Bounty the Dog Hunter | by Tracy Lynne Oliver

His hollow-point soul, aims, fires. The dog doesn’t drop, he spatters. Bounty reloads, locks, holds his beast eye-level, grinning a “masturbating behind a bush” grin while the coffin acrylics blonde with the Coach purse pisses down her Lululemons, duck lips open at a Starbucks’ Venti circumference.


The mall security Segways over, the futuristic engine hums drowned out by the woman’s screams.


“Binky! He shot my Binky!” She’s pawing at the hairy goop remains as best she can with the disability of her two-inch claws, sort of scooping it together like if she can collect it all, Binky might reanimate.


Bounty and mall security meet shoulders, stare down at the woman crying over the pile of warm guts, a mix of bright red and hot pink—remnants of the dog’s Gucci jumper.


“Sorry ma’am,” Bounty offers. “I got a call.”


The woman wails. Mall security hands Bounty a wad of cash, his young hands trembling.


“He shit in Victoria’s Secret and in the middle of the food court! She didn’t pick up either!”


Bounty nodded, taking exactly one minute to mimic pulling out, lighting up and drawing from an imaginary cigarette before responding.


“That’s what I’m here for, son. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to head over to the airport.”


Mall security watches wide-eyed as Bounty tips his invisible cowboy hat—which is assumed to be a rust-brown, comfortably worn, smelling of sweat and leather—then turns and heads through the automatic double exit doors and into the bright of day, shotgun tucked under his arm much like the deceased Binky once might’ve been. The glass doors slide closed behind him, the NO DOGS ALLOWED, foot high decal now a bulls-eye scope with Bounty’s retreating head dead center.


Watching Bounty walk away, mall security sees saloon doors, hears the echoing tinkles of a player piano accompanying the woman’s sobs, inhales the smell of gunpowder and death, while an erection taps its awake into the warmth of its cotton home.


He climbs aboard his Segway like it’s a horse.



Tracy Lynne Oliver is attempting to make a new name for herself in this writing game. Check out her cool website: or just follow her on Twitter @T_L_OLIVER

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