A girl’s room is as sacred as I consider any church or ancient aboriginal land. So, were it not for the fear of the images that could have been seared into my pristine mind, I wouldn’t have knocked before entering Sabrina’s.

She was sitting at her desk, drooling on it like (I was illegally advised not to conclude this simile). She was an elephant snoring in the middle of a scrapyard. She was, over all else, open to a surprise attack.

“Mariana, go for the eyes.”

Mariana started like a rocket and launched towards Sabrina, knocking her down, licking her face with ferocious determination.

The half elf struggled to get the bitch off her, trying to cover herself from the kisses in vain.

“Get off, Mariana, get off!”

“Does not compute” She said, between lick and lick.

I stood snickering in the background. Helping her was not among my plans, and there was no force on that world or any other that could stop Mariana once she went lick frenzy.

“Mercy, mercy!”

I started reciting the copypasta about Witch Mercy, the one I knew from heart. When I finished, I gave Mar the order to stop:

“Mariana, that’s enough.”

She looked at me whale-eyed, giving a last, glacially slow lick to the half-elf’s face. Schlop.

Sabrina scrambled to get on her feet, cleaner her glasses with a piece of cloth and put them on.

“Okay, what are we doing today?”

“Your disposition is worrisome for someone that just got Mariana-swatted.”

Sending Mariana in again was tempting, but, for the sake of diplomacy, I refrained.

I walked up to her in a zigzagging fashion, which was forced by the disposition of thrash on the floor. Trash that hadn’t been tasted by me, so I couldn’t accurately describe it’s —probably metallic— flavor. It wasn’t unthinkable, however, that Mariana had tasted it, you know, with her being irredeemably a dog that behaves like a dog ought to.

What was I going to say?

Ah, yes.

I approached Sabrina. I picked up a trinket from the floor a licked it. Yummy.

“What is the meaning of this?” She asked, more confused than worried.

“I used to be a writer, it’s imperative I capture the feeling of the room accurately.”

My tongue made sweet love to the steel as I tasted the equivalent of a penny coincentration camp. It reminded me of the first day in the desert, bathing in the homeless man’s blood, drinking it for needed hydration.

“Tasty.”

She then asked the one question I have heard more than any other in my life: “Walter, what the fuck do you want?”

“If I can get a dress for Mariana —because I imagine sewing is not amongst your talents— could you create a sort of pulley system controlled by her ear movements to pull on the skirt?”

“Walter what in the 4th of July are you going on about?” Mariana said, tilting her head.

“Dogs have an excellent control of their ear positions, compared to humans. Ears, therefore, are a body part that you do not need to perform any particular role during most, or even all, dances. It’s available real estate to make up for your lack of prehensile hands.”

Sabrina’s left foot tapped impatiently on the floor. “I see. But, Walter, the most important question is: why do you want to put Mariana in a dress?”

Note to myself: Get people up to speed on the current events necessary for context before asking for weird, situational things. Would make life easier.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“We entered a competition of dog dancing?”

“Dog…dancing?” she said, pulling up a wooden chair and sitting backwards on it, with her hands resting on the chair’s back.

“Dog dancing,” I assured.

“Dog dancing!” celebrated Mariana, doing a little jump.

“Alright, now, seriously. What do you mean by—”

“Heelwork to music. We need to win to get her the bloodline thingy.”

“And you need a dress that somehow moves for that dance?”

We nodded.

“Seems like an easy task. Is my father on board with the idea?”

“He considers it extremely stupid.”

Her grimace left more than clear the fact that she agreed with that opinion.

“Help us or I will make your life miserable by taking totally legal measures.”

She opened her mouth, as if about to say something, and then closed it before putting on the thinking cap.

“No, I’d definitively wouldn’t like to see you try. You are creative, dude.”

My jaw nearly fell. It was impossible. An almost-human female that wasn’t my mother nor wanted money was saying something positive about me. It didn’t compute.

“Insult me,” I demanded.

“What?”

I approached her and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Tell me I am a neet, a loser, an otaku, that I will die a virgin. That I will never fuck you nor another female, that I will only meet the pleasure of masturbation until the end of my days.”

“Why would I do that? you are a useful guy.”

Something broke inside me. Had I failed? Had I behaved like a good person with her? Was I undeserving of her hatred, even after all those weeks living in the same gigantic castle?

I fell to my knees. I hit a trinket with one of them and squealed like a squirrel. Mariana came to lick my face and worsen the situation.

“Hate me! Hate me, woman, or I shall consider you female no more!” I commanded with the voice of a castrati.

“No. What is your problem?”

Lying on my side among the metallic trash, with tears in my eyes, I screeched.

“I dub thee a dude. And because I saw you sucking dick, I decree you are gay, too!”

She touched my forehead with her cold male-harpy hands, and I wished for the sweet release of death.

Mariana licked her hand because it was in the way of her target and she did not discriminate when it was time to be a nuisance.

“You are not suffering from fever. Did you eat anything strange lately?”

“I wish I did. Wish I was the man in The Night Face Up, victim of an impossible dream, about to be sacrificed to the male Aztec gods, in a ritual carried out by strong and manly men who, unlike you, hate me.”

“You are being unnecessarily capricious and rude. I will make the pulley system if you get the dress.”

I used my belts to lift me, and with a smug smile, stretched her hand.

“It was my pleasure to do business with you, gentleman.”

“Same for me, Lady Walter,” she said, chuckling. I found solace in knowing I would be partially guilty of her ultimate demise. “By the way, Flor is good at sewing, are you on good footing with her?”

“I tried to burn the bridges but she is the least degenerate of you all, so they were rather fireproof,” I commented in a casual tone, as if it was a menial matter.

“Well,” she opened her eyes wide, “go pester her, then.”

We happily obeyed.

Florencia’s room was swords dressed with pink sheaths, armors cuddling with designer pants, a stuffed duck taking a nap below the warrior’s helmet. It was order, a yang to the ying that was Sabrina’s.

Just stepping in such a nice place sent shivers through my spine. She was bent over a breastplate, polishing the metal without a care about the world.

We silently approached behind her back. I was subtle, extremely subtle, careful like only a sane, so very sane and intelligent man could be. Mariana was the heart thumping below the wooden planks and the following cries from the murderer.

I cleared my throat loudly while Mariana searched for the most urine-able item in the room. She even sniffed me, because discarding my person as an option for a toilet would have been negligent on her part.

“Walter, what brings you here today?” Flor asked in a casual tone.

“I need your help.”

She looked at me, her eyes a mere slit. Then she shook her head, “I will never bed you.”

“Not for that. I need your sewing skills.”

She sprung to life like a politician’s dick at the prospect of raising taxes.

“You want pants? A shirt? A stuffed eight headed-hydra with a fluffy tail?” she asked, more excited than a child on sugar and meth.

“I need a dress for Mariana. One she can use while dancing chacarera.”

She stood still for a second and blinked. Then turned back to look at her sewing machine.

“I don’t know what kind of dress that is, but if you give a drawing, I’ll see what I could do. Be warned: my services are not what you would call cheap.”

“I know; female virginity is highly prized in the sophisticated world of prostitution.”

Pouting, she crossed her well-defined arms.

“Do not call me that, please.”

“Walter, shall I further slut-shame her?” asked the always serviceable Mariana.

“Save your slurs for a rainy day. I know I save most of mine.”

Mariana pranced towards the door as she hummed. “I am going to check if it is raining outside.”

“Are you sure a talking dog is supposed to be this stupid?” Florencia whispered, as if not wanting to offend Mariana.

“A super-intelligent talking dog, mind you. She was just born that way. Her whole breed is,” I whispered back.

“Poor little thing.”

I touched her small nose with an invading finger. “Only I am allowed to feel bad for my dog.”

She retreated like an admonished puppy. “Can we discuss the job?”

I shrugged. “Sure, why not, provide me paper and something to draw on it and I will do a rough sketch of my idea. Then you tell me the price. Is that good enough?”

She nodded harder than fans of Joseph David Kucan.

I sat on one of the well-dressed chairs to rest my feet a little.

“Also, Florencia?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for considering me a cunt.”

She exploded in laughter as I closed my eyes and drifted to my happy place: a featureless void where nobody can bust my balls.