by Ross Sharp

“PEDIGREE DOGS EXPOSED” ABC Television, September 10, 2009 …

Forty seconds into this programme I expleted “Jesus Christ” and put my hand to my forehead in horror as an animal writhed and spun around in unrelieved agony on a kitchen floor.

Thirty minutes in, my very own Dark Passenger* made its presence felt and I indulged it …


Breeder of “dogs”.

You. You soft-bellied, pudgy-faced streak of malevolent pelican shit who dare masquerade as a human being, spat as you were from the rancid gash of whatever five-buck cum-soaked whore bore you to this world. You, the product of a drunken limp-dick fuck in a sewer pipe, misshapen bubble of flesh made whole and dangled from the end of a ropey string of piss-stained semen.


We take your body, stretching your limbs akimbo out and across our Official Breeder’s Board of Correction.

To improve your type, you see.

We are Da Vinci

You shall be our art.

Leather-faced cunt, loose stool shat from the puckered arse of Cerberus. With an industrial nailgun, we hammer your hands and your feet to our canvas and begin our work.. We slip our six-inch gold blade behind the soft flesh of your ears and swiftly slice down and across, feeling the soft crunch of cartilage give way beneath, drawing the knife around to the front of your throat, a deeper incision there to part the skin, cutting the vocal cords and arranging the loose strings in a fanned display across your upper front body.

Your flaccid breasts, those empty shapeless husks are quickly taken, the shriveled mounds now a stumpy plateau of vivid red and white spots of fat. It looks like a pizza, we think to ourselves as we take the knife from your throat and draw it down toward the soft mound of your pudenda, stopping just a few inches short of your navel.

Your silly little round white belly displeases our sense of aesthetics.

Some correction is required.

To improve your breed, you see.

Slipping the knife in, how easy it slices, how easy it enters, like warm butter, a quick upward movement gives us a four-inch wound and as the flesh splits and opens, our nostrils rejoice in the heat coming off from the steaming viscera within and we rub our hands together in (admittedly premature) self-satisfaction at our talent for creation before plunging one fist inside, deep inside, grabbing and dragging out a length of intestine, decorating it with artful nicks and incisions, a lovely pattern, like a Florence Broadhurst wallpaper if, that is, Hell had papered walls.

Taking the tube, we split it, like a snake’s tongue, split it into twelve inch lengths and staple each end, one to either side of your hip, artfully draping the flesh as if it were a fob watch chain.

We slice your eyeballs, gouging the gelatinous white marbles from their sockets and stitching them to where your breasts once were, we remove your legs and remove your arms, sever the hands at the wrist, reattach the legs to the stumps of your shoulders, your arms to the stumps of your thighs, your hands to the side of your head where the ears were, and your ears stapled to your labia. We bring your head forward and with a surgical mallet smash a number of vertebrae in your spine so that your head drops limply down, a feature that is most beloved and valued in those of your breed, of your type, as it signifies obeisance and supplication, for you must be no challenge to those of us who delight in your type. Down now toward your coccyx, your tailbone, two swift slashes expose it to the light and we drag it out, pointing the tip at a forty-five degree angle, stitching the flesh back together and around the bone. We remove two molars and two incisors from your mouth, gluing each incisor to each molar, and hang them from a silver thread sewn into the roof of your eye sockets, like Stonehenge, miniature Stonehenge monuments, bloody wind chimes of bone.

We step back and admire our work.

Oh, my.

Oh, my. We have most certainly outdone ourself on this day, this most special day.

For we shall have RIBBONS! Yes! We shall have ribbons, ribbons and banners and shiny, shiny baubles of gold and silver, we shall have plaques and accreditations, cups and bowls with tassles of tack and other sparkly wonders, glittery things for our mahogany mantelpieces.

Father would be proud. 


Next year?

Next year, we shall start on your children.


Illustration courtesy of cNm from the colourNOmovement Declarations. © 2009 cNm. Reproduced by kind permission.

Maybe I should give the horror movies and books a rest for a while and bone up on a few rom-coms. Ya reckon?

*On a lighter note, the ABC’s Richard Fidler has a very entertaining and amusing interview with Jeff Lindsay, creator of “Dexter”, available as a podcast over here.