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A Dog Named Scooby Don’t

Tall and thin, the Candyman walks a dog named Scooby Don’t along the lakeshore. The brown and black Great Dane stops to sniff each and every pebble, “reading his pee-mail” it’s called.

”Got my smokes?” Asks the pig, coffin nail bobbling on the end of his lip.

”Got my goats?” Fires back the man.

”The best way to prevent relapse is to stay high.”

”So I’m told.”

And so they walk. Sniff sniff, walk. The Candyman is feeling philosophic.

”There’s a dog story in every pee-stain, time and date-stamped. What was for breakfast, what time was the morning jailbreak? $2 off shooters at Hooters.”

“Can the chin-music primate. I want my smokes.”

“Patience pig, where’s my goats? They ain’t gonna steal themselves.”

”They’re on the boat.” Arnold snout-points to a half-sunken cabin cruiser just offshore, the waters of the Salton Sea lapping quietly against the scratched portholes. “That boat there.”

Shading his eyes with his hand, the white guy peers over the water. “Goats don’t float.”

“Nope. Goats don’t float.”

“Drugs, not hugs.”

“Smokes, not jokes.”

The three stand and stare at the grimy water, the sun glancing off the ripples as if to say, “What? What now?”

“FINE.” Sighs the dog loudly. “Hold my beer.”

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