MicroHorror

The sky was murky with the heat of a mid-August evening as I pushed my way upwards to the top of Baker Street. Lined with manicured lawns and infested by track homes that stood as monuments to the virus known as urban sprawl, this street was just like the others in the community. Potter, Blacksmith, Commonwealth; all of the streets shared the same characteristics, from the malformed court at the bottom to the blasphemous incline at the top. And here I was, traversing it like a sterile Johnny Appleseed, spreading my dog licenses from home to home.

But by four o’clock, I could feel the energy lagging behind, following me from half a block down the hill, forcing me to stop. Just a half-hour to go!, I thought. Keep on truckin’! What an expression! If I had a truck I wouldn’t have been this miserable.

My feet ached when I approached door number four thousand, or as they labeled it: 1027 Baker St. Sweat pilfered my forehead, robbing it of any nutrients required to keep a sun burn at bay. Heat from the road itself mocked me, pointing out my faults: my weak knees, the bags under my eyes, and the mess of hair hanging to my shoulders. When I knocked on the wooden door, I was shocked to hear life within. Probably soaking in the A/C, enjoying their wide screen television (HD-compatible), and having a better time than me.

I could hear the scurrying footsteps of children, or perhaps a small woman passing the door, and then, seconds later, harder, slower thumps. The father figure, no doubt; come to pay the tax man. The door swung open, and before me stood a massive figure, one straight out of Freaks. His rope-like figure wobbled in the light breeze while his hair seemed plastered to his leather-like parchment of a skin. His feet pointed in opposite directions while his toes danced; each individual digit seemed to have mastered rhythm and beat as they conducted a jazzy ensemble on the linoleum. His hands were not; that is to say, that where a hand should have been, there hung an orb-like mound of flesh that had been given the texture of a meat mallet, all ridges and flat pyramids. But strangest of all was the lack of a face; just a brown circular object on top of a Twizzler, with two large, irregular holes in the center, and a straight line for a mouth.

“Who is it, dad?” came the voice of a girl behind him. I ripped my eyes from the monstrosity before me and witnessed the child-thing born of his loins: this half-human, half-dog sin. Her body seemed to be that of a terrier, but all semblance of a dog ended at the neck, where, like Frankenstein’s monster, her head had been stitched. She had lovely blonde hair and a cute nose.

“Can I help you?” the father-thing asked.

I cocked my head to the side, curled my lips, and squinted before I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.

“She have a license?” I asked, pointing towards his dog-ter.

“Oh, sure,” he said. He reached down, patting his preposterous knee–a hamburger bun on a rabbit, if you can imagine it. The girl came to his side. He folded in half, wrapped his clubs around the terrier neck, and retrieved a collar, which he then handed to me. I took it from him, looked it over, and nodded.

“Everything looks fine here,” I said. “Have a good day, sir!”

“You too!” As I walked away, he shut the door. From within I could hear the chatter of a family mildly interrupted from their daily routine. It sure was hot outside. I believe that I was still envious of their A/C.