CUJO AND THE DARTS
By Zac Dunn
Art by Selin Serhii
Published Issue 131, November 2024
He stepped out of the van looking smug.
She was not impressed. It had been a very dry spring and the boxes that were filled with DART-driven dreams were hungry to house the DENDROBATIDAE.
LICK THE TOAD.
The low monotone voice said from behind the black curtain of the cube in the back of the service station next to old Highway 7 that leads out to the dead oil field.
The cages in the basement made the entire station smell like a swamp. They had bought the property because they knew about an old aquifer that was not protected and could be tapped easily. This would be very important for breeding and cloning the DART FROGS. Producing METHAMPHETAMINE had been quite lucrative but it was time to diversify into a more organic income stream. One that required less dealings with machine gun wielding cartel hoods than soccer moms who simply couldn’t find a reason not to blow their brains out while awaiting the NAIL SALON tech to dry their GEL NAILS.
The gas station also served BOBA and shitty TACORITOS.
The girl behind the counter greeted people with profound indifference so as not to leave any impression. This was a skill handed down to the ladies of the plains from GRAMS to TIKES. This quiet and profound facade of majestic confidence and apathy was one of the first things slayed into silence by the men who wielded long steel cannons on thunderous hooves.
The gaze that penetrates and deflects the eye of the beholder is older and bolder than the eyes that could ever spy upon them. She would always give change and say thanks like a burden of admission that you took something from her and you would now owe her in perpetuity.
As the man descended deep into the double-wide trailer he’d sunk into the ground behind the station, the smell of FROG FECES rumpled the stiltskin hairs on the back of his neck more profoundly with each step. The low groan of the small creatures in the dank expanse of the bunker was stark. The smell would envelope him first before the quiet dampness would hold his feet firmly down. The whole place seemed in order. All the sub-bass systems were in check, keeping the FROGS very happy and stimulated in the manner that would produce the most potent and unctuous DART essence to emit freely.
HOWEVER, the secret was to allow the generations of DARTS to stack up and not touch any component of the organic conversation that was instigated within the microcosm of the bunker.
He begrudgingly began to select his annual brood of several dozen prime specimens to harbor the bloodline safely. He’d chosen a remote inlet in OAXACA for his breeding facility with natural fortifications to prevent molestation by his sinister rivals. The entire DART movement and revolution had been started by him in a different iteration of his journey prior to the accident that would divert his focus from malice to alchemy and mysticism
The sound of several large vehicles all pulling up in a convoy disturbed the incubator of DART magic. It reminded him that his vision would always attract the eyes and hands of greedy lessers who sought to unwind the thread by which he alone hung.
It was very simple what would happen next:
The girl behind the counter pressed a large red KILL SWITCH button next to the cash register. Massive steel plates dropped over the enclosure of the station. She sighed and grabbed her backpack, vexedly making her way to the broom closet that hid the cellar door to the station’s own self-contained bunker full of cozy accouterments. She chuckled as she closed the submarine style hatch shut and pulled the wooden handle that brought the piss-stained rug over to conceal the entrance. She turned on the closed-circuit display spread and popped open a LACROIX.
Four SUVs all faced a completely armored station on a windswept plane just a skip north of the border.
The man took his seat at his console and grabbed hold of his trucker mic to welcome his guests.
WHO GOES THERE? YOU CAME WITH MANY PEOPLE UNANNOUNCED! I’M CURIOUS HOW I CAN BEST ASSIST YOU?
The first three SUVs’ doors popped open and eight men stepped out holding assault rifles and tactical armor. The headlights of the fourth SUV blinked before a honk sounded. The men all broke into a tactical formation moving forward around the back of the station with GUNS pointed to unload as they approached.
AH. I SEE THAT YOU COME BEARING GIFTS.
The man at the console snickered and pressed a fat yellow button next to his left hand. As the squad stormed around the back of the station in a very tight and contrived formation, a spread of simple lawn sprinkler sockets popped up from the back of the yard.
AHOY HOY!!! LET US BEGIN.
The man proclaimed quite plainly over the speakers. The little girl rubbed her tiny paws eagerly from her perch below the station.
An AIR HORN sounded from a small shed that was roughly 50 yards out on the edge of the MESA. A pounding and growing sound began to emerge from the shed.
The men of the squad looked down at the sprinkler heads that were now whizzing away, sounding like a siren scream, as a bright yellow gas rushed out, all but obscuring their line of sight. They began gasping and running like headless chickens to escape the footprint of the CANARY STRAIN ANTHRAX MUSTARD GAS the man had cooked up fresh for them. Five of the squad flopped like a side of beef sliding off a hook into a grinder.
They twitched and gasped briefly as the remaining three scampered away desperate for cover. The shed was still chugging away as they caught their breath, awaiting a command from the boss in the last SUV.
The man rubbed his eyes and turned to look back at his beloved DARTS. He yawned and thought about having a tea once the mess was cleaned up.
He picked up the trucker mic again.
HE WHO CONTROLS THE SPICE SHALL CONTROL THE UNIVERSE!
He quite simply but firmly proclaimed.
The sides of the ominous chugging shed exploded outward at this time exposing a NAVAL grade anti-aircraft cannon that was pointed at the last SUV. The remaining men made a sound that was almost audible prior to the noise of ALL of the SUVs being blown back from the station in a typhoon of metal and fire. The cacophony carried like a phoenix rising from the very sandy earth that lay below. A deep and calm vacuum of space embraced them as the shell collided with the front right axle of an SUV in a delicate and almost liquid-like manner. The sheer weight of the shell, over 100 pounds, was essentially like a small refrigerator colliding with the DENALI SUPREME, brewing up a human meat stew fit for a king.
The little one opened up a bag of chips and picked up her trucker mic.
HEY! DO YOU GUYS LIKE DOGS!? I LOVE MY DOG, CUJO! GET TO KNOW HIM!
With that she made a strange and guttural sound that brought up the monster who had been quietly sleeping next to her. He awoke, seeming like he was not done napping. But hungry as always he would gladly break up his down time for some TCB and a bit of light exercise. She rubbed his wet nose on her nose and purred at him.
OKAY, BOY. GO EAT NOW.
With that she pressed a button opening a decent sized dumbwaiter contraption that CUJO sauntered over to casually. His stride deep with steps that sought to shake his sleep, he prepared his chop to dine.
CUJO put all of his weight in the box and it clicked, opening a small compartment on the bottom right corner where a portion of cool fresh water appeared for him to enjoy. A proper amuse-bouche before the sun would constrict his doggie’s pupils into pinpoints searching for meaty calves of screaming men who didn’t put on pants one leg at a time that day expecting all of this.
A bulkhead hatch sprung up on the far side of the station and CUJO stepped silently off the pad, his pure white fur gleaming in the sun. He was a mutt of too many varieties to ever discern, but was every bit of 150 pounds of muscle and mind that simply loved his people, the DARTS and a solid meal after a good nap.
The remaining men looked at each other from their hiding places.
The crackle of the burning and still vibrant conflagration that was quite actively barbecuing the fallen into HUMANO BARBACOA was a little disconcerting and made hearing the dog impossible.
CUJO snuck up behind the first man and closed his windpipe with his mouth, gently letting him go to sleep forever. He was taught to smell and not see. But CUJO loved to see the look of the men when he made them know he was the one who would be escorting them to the other side of the great river of death.
The next man could quite plainly see the dog approach but had lost his weapon in his haste to escape the MUSTARD GAS DEATH GARDEN. He tried quite pitifully in vain to ward off CUJO’s amorous advances with a fully extended right hand. But CUJO latched onto it and drove the man’s head directly into his back, breaking his arm out of the socket and ripping it clean off. CUJO had been trained in a brutal form of DOG TAI CHI that allowed him to BREAK things using weight against the anatomical structure of the THING he chomped onto. This was not something that any HUMAN could show or teach.
The many who begat him were of a certain bloodline that believe in devotion and brutality. Dogs in the pecking order slide in different directions, but will ultimately stand to man’s side always. His blood knew that this was only a matter of contextual dominance. By credo, they would only serve a just master who acted in a purer manner than their predecessor.
CUJO was ready to just start chewing the arm in his mouth but knew the JOB was not yet done. The third man had made a run for the hills and now looked like a wide receiver charging downfield desperately hoping fate and skill would collide in glory.
This really pissed off CUJO. He was not in the mood to go for a run at all but knew it would only make the meat more tasty as he enjoyed it. With that, he dropped the dripping man arm and let out a tiny sniff of desert dust. His weight and girth galloped with haste consuming the yards between him and the last man who was panting for breath and struggling to run full sprint while unholstering his GLOCK.
CUJO’s eyes blazed as fountains of saliva splashed on the sand. His mass pounded forward at the weaker and slower critter who was rapidly losing the tiny shred of space that separated them from the inevitable.
CUJO liked to get really close and let the prey feel him ready to chomp, but not so near they actually slow down out of pure fear. The man began to shit and piss himself violently. This only made CUJO more angry as he was never in the mood for shitty piss-soaked food.
So he latched onto the ACHILLES of the man with his lower jaw. He flipped him like a rag doll before barrel rolling (as he had been taught) while bringing down his own weight, crushing the man’s body as they spinned over several times, creating a rapid sound like bags of shells being smashed with a heavy iron hammer.
CUJO let go and left the bloody broken sack of human meat for the coyotes and buzzards to enjoy. They prefer meat to be coated in fear and feces.
CUJO cooly rolled himself in bloody sand until he felt clean of his defeated foe’s plasma and poo. He gave himself a stern shake and could see the man and the girl standing by the service station. A wrecker and roll-out dumpster slowly crept across the plain toward them to remove the smoldering remnant of the ZETAS who came to play.
1.26.24v 9:59: AUX MORTEM AB CHAO
reges antiqui in sanguine fuderunt
Zac Dunn is a psycho-social mechanic, father, musician and dreamer. Check out his music and follow him on Twitter | Instagram | Tumblr.
Check out Zac’s October install, SAFE KRAAKEN, in case you missed it, or head to our Explore section to see more of his work.