. As it is ... I get no respect, zero, and last weekend at the dinner table I made a wee wee just to get back at my father-in-law. 2. We're going to need clothes. Black. Basic black. No embellishments. I don't know if I can find some hair shirts ... but it doesn't matter. 3. We need an assistant, not Flopo, but someone who can absorb some of my energy without me hurting him. 4. Need to set up rendezvous points so that we can show that we are interested in making contact. My place or yours. I know some good street corners. 5. Shave your head. 6. Prepare for nothing in advance and have fun.

Whether Andy would finally late in life bloom into something as a result of his work remained to be seen. Certain very important people knew of him, which caused him to say, "Great, I can get the Illuminati on the blower or by email, but I can't get somebody to call me back to tell me I got the job. Maybe I should charge these people if they want to talk to me. If they're talking to me. A consultant's fee makes sense, if they're consulting what I know about what they know, and how I wouldn't do that, just speaking one human being to another."

In other words, Andy had concluded that the Illuminati, which he sometimes called and wrote "ill Uminotty," had not realized that they were interacting with the enemy, and consequently they were shitting their pants wondering what to do to save themselves, unless Andy wasn't telling the truth and then he would be boiled in oil one limb at a time. But somebody out there believed in him, believed him, or they were interested in kidnapping him for his testicles, of which he was rather embarrassed, stomach, lungs, heart, kidneys to keep all of these whiny humans alive like they promised. But Andy happily ruled kidnapping out, although they might try to get a semen sample from him like they did from John Lennon while he slept next to Yoko, probably for cloning purposes. However, Andy number two would not be able to grow, would not be ready in time, obviously, unless they have a quick-development machine or something. But either way the truth about cloning was this, as far as Andy was concerned: It's wrong, it's not at all comparable to a natural birth, cloned creatures live a much shorter time than their human semen-donating counterparts. Lennon, whom Andy thought almost certainly had been knocked out, which Lennon actually did report, after he had been greeted at the door of his Dakota apartment a bright light followed by little bug-like creatures scuddling at him. And then that was the last thing he remembered until he woke up in bed next to Yoko ... with a golden egg made of stone, which Uri Geller said John had given him after the event happened in, and that Uri would know what to do with it.

And Andy knew what that was. All he had to do was steal it, without Uri expecting
him in advance.

... to be continued