Would You Rather?

by Liz Ulin

Holy shit, this is some fine weed.

Only the finest for you, my man.

Oh yeah…

The finest… 

The finest…

Right, so listen… I was thinkin’…

Uh huh.

Hear me out.

All ears.

So, what’d you rather do, get a ten-inch spike driven through your skull or eat dog shit?

What?

What’d you rather do—if you had to?

I don’t know, Christ.

Come on, spike or shit?

Dog shit?

Yeah. Still warm. Really fresh.

Oh nice.

So? Skull spike or fresh creamy turd?

Are you on something else, man?

Hey, I’m just asking.  You got something better to do?   It’s, like, a brain exercise, like algebra.  What the hell’s algebra for?  Exercise for the brain.   It’s hypothetical.

Okay then, hypothetically how much turd?

I dunno…a spoonful, a tablespoon.

Level tablespoon?

Right.  Level. So, skull spike or fresh level tablespoon of dog turd?

Okay, so you say dog turd, but what kinda dog?  I mean is it, like, some diamond-collar purse puppy, or a gutter mutt?

You’re eating the dog shit not the dog.

I know that. You think I don’t know that? I just want some idea whose turd it is, okay?  You think a turd just appears out of nowhere? It doesn’t.  Every turd has a history, man.  You’re saying I have to eat it; I want the backstory.

The turd’s backstory?

Yes.

You’re twisted, buddy.

You’re asking me to eat one level tablespoon of fresh dog turd.

It’s a ‘would you rather’ thing. Just forget it.

I can’t forget it now.  How can I forget a level spoonful of warm turd?

Fine! It’s a mutt’s dump, okay? A ratsy little Chihuahua-Doberman-Greyhound. 

Chihuahua-Doberman-Greyhound? What the fuck is that? That’s not a dog; that’s a freak. Don’t mess with me. 

He’s not a freak! He’s an awesome dog. His name’s Hercules. 

Ok, cool name.

Yeah, he lives with the squeegee kids under the bridge. He’s their mascot. And he’s, like, the king of all the other dogs, the leader of a vicious pack of squeegee dogs.  And you don’t want to cross him, you know?  ‘Cause he’ll chew your face off. Your whole face.  I mean, not without a reason.  He won’t just come up to someone and, like, chew their face off. He’s not a psycho.  But if you piss him off you could regret it.  It’s the Chihuahua part; he’s high strung.  He’s a warrior dog living off his wits and wiles.

His doggie wits and wiles?

Don’t underestimate them.  And he only asks for one square meal a day. Okay? He’s not greedy. The kids feed him fish heads from the dumpster behind the fish shop. They’re his favorite.

The heads?

He loves them. And they’re … nutritious.

They’re disgusting!  

They’re nice and crunchy.  Good for his teeth.

And that’d make the turds…?

What?

Fishy.

Yeah, maybe.

With scales or bones or even eyeballs in them.

Definite possibility.  

So? That’s putrid!

Yeah, it is…a little.

See why I needed the backstory?

Okay, man. Perfect.  You really dodged a bullet.

Absolutely.  Now what’s the other thing?

Ten-inch spike driven through your skull.

That’d be brain damage, right?

It’s a ten-inch spike, my friend.

So, I wouldn’t live to regret it or anything.

That’s my thinking, yeah.

I mean, best case scenario, I’d be scrambled for life. 

Total vegetable matter.

Okay then… spike.

Spike! All right! Good move.

Skull spike.

Sure, it’s obvious. You could totally live with yourself after that if you lived. 

Exactly.

Awesome analysis.

And you thought it was stupid to ask for the backstory.  I was this close to eating that fishy eyeball shit!

I know. That was rash.

Information is power, man.  Don’t underestimate it.

Word.

Now I want a dog, man.

Yeah. Let’s go get a dog.