My Love talks too much, I decided as I left the living room of that damn Stripper woman and explored the house. He got caught up with those damn maps, too. I hated “Fun Time Atlas Dress Up Hour” with Love and Her every week. The noble beasts such as myself were not designed to resemble human migratory routes. The Canines were the keepers of the World, trusted by the Spider God KARLTOR to maintain this universe for the return of PABLOS, the Ovener, who will come again in glory to save existence from the Nothing Pandas.
It’s basic theology, and you would figure the Humans would know their stuff. But, of course, they don’t, ignorant fools. Even Love retains his ignorance, preferring to marry that hag in the outdated Cathol wedding ceremony. While it was appropriate to perform this ceremony about three millennia ago, it had gone the way of income taxes and child sacrifice in most of the civilized galaxy. But on this KARLTOR forsaken hunk of rock, they still listened to the Rolling Stones. Ignorance abounds.
I made my way through the Stripper’s modest domicile, sniffing around her rooms and linen drawers. This lass was not trustworthy, not one bit. She had to have some sort of skeletons in her closet, probably Eskimo children she’s lured into her realm with the prospect of sealskin shoes or mukluk washings. Those Inuits were suckers for a good mukluk Scrub and Shine.
This human’s home was stranger than most that I’ve encountered. Each room had a different theme, usually centered on the prevailing autonomy of these United States. The master bedroom contained flag enameled locks and chains, whips and harnesses with the stars and stripes festooned in elaborate fashion. The bed, a waterbed of sorts, was a giant flag and waved once trounced upon. The ceiling was a picture of Thomas Jefferson, the lamps Abraham Lincoln, and the telephone the Statue of Liberty, her torch the earpiece, spreading the fire of liberty through telecommunications.
The bathroom was a devotion to America’s landfills, littered with anti-recycling treatises and miniature models of the Great American Landfills, like Mt. Rumpke in Cincinnati, Wheelabrator in Pennsylvania, and all of New Jersey. The bathtub, titled “Newark Finishing School” in big, bold letters hewn into the marble, has a faintly green hue. The toilet, which the Stripper has named “Baton Rouge,” has an oddly floral scent. I could not spend much time in this room.
I ended up in the basement. Racist memorabilia adorned the walls. She was especially into caricatured depictions of Senegalese-Americans. I would have been abhorred by such tepid displays of segregationist pride had it not been for an oddly off-putting statue leaning against a far corner of the room. It was a headless John Adams, his hands stroking a goat, the animal’s face strangled in fear and anger. I sniffed along this marble creation, confused as to its meaning and purpose in this dungeon. Inquisitively, I licked the goat, hoping to extract something through my bionic tongue. The biological mechanics of my taste buds bristled over the smooth surface. Nothing special to report. Suddenly, the wall behind the statue started to shake, the hand of John Adams brushed down the goat before returning to its original position. A doorway appeared in the stone wall. A secret passage! I ventured forward into the darkness, sniffing a trail through the gloom.
The room inside was small, modestly furnished, and warm. The rocks glowed with a strange luminescence, giving off heat from unknown sources. They were not hot to the touch, but rather spewed heat from their essence. The room resembled a sauna, the humidity in the air thick. Brown, plastic bottles were strewn across the floor, with towers of two-ounce plastic cups stacked neatly up to the high ceilings.
In the corner, a faint wheezing was heard, then a cough, a brackish hack that shook the walls. No figure was around, no visible entity from which the wheeze emerged. Then a voice, low and salty, rose from the darkened corner.
“Bring me Delsym!”
I scoffed at this demand, barking to the hidden stranger, “I shall do no such thing. Show yourself or I shall be forced to eradicate you.”
“Delsssssssym,” the voice echoed again, straining to conceal its desperation.
On the floor near my feet lay a bottle half filled with liquid. The orange label read “Delsym.” I kicked it over to the corner, mere inches away from the darkness. A scaly hand emerged, snatching the bottle, retreating into the gloom in a hurry. A vast sucking noise followed, like a hog in a trough, before a giant belch bellowed in the room, the bottle thrown down in the dark.
“Oh I’m so high right now.”
“Present yourself, stranger. Or I shall be angry.”
A kangaroo foot stumbled into the light, another one emerging soon after. Big red eyes blinked at me. An odd amalgam of genetic modification, the creature now standing before me burped again. Kangaroo feet, scaly body, red eyes, cat’s paws. I barked in displeasure.
“What sort of foul beast are you?”
The creature blinked at me again, his oblong jaw gaping, the sharp teeth protruding in an ignorant grin.
“They call me Sir Bill. I am a chupacabra.”
I had never heard of such a beast, and told him so.
“Do you have any goats on you? No? Damn. I could go for a good goat right about now.”
Sir Bill stared blankly at me for several minutes and I used my bionic sensors to get a good read on this strange being. My internal zoological dictionary could find no traces of him, which was odd since I could locate every distinct species of the Moonworm genus.
“Hey bro, do you have any more syrup? I’m jonesing for a good buzz.” Sir Bill licked his lips with a forked tongue. His red eyes dimmed a bit as the psychedelic effects of the Delsym seemed to wane.
“No. How did you get here?” I implored, waving my paw at the stone walls of his cell.
“The Stripper caught me in the desert. I was high on peyote. She bribed me with sugar wafers. Those things are great munchies. I’ve been stuck in this cell for nearly a month now, surviving on cough syrup. Those give you such great, mellow highs. Oh man,” Sir Bill’s voice trailed off as he wobbled, smiling stupidly and slapping his forehead, barely missing the gigantic ears adorning his face. “Man, I think I have a problem.”
I scoffed at his suggestion, barking in impatience. “I don’t have time to meddle in your puny affairs. Why is she keeping you down here? What purposes do you hold?”
Sir Bill frowned, exasperation filling his face. “She knows my secret. And the power I hold. She’s trying to mate me with others. If that were to happen…”
“The world will be mine.” A shrill female voice filled the room. The Stripper loomed in the doorway, hands on her hips, smiling menacingly. “Enough of your blather. It’s time for us to go, all of us.”
I leapt at her, ready to strike.
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