Hey there, apocalypse aficionados! It's your doomsday DJ, Danny D, spinning yet another yarn from the frayed edges of our tattered reality. Today's twisted track? The Prowler. You ever had the weirdly specific urge to see what would happen if Venom fucked Lassie? You pervert? Well, buckle up, buttercup—we're about to get graphical.

Picture this: you're tiptoeing through the remains of what used to be Mrs. Jenkins' prized rose garden, and out from behind a wilting bush comes this... thing. It's like someone put a dog through a photocopier of hell, hitting 'enlarge' and 'nightmare-fy' a few times too many. Those are settings, right?

First things first, this ain't your grandma's Yorkshire terrier. In the gloom, the Prowler's silhouette is a grotesque pantomime of the companions we once loved. It prowls, a parody of predatory perfection, with a hide armored in an alien carapace that catches the starlight in ways no earthly flesh should.

This Prowler's head is an elongated mess of teeth—so many teeth—like for real, why do every variations of these damned things have so many teeth?! I just, for once, wanna see a Turned that's gonna gum me to death. Ooh, wait, no, that's a crushing death. Those aren't good. 

Adorned around its brow is a spiky ridge, like the remnants of a halo that decided it had enough of playing harp music and went full heavy metal instead. Some of 'em got ears, the ones that do freak me out the most, like somebody stapled bat ears to the top, sumbitches got built in sonar, I swear. 

The eyes. Four of them. Glowing with the cool fire of a blue dwarf star. They don't just pierce the soul; they shred it to ribbons. Once symbols of unwavering, unconditional love and fidelity, now shine with the malice of the feral abyss, ever vigilant for the thrum of a heartbeat to quench its monstrous desires. When those babies lock on to you, congratulations! You've officially been promoted to prey.

I suppose that in the right light, these things go past "cool" and reach for "beautiful." It's decked out in this thick, almost liquid armor that shimmers in the half-light with an iridescence that screams, "Touch me, and it's the last thing you'll ever do." These things are coiled springs, muscles upon muscles, ready to pounce. Watching it move is like seeing ballet if ballet involved more mauling and less Tchaikovsky. Fido got his fuckin' Wheaties. Not to mention those claws. I swear, they could carve sonnets into titanium. Not that it's the poetic type—unless you count evisceration as a form of artistic expression. Which, hey, have you met some of those Raiders? I do believe it may be considered just that these days, with the way some of those bastards are. 

But here's the kicker: the tail. This thing's got a tail that'd make the devil say, "I need one of those." It's all sleek and sinewy, with a barb that looks about as friendly as a tax audit. It's definitely not for making balloon animals. I've seen one of these dudes rip a man in half by accident. Never been pricked by one myself, but rumors hold that it's got some kind of poison in it, numbing agent. Nick ya and you'll bleed, bleed, bleed, but won't feel it and you'll just run your happy ass right back to camp thinking you're fine and then they track ya at their leisure, for a quick snack on your mother-in-law. 

Now, the Matriarch might be the queen of this hot mess we call life, the Reavers little worker bees, busy hollowing out whatever shit they're doing out there in the mountains. but the Prowler? They are the soldiers, defending the hive and dragging home the bacon. Your bacon. It's the shadow lurking in your peripheral vision. While she's busy making royal decrees, the Prowler's down in the trenches, doing the dirty work with a kind of lethal grace that's almost admirable. Almost.

So what do you do when you encounter the prowling Picasso of pain? Well, first of all, you sure as heck don't try to pet it. Unless you're looking to lose a hand—or, you know, worse. They're a bit softer than some of the other variants I've come across, a good twelve gauge'll put 'em right in the dirt. But keep in mind that they hunt in packs - watch your back!

That's the Prowler for you—a creature that's the mascot for, "It's a dog-eat-dog world." Only, in this case, it's more like a, "In Post-Apocalyptic Earth, Dog Eat You" kind of deal.

Until next time, this is Danny, signing off with the hope that our paths cross in better times—preferably in a world with fewer apex predators turned pet projects gone awry. Something something stay alive out there! Honestly, I just re-read this whenever I'm taking a shit, nobody else is gonna see this. 

Danny here again, ready to spill the tea on my first dance with the modern-day Cerberus – the Prowler. Grab your popcorn, 'cause this story's a doozy.

There I was, just a simple guy trying to survive the collapse of civilization one canned bean at a time. I was creeping through what used to be a quaint little neighborhood – think white picket fences, now doubling as makeshift spears. No, really, that's what I had for a weapon. It's genuinely amazing I've survived this far, and maybe it's too late for a disclaimer, especially if you've been taking my advice - I am really not good at survival. You think I ever went fucking camping before this? I thought a plastic oar was good enough to protect myself with for the first three weeks.

Anyway... I was hunting for the Holy Grail of the apocalypse: a can opener that hadn't rusted over!

Out of the eerie silence came a sound like a chainsaw trying to serenade my testicles directly up into my stomach. I turned, and there it was: the Prowler. It was stretched out like a crocodile sunbathing, and those eyes—glowing like blue fireflies on steroids—were fixed on me.

The thing had a back like a mountain range, all jagged spines and valleys of muscle, and its tail was doing this hypnotic swaying thing that said, "Come closer, I just wanna sting a little." 

So, what did your hero do? Well, folks, I did what any self-respecting survivor would: I froze like a stream of piss in the Arctic Circle. The Prowler cocked its head, probably wondering if I was a threat, or just an exceptionally large can of Spam.

It stood, and stretched, clearly not worried - which was a tiny bit insulting looking back on it. I had a fucking piece of wood in my hands, how dare it not fear me?

It was close enough now that I could see my reflection in its glossy eyes, and let me tell you, I've never looked more appetizing.

As our eyes met, for a second, I saw it—the spark of what used to be man's best friend. Then reality crashed back as it let out a growl that sounded like a garbage disposal having a bad day. Think chicken bones and kitty litter, no water. That did the trick, bringing me back home from imagining a future as dog shit on the side of the road. Oh man, stepping in a pile of Prowler shit is the worst. They eat everything but aren't very good at digesting it. Let's just say I've built up a respectable watch collection from mining dog turds. But that's a story for not-another-time.

Did I run? You bet your last roll of toilet paper I did. I ran like the wind, like my pants were on fire, like my life depended on it—because, well, it did. I sprinted through backyards, vaulted over those spear-fences, and didn't stop until I was three suburbs over and gasping for air like a fish on land.

The Prowler didn't follow. Maybe it had a sense of humor, or perhaps it just wasn't in the mood for fast food. Jesus Christ, seriously, looking at all these, why the fuck am I alive? Don't... Don't listen to me. Just throw this away now, for the love of God. 

So there you have it, the ballad of my first tête-à-tête with the Prowler. I hope you didn't pull my diary out of a pile of dog shit. Damn, that's depressing.