| General Fiction posted November 13, 2024 |
  |
the secret society
Bite Club
by SimianSavant
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
Old MacDonald walked up the steps with his entourage in tow. A flock of fine-looking birds surrounded him, preening and cackling, hoping he might take notice. But Old MacDonald had more important things on his mind. He was about to meet his personal hero, Franklin.
He had prepared for the occasion by donning his finest pair of trousers, with satin undergarments. Word was that Franklin was a fashionable fellow, and might take notice.
As MacDonald approached the front door, the hens suddenly scattered in all directions. As he turned towards the source of the panic, a searing pain ripped at his posterior.
"Major! No! Bad dog!" yelled a servant. It was too late. The muscled German shepherd ripped his pants and satin underwear right off, exposing his bare buttocks. The hens gasped and giggled. MacDonald ran around and around, as Major chased him.
"And that's how one of our own bit the pants off the English prime minister in 1933," stated the instructor proudly, gesturing up at the video screen with a paw. The other dogs nodded and wagged their tails in approval.
"Can you play us the one of 'Bull Terrier' Pete?" The question came from the back. Excited barking filled the hidden underground room.
"Play. It! Play. It!" The dogs chanted in unison.
"Allright. But after that, back to training." The dogs cheered as black-and-white footage of a French ambassador approaching the White House scrolled on screen, while their protagonist watched eagerly from a concealed kitchen door, awaiting the perfect moment to shred the unsuspecting victim's pants.
***
Bite first, ask question later.
Bites will go on as long as they have to.
If it's your first time visiting the White House, you have to bite.
The initiates listened carefully as the rules were read to them.
"What's the number 1 rule in Bite Club?"
You do not talk about Bite Club, the dogs chanted back.
"That's correct. When do you stop biting?"
After you've bitten his pants off.
"Good. Dismissed! Proceed to your practice targets."
A series of mannequins with tattered dress pants were lined up on the other side of the dirty basement. As drill instructor Fido stood watch over their pup trainees, Spot approached him. "Yo. Have you noticed something's off with Commander?"
"He seems to not know... when to stop," Fido said, wryly, gesturing in his direction.
"Yeaaaaah."
***
3 MONTHS LATER
Commander circled the White House warily, hunting. It was after dark, and the moon was nearly full. Eerie shadows danced and played along the front lawn.
As a svelte male intern wearing heels and a dress walked towards the front door, Commander struck. Easily dodging the first Secret Service agent, he leaped straight for the intern's butt implants and punctured them with an incisor. "Stop that dog!" shouted the agent, as the German shepherd raised his leg for a quick victory pee on the disheveled intern's right leg.
Two more agents appeared from the shadows, attempting to corner him, but Commander was faster. As one of them reached for him, he bit the hand down to the bone, tearing through tendons. The agent's blood spewed on Commander's muzzle as he turned and went right for the testicles of the second agent. The agent dodged, just in time.
The radio barked, and Commander could hear the sound of more agents rushing to the scene. It was time to make an escape. Weaving deftly between columns, he darted around the back side of the White House and out of view.
***
"Dude. You're supposed to bite pants only. What happened?"
Commander looked up, smiling innocently at the debriefing dachshund in charge of the Secret Service dog detail. "I had to improvise," he shrugged. "They were going to catch me."
"All right, but next time we're sending you with some support, so that doesn't happen. Agents are our FRIENDS."
Spot and Fido watched from the other side of the two-way mirror. "You know," said Spot, "We could use this to our advantage. What if we spike his food with bath salts next time he's on duty?"
***
Two weeks later, Commander was on duty again. This time, there was no moon. No one would see him coming. His razor-sharp incisors awaited the entrance of the next intern. This time, he would go straight for the carotid artery.
He spotted a pair of giggling, young attractive women approaching the East Gate. They were talking about their Thanksgiving plans to visit a puppy shelter. "I've always wanted a Dalmation puppy," one of them said. "I heard there's a secret room in the White House that's full of them." As she approached the gate, Commander crouched, ready to strike.
Everyday Horror contest entry
He had prepared for the occasion by donning his finest pair of trousers, with satin undergarments. Word was that Franklin was a fashionable fellow, and might take notice.
As MacDonald approached the front door, the hens suddenly scattered in all directions. As he turned towards the source of the panic, a searing pain ripped at his posterior.
"Major! No! Bad dog!" yelled a servant. It was too late. The muscled German shepherd ripped his pants and satin underwear right off, exposing his bare buttocks. The hens gasped and giggled. MacDonald ran around and around, as Major chased him.
"And that's how one of our own bit the pants off the English prime minister in 1933," stated the instructor proudly, gesturing up at the video screen with a paw. The other dogs nodded and wagged their tails in approval.
"Can you play us the one of 'Bull Terrier' Pete?" The question came from the back. Excited barking filled the hidden underground room.
"Play. It! Play. It!" The dogs chanted in unison.
"Allright. But after that, back to training." The dogs cheered as black-and-white footage of a French ambassador approaching the White House scrolled on screen, while their protagonist watched eagerly from a concealed kitchen door, awaiting the perfect moment to shred the unsuspecting victim's pants.
***
Bite first, ask question later.
Bites will go on as long as they have to.
If it's your first time visiting the White House, you have to bite.
The initiates listened carefully as the rules were read to them.
"What's the number 1 rule in Bite Club?"
You do not talk about Bite Club, the dogs chanted back.
"That's correct. When do you stop biting?"
After you've bitten his pants off.
"Good. Dismissed! Proceed to your practice targets."
A series of mannequins with tattered dress pants were lined up on the other side of the dirty basement. As drill instructor Fido stood watch over their pup trainees, Spot approached him. "Yo. Have you noticed something's off with Commander?"
"He seems to not know... when to stop," Fido said, wryly, gesturing in his direction.
"Yeaaaaah."
***
3 MONTHS LATER
Commander circled the White House warily, hunting. It was after dark, and the moon was nearly full. Eerie shadows danced and played along the front lawn.
As a svelte male intern wearing heels and a dress walked towards the front door, Commander struck. Easily dodging the first Secret Service agent, he leaped straight for the intern's butt implants and punctured them with an incisor. "Stop that dog!" shouted the agent, as the German shepherd raised his leg for a quick victory pee on the disheveled intern's right leg.
Two more agents appeared from the shadows, attempting to corner him, but Commander was faster. As one of them reached for him, he bit the hand down to the bone, tearing through tendons. The agent's blood spewed on Commander's muzzle as he turned and went right for the testicles of the second agent. The agent dodged, just in time.
The radio barked, and Commander could hear the sound of more agents rushing to the scene. It was time to make an escape. Weaving deftly between columns, he darted around the back side of the White House and out of view.
***
"Dude. You're supposed to bite pants only. What happened?"
Commander looked up, smiling innocently at the debriefing dachshund in charge of the Secret Service dog detail. "I had to improvise," he shrugged. "They were going to catch me."
"All right, but next time we're sending you with some support, so that doesn't happen. Agents are our FRIENDS."
Spot and Fido watched from the other side of the two-way mirror. "You know," said Spot, "We could use this to our advantage. What if we spike his food with bath salts next time he's on duty?"
***
Two weeks later, Commander was on duty again. This time, there was no moon. No one would see him coming. His razor-sharp incisors awaited the entrance of the next intern. This time, he would go straight for the carotid artery.
He spotted a pair of giggling, young attractive women approaching the East Gate. They were talking about their Thanksgiving plans to visit a puppy shelter. "I've always wanted a Dalmation puppy," one of them said. "I heard there's a secret room in the White House that's full of them." As she approached the gate, Commander crouched, ready to strike.
"Can you play us the one of 'Bull Terrier' Pete?" The question came from the back. Excited barking filled the hidden underground room.
"Play. It! Play. It!" The dogs chanted in unison.
"Allright. But after that, back to training." The dogs cheered as black-and-white footage of a French ambassador approaching the White House scrolled on screen, while their protagonist watched eagerly from a concealed kitchen door, awaiting the perfect moment to shred the unsuspecting victim's pants.
***
Bite first, ask question later.
Bites will go on as long as they have to.
If it's your first time visiting the White House, you have to bite.
The initiates listened carefully as the rules were read to them.
"What's the number 1 rule in Bite Club?"
You do not talk about Bite Club, the dogs chanted back.
"That's correct. When do you stop biting?"
After you've bitten his pants off.
"Good. Dismissed! Proceed to your practice targets."
A series of mannequins with tattered dress pants were lined up on the other side of the dirty basement. As drill instructor Fido stood watch over their pup trainees, Spot approached him. "Yo. Have you noticed something's off with Commander?"
"He seems to not know... when to stop," Fido said, wryly, gesturing in his direction.
"Yeaaaaah."
***
3 MONTHS LATER
Commander circled the White House warily, hunting. It was after dark, and the moon was nearly full. Eerie shadows danced and played along the front lawn.
As a svelte male intern wearing heels and a dress walked towards the front door, Commander struck. Easily dodging the first Secret Service agent, he leaped straight for the intern's butt implants and punctured them with an incisor. "Stop that dog!" shouted the agent, as the German shepherd raised his leg for a quick victory pee on the disheveled intern's right leg.
Two more agents appeared from the shadows, attempting to corner him, but Commander was faster. As one of them reached for him, he bit the hand down to the bone, tearing through tendons. The agent's blood spewed on Commander's muzzle as he turned and went right for the testicles of the second agent. The agent dodged, just in time.
The radio barked, and Commander could hear the sound of more agents rushing to the scene. It was time to make an escape. Weaving deftly between columns, he darted around the back side of the White House and out of view.
***
"Dude. You're supposed to bite pants only. What happened?"
Commander looked up, smiling innocently at the debriefing dachshund in charge of the Secret Service dog detail. "I had to improvise," he shrugged. "They were going to catch me."
"All right, but next time we're sending you with some support, so that doesn't happen. Agents are our FRIENDS."
Spot and Fido watched from the other side of the two-way mirror. "You know," said Spot, "We could use this to our advantage. What if we spike his food with bath salts next time he's on duty?"
***
Two weeks later, Commander was on duty again. This time, there was no moon. No one would see him coming. His razor-sharp incisors awaited the entrance of the next intern. This time, he would go straight for the carotid artery.
He spotted a pair of giggling, young attractive women approaching the East Gate. They were talking about their Thanksgiving plans to visit a puppy shelter. "I've always wanted a Dalmation puppy," one of them said. "I heard there's a secret room in the White House that's full of them." As she approached the gate, Commander crouched, ready to strike.
Based on true events with historical White House dogs. Image by Copilot.
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