"Easy... easy... eeeazay. Ain't gonna hurt ya there lil' dohgie. Just want'a give ya a lil' sum'thin-sum'thin."
The Chihuahua stood its ground, growling at the idiot in front of him. Standing at ten and three-quarter inches tall from toe to shoulder, the angered pup bristled its fur. On its hind quarters was tattooed the dog's name, Cerberus. Aptly named, because this dog had not just one head, but three beastly heads. Each one with a maw filled with long over-sized canine curved tusks.
Only a short while ago the bar was filled with customers enjoying the songs of a mariachi band. Ultimate Wrestling was airing a rerun of last month's broadcast event on Univision. Luchadores in masks who wrestle in the dark matches are known to have a huge cult following at Mexican sports bars like this one. Little did they know, one such champion was in their own midst.
The party was cut short when the mangy mutt arrived and turned the fiesta into a blood bath.
Near the bomb blast on the Western United States mutant monsters such as this are known to exist as a common occurrence. The resident mutant humans who survived the dangerous effects are known to spread a dangerous virus to others they come into contact with, and sometimes they are known to keep these feral animals as their guardian pets. Zombie gangs of hipsters have overrun what's left of Southern California.
It was believed, until recently that Mexico was a safe haven thanks to McStrump's Great Wall. On this day, all that was about to change.
Out of the men's restroom, a skinny runt with the body of an 18 years old and the face of a 40 year old redneck, he approaches the dangerous creature from a carefully measured distance. Goading the dog to calm down using a ridiculous hand signal taught to him by an Aborigine shaman, the unprofessional wrestler known as Huckleberry has a special look in his eye. Is he an expert with an unorthodox talent in taming wild animals, or is he the dumbest son of a @#$%& in the world about to win the next Darwin Award?
The heat on this day was unbearable, and the bartender stood by wiping gobs of sweat from his forehead. Knowing this to be a bad idea, he shouted a warning to the only other fool in the bar who hasn't run away or perished in the earlier aftermath.
"Watchs out Gringo! El chupacabra has a mean bite. When he latches on, he don't let go until your heart stops beating. El Diablo is straight from hell! Get out while you still can!"
The Mexican bartender was standing guard behind the bar with a sawed off shotgun aimed at the growling little dog. He knew he stood no chance against it, and neither did the idiot facing off against it.
This dog has taken many shots before and survived. Parts of its flank were mangy with open blood wounds infected with black puss and dead maggots. The dog stood strong, without any signs of weakness.
"Shhhhhh! Me an' her go waaaaaay back now, don't we Cujo? Yeah, I remember when yu'r sucklin' on yer momma's carcass an hour after yu'r born. They said you were cursed. A mutant. Some even called you El Chupacabra."
The dog barked angrily at the last remark, and took a couple steps forward. It growled now with a double harmonic register in its voice, one much deeper than seemed possible for an animal that size.
"Now, now! Don't be gettin' angry at yer ol' friend now. Can't be bitin' the hand that feeds ya, right? We had some good times together, right? Like the day we stormed the abandoned Twinkie factory. Ya helped yerself to a factory full of blue haired freaks infected by the Los Angeles virus, op'ning a treasure trove of golden mana for me to relinquish."
The idiot went on. The dog growled more softly.
"Oh yeah, you remember that. An the time when militia men surrounded ya with vehicles and aimed thar rifles at ya... who helped ya get out of that one? A Molotov cocktail and a full tank of propane rolling down the hill caused 'em quite a scare, and it helped us bust through the damn wall into beautiful Mexico, din' it?
The pup yips, and licks its three sets of chops.
"I know, I know. You got a special appetite for barbecue. So do I. So cool yer jets and let Uncle Huck take ya somewhere a classy Lassie like yerself deserves."
The dumb hillbilly was hardly dressed for the occasion of animal control. Sporting a sleeveless flannel shirt with his skinny gut hanging out, and bent over to expose his plummer's crack. His shorts and loafers would provide little protection should the beast attempt to bite him.
The restaurant portion of the bar looked like a scene from a horror film. Blood, guts, and limbs scattered everywhere. Clothing torn from patrons, and leaving them in lewdly sinister positions, to showcase their un-repairable broken skeletons.
The bartender used a nearby sombrero to conceal himself. He took this opportunity to hide further behind the safety of the bar, and headed out toward the emergency exit. A secret button triggered the doors to lock shut.
There would be no more patrons today. Maybe never again.
Sweat dripped down his brow, along his neck and chest. Burn marks and scars from an explosive device were also likewise covered in sweat. Teeth marks from an alligator that nearly ripped his torso in half dotted his stomach. Something green glowed with a pulse where his good kidney should be.
These badges of honor marked this mullet man known as Huckleberry as a forbidden fruit not to be trifled with.
"So wut's it gonna be pup? You wanna play?"
Huckleberry reached out his hand towards the center neck of the triple terror, as fate would compel him to do.
While the central head bit all the way up to Huckleberry's elbow, with his hand and arm totally inside the dog's nether regions, the other two rang out a cacophony of hellish barks.
Huckleberry slipped into his typical Appalachian drawl, and erupted into his own siren song of unintelligible obscenities.
"Mother Mary! Sew me a quilt! You cornpone critter! I'm gonna riiiiiip yer gizzards out and can'em for Christmas!"
Charging arm first, Huckleberry slides the dog down the bar covering it in a shower of alcohol and broken glass. He bats his arm against a post three times, accomplishing little.
Something strange overcomes Huckleberry's arm. His elbow clenches, causing the other two barking heads of the dog to come dangerously close. Using his free arm, Huckleberry wrenches his arm out to a safe distance away.
"Thirsty?! Have a drink! Have three!"
Drunken with fear and rage, Huck rushes to the back of the bar and smashes the beastly pup into a wall of mirrors and heavy liquors bottles. Everything comes clumsily crashing down on the ensnared duo.
"There's only one way out of this mess, Princess. It's going to be me or you."
With his elbow arching awkwardly over him while lying on the ground, black steaming dribbles of drool cascade down onto Huckleberry's face.
"Oh you double dog dare me, huh? I ain' never backed down from a double dog dare in my en'tire life, and I ain't about to run yella bellied home to Momma now. Gonna be like that? Let me show ya how it's dun ya lil' ankle-biter."
Huckleberry pops off his left loafer, and uses his bloodied yellow toes to pry off the lid of a nearby wooden barrel. The base of the barrel rocks from the disruptive force. A watery liquid rocks it back into place splashing a puddle onto the glassy floor.
In a last ditch effort, Huckleberry kips up and jams his arm into the barrel, attempting to drown the beast within a sea of pickles.
The demon dog thrashes wildly like a gremlin in a hot microwave, and screaming like a banshee.
"It didn't have to be like this, but you leave me no choice."
Huck flips the switch to turn on the element of a nearby toaster and dunks it into the water. Head number three latches onto his other arm. The electricity surges through and shakes Huckleberry enough to turn his insides into pudding.
After fifteen agonizing seconds, the dog becomes silent, and Huckleberry's arms falls free of the binding shackles of the abyssal hellhound.
Huckleberry is still breathing, barely.
An emergency crew and a news team arrives moments later to pick up the pieces.
The EMT crew were loading Huckleberry into the back of the vehicle on a stretcher, until the driver recognized him.
"Hold up! Don't you know who this man is? It's that Redneck punk on tv. You know? The professional wrestler, Huckleberry. This dude's got a record a mile long. Don't even touch him or breath the same air. Recently he was infected with some kind of toxic goo, and they say his piss even glows in the dark! No joke! I bet his blood is like battery acid, slowly eating away at his insides. You know why he's not dead? El Diablo wouldn't take him. The man is cursed."
On signal, Huckleberry sits upright suddenly from the stretcher like The Undertaker. He stares out in front of him at an unknown spirit.
"Valora! Valoooooooraaaaa! Where are you?"
The driver ignores Huck's moaning. He seems to be stuck in a dream.
"El Gringo, he's loco. Let's leave him here. If this is the gringo I think he is, we're on strict orders to not bring him to the hospital. This is from way high up in corporate. I guess he is some kind of liability to them. No joke."
Huckleberry rolls his head around in circles, stuck in some nightmare. The ambulance and the EMT's load up, without him, and drive off with the lights flashing for a quick getaway. No questions asked.
A Univision camera crew and journalist approaches the injured Huckleberry. His arm is bandaged hastily, and already showing signs of red stains coming through the white gauze. An assistant holds a boom microphone overhead to capture Huck's weird words.
"Valora! I'm coming for you! I know your kind, and now... I too am one of them now. They changed me! I met My Maker, and he would not have me. I tango'ed with The Taker, and he refused me. It was The One who speaks to me in the night who told me he has a plan for me... and for you. They are coming for you next, Valora. There is no escape Valora! And I am the ONLY one who can save you. I am your deliverer. I am your savior."
The camera pans back to the journalist who is holding his own microphone.
"I'm here on the scene outside of a pub. Earlier tonight a dangerous animal mauled dozens of customers inside. At least twelve deaths are confirmed, and several more injuries are being reported and victims are being taken to the hospital in ambulances."
"Here beside me, lays a man who goes by the name of Huckleberry, a champion wrestler known worldwide from his recent fame in Ultimate Wrestling. The owner of the pub states that the dog had bit Huckleberry on the arm, and would not let go. Huckleberry managed to drown the feral dog by submerging it into a barrel of pickles, and then proceeded to electrocute himself and the dog using a toaster."
"It's a miracle he is still alive, and yet here he is. Now it appears that the medical teams are over-burdened with the other victims of this massacre, and have opted to leave the injured Huckleberry to his own fate. Apparently, Huckleberry is scheduled to have a match against his opponent Valora Salinas later this week, but he seems to be in no shape to be ready. Suffering from a mangled arm, and rumors are stating he is tainted with toxic waste from the fallout damage in California, and possibly worse."
"Might he also be a carrier of the dreaded Los Angeles virus, which turns its victims into a hivemind of bloodthirsty zombies? What was Huckleberry doing California in the first place? Is Huckleberry experiencing a PTSD nightmare from his recent experiences, or is he perhaps channeling communications with some sort of demonic spirit? Some have even wondered if the nefarious blob-worshiping cult may have had something to do with Huckleberry during his time in California."
"Fans have been wondering for months where he has disappeared to, and we are here giving you the latest scoop. It seems that we may soon be finding out some answers."
Huckleberry passes out again, and the camera zooms back in on him. The sweat and blood begins to stain the once white hospital sheet over him. Now it glows green under the streetlights.
Thank you for reading my original writing. This is a fictional satire, and my roleplay submission for Ultimate Wrestling.
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