‘Steampunk Chihuahua’. v2 of Chuck Wendig’s Image Challenge.


Here’s the Challenge, to write a story to an image posted by Chuck or others who’re so inclined. I just couldn’t go past the image provided by Leslie. Here it is.


This hugely appeals to my sense of the genuinely strange, so thanks to Leslie for allowing me to let loose my Inner Weirdo.

Steampunk Chihuahua.

“No one’s going to take you seriously with a bark like that,” Leslie said from the other side of the door. I heard the click of the lock and the door swung open to reveal her. I jumped for joy, and wee’d myself a little, before turning in fast and tight circles and launching myself up at her.

Leslie scooped me up into her arms, laughing as she does, while I tried to lick her face. “Ewww! No licking!” she said. “That tongue was probably up your arse five minutes ago!” I couldn’t see the problem. If my arse didn’t taste good I wouldn’t lick it, would I? She put me down, and I ran a few circles again before running and leaping onto her spot on the sofa, awaiting her eagerly. That drives her nuts, so I feel enormously satisfied. Smug, even. Honestly, I think I was a cat in a past life.

“I think you were a pussy in a past life, so there’s still a strong connection,” Trunk whispered into my ear. Trunk was, for want of better words, my imaginary friend, the accent being on ‘imaginary’ and ‘friend’ being thrown in as a dubious afterthought. It was Trunk who got me into trouble, and then hid behind Leslie, childishly poking his tongue out, pulling faces even more stupid than his own, sometimes farting, but always giggling at me as the consequences crashed over me.

“Well, Mister Fluffy,” said Leslie as she picked me up and deposited me on her lap, “What naughtiness have you gotten up to today?” Before I could get a word in, Trunk whispered: “Tearing up and redistributing your used tissue collection isn’t really naughty, is it, Leslie?”

Oh God, what has he done now? “And of course, there was that whole ‘Shitting On The Bed Pillow’ fiasco of 3:17p.m,” he added, completely unhelpfully, as ever. “What the fuck?” I seethed at him. “I never shat on her pillow!” Trunk giggled wildly, the little fucker. “Oh, so you think it dragged itself out of the ‘doggy box’ and deposited itself up there?” he snickered. “Honestly, all my hard work goes so unappreciated around here. I don’t know why I bother sometimes.” My heart sank. “I don’t know why you bother ever, you bastard,” I mumbled.

Instead of loving her, I just sat on Leslie’s lap, shaking. “You chihuahuas are such nervous little things, aren’t you, Fluffy?” Leslie said to me, rubbing my ears in the way I liked. “If you had an imaginary ‘friend’  like Trunk, you’d be shaking too,” I said, looking at her with my best saddest-loving-worshipping eyes. If I could get enough of those cute looks in now, things might go a little easier on me later. “H’yeah, right,” said Trunk, the evil little turd.

As soon as Leslie left the room to put the kettle on for tea, I changed into my superhero guise, Steampunk Chihuahua, fairly bristling with sharp and gnashing teeth, a scorpion tale, and talons of steel. “Right, cunt. Where the fuck are you?” I whispered menacingly to Trunk. I was going to rearrange his face. I was going to tear open his chest and hold up his still-beating heart. Fuck him! I was going to rearrange him right down to the molecular level. But he was nowhere to be found. I hated it when he did that. I never knew if he was really hiding or if he was getting up to more shitfulness.

“Ride ‘em, cowboy!” he hollered from the Dead Zone, that part of my back that I couldn’t – couldn’t ever – quite reach. “Get down here, you fucker!” I fairly barked at him. “Ummm … I’m sort of sensing that you’re somewhat upset,” he said, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Ooh, that little  shit! I couldn’t even get him with my stinger, because if I missed I was sure to hit myself. Yes, that was a lesson previously learned the hard way. He was saved, for the moment, by Leslie’s return. I barely had time to revert back into Fluffy, the Wonder Dog, before she came into the room.

Leslie put her tea down on the little table next to the sofa, placing the mug right next to a book she claimed was by the best writer she’d read in a decade. I dunno. A writer with a name like Periodically Demented doesn’t invoke a lot of confidence in me, but there we are. “It’s because you’re a pretentious twit,” said Trunk. “No sense of adventure. No sense of the absurd. Take yourself too seriously.” I looked at him, ready to debate the merits of high-minded prose, even if I couldn’t write them myself. Instead, my heart sank. Something inside me felt as if it had just dropped with a soft and wet ‘thunk’. Trunk was standing on the book, ludicrously making exaggerated swivelling motions with his hips as he pissed into Leslie’s tea. “You know she always says her tea tastes funny after I’ve done this,” he said. “With the shit storm coming your way, she’ll need all the laughs she can get.” “God,” I said, looking heavenward, “Why do you hate me?” Trunk giggled as he shook the last few drops into the mug. “Bad karma, dude.”

“Fluffy! You bad, bad boy!” I heard Leslie’s raised voice from the bedroom. “I guess she’s discovered your present,” snickered Trunk. “Unwrapped the gift. Oh, that’s right; the used tissue collection. I already unwrapped the pillow poo for her. No need to thank me; I’m that kind of guy.”

Leslie came storming out of the bedroom, marching down the hallway. “I’m guessing you’re in the doghouse by the sound of it,” Trunk whispered. I sat there, shaking. This was going to get fucking ugly. And it did. I was unceremoniously whipped up into her arms. We jackbooted our way to the bedroom, her with thin-lipped anger written all over her face and me flopping about like a rag doll. Trunk, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

“Look! Look at that! Look what you did! Bad boy!” Leslie hollered at me. I didn’t want to look. I’d already checked my shit out after I laid it, and it had passed inspection. I was going to say something about context and seeing the funny side of this later, but my thoughts were interrupted by the resounding smack she laid on my butt. One day, I’d find a way to really get back at Trunk. It was that thought that kept me strong, and sane.

Leslie began to put me down, and I was half way to the floor when Trunk came tearing into the room, wild eyed with panic, and said: “Dude! You have to take the rap for me! Just one more time!”

Oh, no. What had he done now? Whatever it was, his sheer horror told me that even Steampunk Chihuahua was unlikely to survive its discovery.

2 thoughts on “‘Steampunk Chihuahua’. v2 of Chuck Wendig’s Image Challenge.

  1. Loved it! Funny! I have a story about a Chihuahua called Pedro (cos I’m a racist fuck, you see.) Probably gonna have to change his name to Rupert, or, Melvin to make it more PC.

  2. Well, if your dog is a longhair you might consider naming it Hairy Taco. A shorthair could be Brazil. Of course, if it’s one of those completely hairless varieties there’s no other name for it but Hollywood.

    Rupert would be good if there’s a military setting to your story. Melvin the Paranoid Chihuahua? Maybe Pedro has some weed that would sort him out.

    Yes, this is a very PC blog. Thanks for supporting the high standards PD is famous for.

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