The Birth of Dog Man
Two months ago. Back in Chapter 5.
The alley was still soaked in blood and piss. Dark Benson had just ripped through the boys like a storm, leaving behind only one survivor—the tall kid in the pink shirt.
He didn’t run. Not yet.
He just stood there, shaking.
And then, Dark Benson turned to him. His voice was quiet, like a knife being slowly unsheathed.
“What are you still standing here for? Get lost. Crawl like a dog.”
The boy didn’t argue.
He dropped to all fours without a second thought.
Head low, elbows bent, knees scraping the pavement, he started crawling—awkward at first. Hesitant. Humiliated.
But then something strange happened.
He found a rhythm.
Right hand, left knee. Left hand, right knee. The motion started to flow. It felt… natural. Like he was made for this.
He picked up speed.
His limbs moved faster, smoother—his whole body began to glide across the alley like a four-legged animal. He didn’t care who was watching. He didn’t care that tears were still on his face. His mind was empty, and his body had taken over.
By the time he reached the edge of the block, he wasn’t crawling anymore.
He was running.
Running like a dog.
People on the sidewalk stared as he bolted past them, limbs pounding the ground like a greyhound off leash. A few of them even stepped back in surprise.
One guy muttered under his breath:
“Holy shit… a man runs like a dog.”
And they weren’t wrong.
He leapt over a fire hydrant. Skidded past a bus stop. At one point, he jumped clear across the street—no crosswalk, no hesitation. Just pure momentum.
The wind hit both sides of his face. It felt cool, crisp, alive.
He wasn’t scared anymore.
He wasn’t thinking about the blood, or the piss, or the monster in the alley.
He was high on speed. On instinct. On freedom.
His name was Norman.
And for the first time in his life, he started thinking about that name—Norman. No Man. Maybe his parents knew all along. Maybe he really wasn’t a man.
Maybe he was a dog.
A lone, desperate, ecstatic dog, sprinting out of the city limits with nothing but adrenaline in his chest and dirt on his palms.
The sun hit his face.
The wind kissed his cheeks.
He felt… free.
He let out a long, raw, unfiltered howl.
Not as a joke. Not to be funny.
But because it felt right.
Because it was right.
Because in that moment—
he wasn’t a victim, or a freak, or a kid in a pink shirt anymore.
He was Dog Man.
And he was born to run.
The Long Run Never Ends
Noman kept running.
He leapt over the fence of a countryside ranch and dashed right in, running alongside sheep and horses. For a moment, it felt like he was one of them—just another animal, alive in the wind. After a while, he jumped out from the far end of the field and made his way into the mountains.
One mountain.
Then another.
Then another.
He crossed rivers, hopped over narrow streams, and eventually dove straight into a lake. He swam fast, joyfully, slicing through the water like a playful otter.
Then—
A crocodile emerged, swimming straight toward him with jaws wide open.
Noman didn’t panic.
He launched upward from the water like a missile—leaping three meters into the air—then landed ten meters ahead with a splash and kept swimming.
When he reached the shore, he scrambled out, soaked head to toe.
He shook his entire body, flinging water everywhere—just like a dog.
He rested for less than a minute. Then he ran again.
This time, he charged straight into a dense, eerie forest.
He leapt from one branch to the next, agile and unthinking, and soon pushed through the entire rainforest.
Up ahead was a clearing.
A desert.
He sprinted into it, wild and fast. His tongue hung out to release the heat.
By nightfall, he had already run through the desert, passed through a small village, and left it behind without stopping. He crossed an ice field. Then a volcano. Then another strange place. Then another. Then another.
He just kept going.
Eventually, he reached a massive grassland, far from human civilization.
There was no sign of anyone. Just him. Just earth. Just air.
He didn’t even know anymore—had it been three days? Five?
He didn’t care.
He collapsed onto the grass.
Exhausted.
Flat on his side.
His two arms and two legs were stretched out in a single direction, lined up along one side of his body like he’d fallen stiff and straight.
His tongue drooped out of his mouth, his eyes half-lidded, panting gently in the breeze.
It was bliss.
He had run so far, so long, so fast…
he might’ve crossed into another country.
He didn’t know.
Didn’t need to know.
Because in that moment, under the sky, in the grass, breathing deep and free—
Hunger Strikes
Noman fell asleep not long after collapsing in the grass.
When he opened his eyes again, it was already midday. The sun was shining down. The grass swayed gently in the wind. It was beautiful. Too beautiful.
A place straight out of someone’s dream.
He lay there, breathing slowly, eyes half-open.
“This… this is it.”
“No job. No noise. No rent. Just sun and grass forever.”
It felt like a perfect life.
A wild, dog-like heaven.
But dreams don’t last.
Suddenly, a deep, hollow pain echoed from his stomach.
A loud growl. A twisting ache.
He froze.
“Wait… I haven’t eaten in days.”
His body started to tremble. His arms felt heavy. His legs were numb.
All at once, he realized—he had no energy left.
The running had drained everything.
The hunger was real now. Not poetic. Not symbolic. Just hunger.
Sharp. Stupid. Brutal.
Panic set in. His vision blurred.
“Am I gonna die out here?”
“Seriously? After all that running? I’m just gonna starve to death like an idiot?”
He looked around, desperate. Grass. Just grass.
No food. No shelter. No people.
The sun was still warm. The wind still soft. But it meant nothing now.
There was no peace in beauty when your body was shutting down.
His eyes faded. His limbs stopped responding.
His brain gave up.
He passed out.
—
When he came to again, it was night.
He felt something wet brushing his cheek.
His eyes blinked open slowly.
A golden retriever was licking his face.
Soft. Gentle. Steady.
And behind it—more dogs. Big ones. Small ones. A tiny teddy-sized one bouncing near his feet. They were all watching him. Calm. Quiet. Present.
Noman didn’t know where they came from. Or why.
He didn’t care.
There was something honest in the way the retriever licked him—something kind.
And then… something strange clicked.
He stuck out his tongue.
And gave the golden retriever a small, slow lick on the neck.
It was instinct. Pure instinct.
Not to be weird. Not to be funny.
But because, deep inside, he knew—
He was one of them now.
Alpha’s Favorite Dish
Just as Norman and the golden retriever were gently licking each other—bonding in the strange, quiet language of dogs—another figure approached.
A husky stepped forward, carrying something in its mouth.
It dropped the object gently in front of Norman.
It was dark. Hard. Misshapen.
Norman looked down at the thing… then up at the husky.
He blinked.
“What the hell is this?”
The husky let out a few short barks.
And somehow—Norman understood.
“This piece… I’ve saved it for days. Didn’t even eat it myself. It’s special to me.”
“I’m the leader of this pack. We brought down a buffalo last week. We ate almost the entire thing.”
“This was the last piece. My favorite piece. I kept it hidden. Just for me.”
“But today… you need it more than I do.”
“Eat. Or you’ll die.”
Norman’s eyes filled with tears.
He was moved.
This… this was real pack loyalty.
The kind of gesture that transcended language.
He reached out and hugged the husky tightly, overwhelmed with gratitude.
Then he did something instinctual.
He rolled onto his back—arms and legs stretched out on one side of his body, belly exposed.
And as he did… a tiny stream of urine squirted out of him.
It was involuntary. Humiliating.
And completely sincere.
It was submission.
He had officially declared himself as the husky’s little brother.
The husky nodded once, proud but calm.
Then he spoke again, firm and direct:
“Eat it. Eat until you’re full.”
“Tomorrow, we hunt together.”
Norman wiped his face, still crying, and reached out for the gift.
He picked it up.
Paused.
Sniffed.
His eyes widened.
“…Holy shit.”
It was shit.
Literally.
Bullshit.
The golden retriever leaned in next to him and spoke in a cheery, friendly tone:
“Our Alpha LOVES buffalo shit. It’s his favorite dish.”
“He’s sharing it with you.”
“Feed yourself now!”
The tone was light—but the energy was intense.
All the dogs were watching.
Their faces were serious. Respectful.
This was clearly an honor.
Norman looked around, panicked.
They’re serious… they want me to eat it. They’re all watching. I can’t refuse…
I’m starving. I’ll die if I don’t eat something. But… this?
His stomach growled.
His vision blurred again.
He was shaking.
So he opened his mouth.
Took a bite.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
The texture was horrifying. The smell was worse. The taste… didn’t even have a name.
But he kept going.
One painful bite at a time.
Until it was done.
Then—he lifted his chin.
Closed his eyes.
And forced a smile.
“Oh yeah, baby…”
It was fake.
Completely fake.
But nobody needed to know that.
New Life in a Pack
That night, the dogs didn’t sleep.
They talked.
All twelve of them—big, small, scarred, scruffy—sat in a loose circle under the moonlight, sharing stories like old war buddies.
Norman just listened at first. The golden retriever sat beside him. The husky, a bit apart, calm and quiet like a leader.
One by one, the dogs spoke.
They told him they used to be pets.
Not fighters. Not hunters.
Just pets.
Living rooms, chew toys, afternoon naps by the couch. They had homes. Names. Collars with little bells.
But not anymore.
One by one, their owners had taken them out for a “trip.” A hike. A camping day. A car ride with the windows down.
And right when they were happy—panting, tails wagging, running through the grass—
their humans drove away.
No goodbye.
No explanation.
Just the sound of tires peeling off, fading into the distance.
They were left behind.
In the wild.
Confused.
Abandoned.
And they never saw those cars again.
Norman slammed his hand on the ground.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
“They did it on purpose. They couldn’t afford to keep you anymore. So they ditched you.”
The dogs tilted their heads.
“Afford?”
“On purpose?”
They didn’t understand.
Norman looked at their confused faces and realized—they didn’t get it.
Money meant nothing to them.
They still held on to the memory of their owners with… love.
Painful, desperate love.
He exhaled.
Softened his tone.
“It’s okay. We can live out here. We can hunt. We can survive.”
The husky raised his chin.
The others followed.
And one by one—they howled.
Together.
Their voices echoed across the open plain, rising into the sky like smoke from a sacred fire.
The sound was raw.
Beautiful.
Tragic.
Even the moon seemed to pause and listen.
—
By morning, the hunt had begun.
They chased a wild boar through the hills, barking and snapping, darting through the tall grass like a wolfpack in motion.
Usually, it took them nearly an hour to wear one down.
But this time… they had Norman.
He didn’t bark.
He didn’t hesitate.
He leapt.
Ten meters—maybe more—straight through the air.
And came down on the boar like a meteor.
It hit the dirt with a thud. Screamed. Kicked.
Norman wrapped his arms around its tusks and plunged his mouth into the boar’s throat.
He bit down.
Hard.
He didn’t let go.
Not for a full minute.
The boar’s legs kicked wildly… then slowed…
then straightened… stiff.
Dead.
Norman stood up.
Blood on his face.
He dragged the boar across the dirt and dropped it at the husky’s feet.
The husky nodded once.
“Good boy.”
Then he ate first.
One piece at a time, savoring it slowly.
After the alpha finished, the rest of the pack stepped in—eating their share with quiet discipline.
Norman waited.
When it was finally his turn, all that was left were bones… and the boar’s genitals.
He didn’t complain.
He ate what he could. Chewed slowly. Swallowed quietly.
And smiled.
Because for the first time…
he felt like he belonged.
He didn’t need a house.
He didn’t need furniture.
He didn’t even need real food.
He had a pack.
He had a place.
And for now, that was enough.
I Still Miss Him
It was a quiet night.
The kind of night where the stars feel like they’re holding their breath, and even the wind doesn’t want to speak too loudly.
The dogs were asleep—curled up across the grass like a dozen warm, breathing stones. Norman was out cold too.
Until… his bladder woke him up.
He sat up slowly, scratching his head, still half-asleep.
“Where’s the bathroom…?”
He wandered around the field for a few minutes—checking behind rocks, near trees, even pacing in small circles like something might magically appear.
Then it hit him.
“Oh shit. This isn’t human society.”
There was no bathroom.
So he walked up to a nearby tree, lifted one leg, and let loose—just like a dog.
It was instinct now.
But before he turned back to sleep, he noticed something.
Out in the open field, under the full moon, the golden retriever was sitting alone—head tilted upward, staring at the sky. He wasn’t sleeping.
He wasn’t moving.
Norman slowly walked over.
Stood beside him.
He looked up too.
The moon was perfectly round. Almost fake-looking.
“Hey,” Norman said softly.
“You okay? You look… kind of sad.”
The retriever didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the moon.
Then, quietly:
“I miss my owner.”
His voice was gentle. Almost grateful.
“It’s been three years since I saw him. But I still remember his face. So clearly.”
Norman stayed silent.
The retriever continued.
“He always wore pajamas. His hair was shaped like a watermelon—what do you call it… a bowl cut?”
“He was just a little boy. A small one.”
Norman blinked.
“Wait a second…”
“You’re talking about Benson?”
“That loser? The one who beat the crap out of me and turned me into this?”
But the retriever didn’t notice Norman’s change in tone. He was lost in the memory.
“Every day when he got home, he’d come find me first. He’d punch me in the ribs, kick me in the belly… that’s how he showed me love.”
“He always laughed when I yelped. We had such a bond.”
Norman’s face froze in horror. The retriever’s face softened in nostalgia.
“But one day, he took me on a trip. We went far out. I thought it was just another adventure.”
“We were running in the grass… it was a good day.”
“And then… he got in the car… and drove away.”
“I think he just forgot to take me back.”
The retriever smiled.
“I still love him.”
“I still believe he’ll come back someday.”
Norman didn’t know what to say.
And then the retriever looked at him and added, proudly:
“He gave me a name, you know.”
Norman braced himself.
“He called me… Retarded.”
Silence.
Norman’s jaw tightened.
The retriever smiled, tail wagging gently.
“He always shouted it with so much energy. RETARDED!!”
“I miss his voice so much.”
Norman looked away.
The moon looked a little too bright now. The night a little too quiet.
And next to him, the retriever named Retarded just kept smiling—
his tongue hanging out.