I instructed Igor to set the dogs loose for the purpose of flushing Detective Helsing from his decampment in the village. Keep in mind these dogs are not your run-of-the-mill rottweilers with spiked collars, tearing towards the village in picturesque rabid savagery. Have you ever seen those increasingly smaller versions of doberman pinschers? Now picture in your mind a short filmstrip revealing successively smaller generations of dachshunds. Yes, the little dogs that resemble a long sausage with short legs and a cute face. Through the efforts of my meddling I have succeeded in reducing dachshunds down to the size of rats. My ultimate goal is a mouse or even roach sized specimen.
When I first showed one of them to Igor he made the horrific assumption that I had merely elongated a rat and used brown shoe polish on it’s fur. Only after I held the snarling little beast within the focus area of Igor’s myopia did he recognize the canine genus dachsundius sausuaglius characteristic in it’s shrunken state. As it snapped viciously at his nose Igor looked even more closely and then inquired if this was Sizzler. Not Sizzler himself, I beamed, but a sixth generation clone. I was delightfully surprised that my reckless manipulation of Sizzler’s genetic donation had not resulted in further aberrations so horrific that a sixth generation replica did not visibly reveal distortions to physical characteristics beyond those purposefully intended. It caused a profound boost to my pride that even a visually impaired dolt like Igor was able to recognize Sizzler’s features in the clone’s, and that other than the glowing red eyes, razor-glistened double claws and reduced size it was indistinguishable from any normal dachshund. Indeed, in the longer view I am quite proud of the fact only about 96% of the results of my labours result in specimens too hideous for the unprofessional eye to behold without experiencing an immediate sense of loathing and broad scale prejudicial revulsion. The part that I don’t get is that these sensations are not reserved for any of the wretches thrashing in the formaldehyde of their display jars but for me?
Anyway, Igor has released a squad of these small dachshunds to see if we can’t inspire Helsing to practice his snoopery on some other proto-biologist’s castle lair. I have a hard time picturing Helsing’s superior’s justifying to themselves the decision to further the support of his investigative efforts following review of his field reports: “Newton-Steyn’s miniature attack dachshunds cornered me on top of the radiator in my room at the inn. The claws on these things could open a can of tuna with one swipe.”
I really need to call Dracula and get some kind of sounding on why Helsing is here instead of there in Transylvania camped outside of his castle. Their rivalry goes back through generations of Helsing blood lines; so to speak.
When I first showed one of them to Igor he made the horrific assumption that I had merely elongated a rat and used brown shoe polish on it’s fur. Only after I held the snarling little beast within the focus area of Igor’s myopia did he recognize the canine genus dachsundius sausuaglius characteristic in it’s shrunken state. As it snapped viciously at his nose Igor looked even more closely and then inquired if this was Sizzler. Not Sizzler himself, I beamed, but a sixth generation clone. I was delightfully surprised that my reckless manipulation of Sizzler’s genetic donation had not resulted in further aberrations so horrific that a sixth generation replica did not visibly reveal distortions to physical characteristics beyond those purposefully intended. It caused a profound boost to my pride that even a visually impaired dolt like Igor was able to recognize Sizzler’s features in the clone’s, and that other than the glowing red eyes, razor-glistened double claws and reduced size it was indistinguishable from any normal dachshund. Indeed, in the longer view I am quite proud of the fact only about 96% of the results of my labours result in specimens too hideous for the unprofessional eye to behold without experiencing an immediate sense of loathing and broad scale prejudicial revulsion. The part that I don’t get is that these sensations are not reserved for any of the wretches thrashing in the formaldehyde of their display jars but for me?
Anyway, Igor has released a squad of these small dachshunds to see if we can’t inspire Helsing to practice his snoopery on some other proto-biologist’s castle lair. I have a hard time picturing Helsing’s superior’s justifying to themselves the decision to further the support of his investigative efforts following review of his field reports: “Newton-Steyn’s miniature attack dachshunds cornered me on top of the radiator in my room at the inn. The claws on these things could open a can of tuna with one swipe.”
I really need to call Dracula and get some kind of sounding on why Helsing is here instead of there in Transylvania camped outside of his castle. Their rivalry goes back through generations of Helsing blood lines; so to speak.
