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Bizarronauts

Welcome to Bizarronauts, a place for flash fiction inspired by Dog Doors to Outer Space, the first ever collection of bizarro writing prompts!

For information about submissions and for sneak peek prompts from Dog Doors, check out the Bizarronauts Submissions page.

Conrad Lubbox is Out to Get Me You Stupid Idiot!

Frank J. Edler

            “Shut the fuck up and get inside!” I tell you.

            You look at me and don’t move. I drag you inside the clubhouse and slam the door shut behind you. You are so stupid.

            “Conrad Lubbox is out to get me,” I tell you.

            You say, “So?”

            I say, “So!” and then I say, “So he knows you know me and if he sees you at the clubhouse, he’s going to know you know I’m here.”

            “Oh,” you say.

            I’m frustrated with you. It’s like you don’t care that Conrad Lubbox is out to get me. I wish Conrad Lubbox was out to get you because he’d find your apathetic ass right away.

            I peep through the slit in the clubhouse door I’d chiseled last night when I discovered Conrad Lubbox was out to get me. I’d thought it would be awesome to build the ramshackle clubhouse without windows so prying eyes couldn’t see in.

            You ask if you can see what I’m looking at and I tell you there’s nothing to see. So then you ask me why I’m looking if there’s nothing to see. I despise your stupid, rational question so I ignore you and continue looking out for any sign of Conrad Lubbox.

            You ask, “Why is Conrad Lubbox out to get you?”

            I sigh.

            “Because his dog is in outer space! Okay? Are you satisfied?” I explain to you.

            You seem confused and say, “Huh?” all confused-like.

            “Conrad Lubbox’s dog. He’s in outer space. So he’s out to get me. What is so hard to understand about that?” I ask you because it’s so obvious. I hate that I have to explain it even that much to you.

            You are thick as a brick and say, “Why did you put Conrad Lubbox’s dog in outer space though?”

            I say, “I didn’t put him there, he got there, that’s where he is so now Conrad Lubbox is out to get me.”

            You continue the Spanish Inquisition. “Wait, so if you didn’t put his dog in outer space why is he out to get you? Shouldn’t he be out to get the person who put his dog in outer space?”

            It’s a reasonable question so I answer you, “Because,” I pause. How do I put this? “Because I opened the door and he walked through it.”

            “What door?” you ask. “Did he have to go take a shit or something?”

            “I dunno,” I say. “Dogs go outdoors for lots of reasons. I think he just wanted to bask in the sun.”

            “Okay,” you say, “so what’s the big deal?”

            “I told you,” I say to you, “the fucking dog is in outer space now.”

            “But you didn’t put him there?” you confirm.

            “Duh,” I say to that silly question.

            You want to know how a dog that just goes out a door I opened winds up in outer space. I tell you it’s because I opened up the wrong door. I opened up the dog door to outer space.

 How was I supposed to know the door went to outer space? How was I supposed to know that Conrad Lubbox, the town’s foremost expert on Flat Earth Theory and heart-centered business marketing had a dog door to outer space in his house?

Had I been dog sitting for Marty Schadenfreude or Becky Ladybottom or Nilla Wayfuh, the local rap guru and string theory mathematician, I would have expected to find a dog door to outer space. But a heart-centered marketer that’s all about the Flat Earth? No way.

I hate to profile anyone but people like Conrad Lubbox have dog doors to the front yard. Or maybe they have dog doors to China. It wouldn’t be out of the question for him to have a dog door to Sodom and Gomorrah but certainly not a dog door to outer space.

Which, he did have.

“How fucked up is that?” I ask you.

You say, “Kinda fucked up,” but I don’t believe you believe it’s fucked up.

By your tone I think you think it’s perfectly normal for a guy like Conrad Lubbox to have a door door to outer space.

I say, “Ya know what? Why don’t you get the fuck out of my clubhouse?” to you.

You’re all like, “What the fuck?”

And I’m like, “Out!” as I open up the door for you to leave.

And then you go, “Fine! And another thing! A guy like Conrad Lubbox would totally have a dog door to outer space because a guy like Conrad Lubbox has the kind of dog that wants to bask in the sun!”

And you storm out.

And Conrad Lubbox storms in before I can shut the door.

He’s got his dog, wearing a Soviet-era space suit fitted for space dogs, under his arm.

I hear you laugh as you walk away.

I say, “Sup?” to Conrad Lubbox.

Conrad Lubbox closes the door.