Lonnie, Me and the Hound of Hell

By Marian Allen

Short stories of animals and oddities. A man's best friend believes he's called the devil's own dog. A little girl is terrorized, with only two little mice to help her. A vampire is sent to clean up a crooked horse race. A gay cat puts his paws on the line to save a friend from aliens. Ten stories included, some never before published.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marian Allen
• Release date: Jun 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458028525

Book preview

Lonnie, Me and the Hound of Hell

By

Marian Allen

Published by Marian Allen

Copyright 2010 Marian Allen

~Smashwords Edition~

License Notes

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Other works by this author can be found at http://marianallen.com/.

Contents

Lonnie, Me and the Hound of Hell

Balance of Power originally appeared in OnSpec (http://www.onspec.ca/) Spring 2006, #64 vol 18 no 1

Mr. Farrel originally appeared in GHOST WRITERS (Southern Indiana Writers http://southernindianawriters.com/) 1995

The Damned Place Was Full of Crocodiles originally appeared in Song of the Siren (now closed) 2003

Dog Star originally appeared in NOVEL INGREDIENTS (Southern Indiana Writers http://southernindianawriters.com/) 2003 Also appeared electronically in World Wide Recipes newsletter and on WWR site (http://www.wordwiderecipes.com/) 2/17/2003

A Devouring Passion

Seeking Shadow originally appeared in PanGaia (http://www.bbimedia.com/) #33 Autumn 2002

High Stakes originally appeared in Peridot, now Allegory (http://allegoryzine.com/) 2001

Sledgehammer originally appeared on Goodreads, in response to a challenge on FaceBook.

Mr. Sugar versus the Martians

Lonnie, Me and the Hound of Hell

My wife and Lonnie's wife leant against the back door with their arms crossed over their chests and that blank look they always get when they're trying to decide whether to laugh or rip us new ones.

They didn't know yet what happened--come to that, neither did I. The hell-hound hadn't showed up yet, and Lonnie hadn't told anybody about raising the Devil, not even me, and I'm the best friend that poor fool has in this world.

First I knew of any of it was when I opened his toolshed door and saw him throw something into a bucket of fire and the flame foomphed up and I grabbed his shirt-tail and hauled backwards, both of us going ass over tip just before the whole shed went ka-blooie. Now we were explaining things to the cops.

It was a accident, Lonnie said. It ain't like Tiny and me are terrorists. He did that head-bobbing silent chuckle that meant he thought he was being funny. He waved at the girls and called, Hey there, Mrs. Terrorist and Mrs. Other Terrorist.

He was making wine, I said, which was pure meanness. Lonnie's wife is a hardshell Baptist. She would come closer to countenancing a terror bomb or a deal with the Devil than she would liquor.

After the cops left, Lonnie's wife, Leona, said, Mary Lee and me'll make some lemonade while you two desperados clean up the yard.

Lonnie muttered around while we sorted the splinters from the shovels. I'm twice his size and still play some pick-up football, but Lonnie worked three times as fast as I could out of sheer nervous energy.

We could hear the girls inside the kitchen, laughing, but we've both been married long enough to know that didn't mean there wasn't ever going to be trouble about it. I was probably in the clear, personally, since I only came into it at the last minute, but I expected to hear Mary Lee sing a couple of choruses of, What you and Leona see in that Lonnie is beyond me.

It's beyond me, too, most of the time, but Lonnie and me went through school together, from nursery school on up. When you've known somebody that long, you don't have to see anything in them.

The girls brought us some lemonade and went back in. Lonnie and me sat in lawn chairs on the concrete slab where the shed used to be and Lonnie explained.

You remember we read that story, back in school?

Some of us read more than one, buddy.

Ha, ha. I mean that one where the guy sells his soul to the Devil and gets all kinds of good luck?

Yeah, right up until Old Scratch came to collect.

Lonnie waved a sooty hand. Got him a good lawyer and wiggled out of it. If it would'a' been me, I'd put Leona up against him. That little gal could argue the smell off a skunk. He lifted his lemonade glass in a proud salute to his wife. But, anyways, I got to thinking, like, about time-share condos, like my aunt and uncle's like I was telling you about. He sat back, sipping, wiggling his eyebrows.

I didn't get the connection. And then I did.

You got to thinking you could sell the Devil... a piece of your soul? No, a time-share of your soul?

Two minutes. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, and winked. Get it, buddy? 'The Greatest Two Minutes in Horse Racing', right? I bet on the longest shot in the Kentucky Derby, the Devil makes my horse win--for real, no fair making him win and then he gets caught for doping and gets disqualified or nothing like that. And the Devil gets my soul for two minutes after I die.

What's in it for him, if it turns out you're going to hell anyway?

Well, that's just his tough luck. Besides, I'm saved. This would be a pure two-minute business transaction. But....

It didn't work?

Lonnie flopped a hand at the four walls that weren't around us. "You seen what happened. Just when he popped up out of the fire, everything went blammy."

Yeah, it--What do you mean, 'Just when he popped up'?

I seen him, didn't you?

No.

Well, ol' Lonnie seen him. Kind of seen him. Kind of all reddy-yellowy and grinning like a mule eatin' yellowjackets. But then you grabbed me and everything blew up. By the way, thanks, buddy. You hadn't jerked my tail, I'd'a been toast. I owe you. You name it, it's yours.

And that's when the hound showed up.

He came stiff-legging around the house with his head down and his nose up, shoulders hunched and tail tucked. He was about the size of a beagle, but high-rumped, barrel-chested and long in the shanks. His hair was black, glinting red where the sun struck off it, kind of medium-long and slicked down to his skinny body. His ears stuck up in points. He had a length of chain around his neck in place of a collar, cinched so tight it's a wonder he could swallow.

That dog ain't none of yours, is it? Lonnie asked. I never seen it over at your place.

Mary Lee and me lived across the street. If I'd got a new dog, Lonnie would have known it before I did, so he wasn't really asking, he was really just pointing out something we both knew.

No, it ain't mine. If I had a dog that looked that bad, I'd make it wear a paper bag over its whole self.

Leona and Lonnie's Maine Coon Cat, a twenty-pound porker named Rocky, jumped off the back porch to investigate. The dog focused on him and gave a throaty snarl, his hackles and back hair standing up till he looked like a warthog. Rocky went up a tree so fast, we didn't see him stop to climb it.

I felt my jaw drop, and I could see Lonnie's. Rocky feared neither man nor beast, but there he was, treed like a fluffy kitten with a pink bow around its neck.

Lonnie picked up a chunk of wood from the debris pile and chucked it at the mongrel.

The dog caught the chunk. Then, real slow, he shambled over to Lonnie and dropped it.

Lonnie goggled at the wood, then at the dog, then at me. He pointed a trembling finger at the dog's toothmarks. Lookit that! Scorched!

I looked. Lonnie, damn near every piece of wood that's left outta that shed is scorched. What are you saying?

"I'm saying the Devil had this big mean grin just before he blew up my shed. Tiny--I believe he left this dog on me. I mean, look at that dog! Sweet Jesus!"

The mutt huffed and grumbled, and ambled around past the carport and into the alley.

You see that? You see how the name of the Lord drove him hence?

He just got bored because you didn't throw the stick again.

No. No, he--What's this? Lonnie snagged another chunk of wood and prodded a piece of paper on the concrete between us. It flew out when that hell-hound shook itself.

I picked up the paper. It was covered in bristly black hairs, and it was folded skinny and creased in the middle, like it had been tucked through a link in the dog's collar.

I unfolded it and read aloud:

This dog is yours.

From back behind the carport, here come the clang of a garbage can going over.

Lord of the Flies, Lonnie moaned, and I had to help him in.

* * *

The phone rang in the middle of the night. I checked the clock: just a little before three. My heart thudded like it always does when the phone rings after ten. Momma? Grandpa? Mary Lee's sister, changing her mind about her wallpaper?

It was Lonnie, whispering so Leona couldn't hear him.

Tiny? Buddy? That dog is outside. He's been out there, barking and whining and howling since dead midnight. I woke up and looked out the window and seen him down in the back yard. He looked up at the window here, and his eyes is glowing red!