With the Necromancer’s Chacarera memorized by Mariana’s announcers, we parted the morning of the day of the pageant. Florencia and Sabrina wanted to come with me to see their manufactures perform. Violeta had been invited, but she decided to stay at home, and Mateo had said that if he came and I managed to lose in the usual Walter Fashion, I would not see the dawn again. Whether that meant killing me, throwing me into the dungeon or plucking out my eyes, I didn’t know.

We sat on a comfortable red sofa in one of the corners of the greenroom. Most dogs there were excellently behaved, with their owners not even needing to speak to them for the animals to remain calm. Mariana, on the other hand, was licking the head of a purebred brachycephalic aberration with the intent of making a trench on its head.

A Doberman stared at me, and I stared back at her. She sat proud across the room, next to a blonde teen dressed in pastel tones. The sophisticated yet imposing air of the dog contrasted with the easygoing mannerisms of the sweet girl, that was chit-chattering with an old lady who owned a gold-and-black Shih Tzu that was more hair than dog. It was stuffed on a cage, growling, waiting, yearning for release.

“Témpera is so cute, as rude and scary as you see her here, she is a total sweetheart,” I overheard the Doberman’s owner say.

“Rapunzilla is a monster. She killed a Grand Dane once,” replied the cute grandma.

I was tempted to ask how, but then I remembered Mariana had survived being mauled by several pit bulls unscathed.

The place was calm and well illuminated, which wasn’t a benevolent situation for Sabrina. It accentuated her pale skin, betrayed the imperfections of her cutis. Outside the darkness of the castle, of their cave, the princess was nothing to marvel at, just another hillbilly that was a bit too close to her dad.

“Look, a Dalmatian!” began one of my belts.

“No, that’s an anorexic Holstein,” argued a second.

“Then how do you explain the lack of udders?”

“Got a reduction due to bodily image issues.”

“Ah. Makes sense,” conceded the first. That earned me the stares of both half elves.

“You are aware of the fact that you can shut them up, right?” Sabrina hinted.

“I am a firm believer of free speech.”

“Dad isn’t,” chirped in Florencia.

“Your dad is not here and I am the responsible adult of the group,” I retorted, slightly annoyed.

“We are all adults here,” noted Sabrina.

“Keyword: responsible.”

“What about me?” asked Mariana.

“The misbehaving dog talks,” stated every stranger around us, in unison.

Silence being the sane man’s option, I took it without hesitating.

An old lady with short, grey hair entered the room, and stole everyone’s stares, save for Mariana’s: She was too busy grooming the pug. The woman, who handled herself with a refinement proper of a professional, cleared her throat and swoop the room with her eyes.

“What a colorful competition we shall have this year,” She said, and a couple of Border Collies appeared from behind her figure. “They are Curft and Yramyar. They will be in charge of looking after you while other contestants give us all the show we hope will leave us awed.”

I raised my hand “Why use dogs for that?”

“Loyal, reliable, cheap labor. And people are more prone to obey the dogs than to obey human employees.”

Defeated by her undeniable logical high ground, I shut up.

“I should have picked up beastmaster, maybe I’d be able to control Mariana.” I mumbled, scowling.

“It’s not easy to be a beastmaster, sir, the young vermin are rather hard to control without an iron will,” said the Doberman’s owner, and the dog nodded in agreement. I almost wished Mariana was that obedient.

“You are like, fifteen, girl. What would know about it?” questioned Sabrina.

“We youngsters understand each other. Also, I am seventeen.”

“Good, it’s almost legal…” I began, and that earned me the stares of everyone in the room, and a snarl from the Doberman, “…to kill her in self-defense,” I completed my sentence and people immediately stopped paying attention. Their heads were in the gutter, I swear.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

The old lady parted, and the collies sat in the room corners, watching intently over us. Their faces revealed the fact that they saw us as mere sheep to be guided and dance for their masters. Fuck Border Collies, man.

Let it be known that the previous sentence isn’t a call to arms for furries nor stereotypical white girls. I despise them too.

A few moments later, they called for the first participant in the heelwork to music contest. A man built like a greyhound held in his arm a leash, at which far end a dachshund trotted with airs of confidence.

“Good luck, fellow,” I wished him, giving the ghoulish man a thumbs up.

He didn’t talk, but reciprocated the gesture. I noticed he carried a flute in his back pocket, probably to be used on his act.

I sat up, called for Mariana and headed for the door that led to the stands. It was imperative to see other contestants perform, to know what we were facing, as there’s nothing worse than uncertainty when one tries to remain calm.

Once in the stands, Mateo’s daughters sat to my sides and Mariana on our laps (she is a stretchy gal) and I caressed her dress while the dachshund and his owner strode to the center of the field. The lights dimmed, a floating shining orb descended over man, and a circular basket where the Dachshund didn’t hesitate to jump into appeared in scene.

He started playing the flute. Shadows danced around him, dark shapes of hands and heads and arms and torsos appearing for an instant before dissolving again among the murk. Passersby without faces stopped and stood in awe, clapping when the dog, like a snake, rose from the pot, wiggling from side to side like possessed by the vengeful spirit of Shakira’s youth. This summer… from the creators of Weiner dogs… on your nearest ICEA quarters… the danger noodog!

Florencia applauded and laughed, enjoying the spectacle like a little girl would. Sabrina found the ceiling more interesting. People around us remained politely silent as the man and his dog solemnly performed.

Eventually, more orbs of light burst forth from the darkness, and illuminated three people, sat on a table across from where the man was performing.

“Enough,” said a tall, dark haired man that sat at the center of the table. A slight wave of pain traversed my head, and, as clear as day, I knew the score each member of the jury had given to the Daschund enchanter. “While rhythmical movements from side to side could be considered dancing, this is Heelwork to music. It’s antithetical to the spirit of the competition to sit down and stay on the center of the scenario. You and your dog are talented, but the particular choreography you choose results insulting to me. I hope you understand why I had to give you such a stern, low score. Come back someday, with a refined choreography that shows us this talent of yours in a looser way, in a way that’s less…” The man inhaled, hesitated “…restrictive. That feels less like a jail and more like an anthem to freedom.”

“Nothing to add on my part, my peer has said it all,” added the hypocritical owner of the Border Collies.

The wiener seducer was dismissed, and the next contestant called. This one walked in with an air of superiority only achievable by holding Mateo as a model, as the peak of masculinity. He was a young, slim man followed by a trio of cockers. His head shaved, he wore mirrored sunglasses and a golden cross necklace.

Raising his hand, a lightning born from the dome above us struck it, and a small trinket appeared in his hand. He attached it to the neck of his white blazer.

“Excuse my autotune, dear people. It is necessary,” he said, with autotune.

“A partymancer. Fuck,” mumbled Sabrina, without autotune.

Lights went off once again and the orb illuminated only the partymancer.

“Tomás Manaos!” a second voice full of echoes announced.

“Yeah, you begged for food from my plate the first day after I brought you home, babe…” began singing Tomás.

Music ensued, the tropical rhythm flooding the room like a miasma that arose from hell (Henceforth referred to as Dominican Republic).

“Ohh, a nenear, perras!” The cockers jumped into scene. They wore skimpy clothes and shook their butts like their lives depended on it. I cringed against my chair, wanting to escape that situation, to cleanse my mind from the booty-shaking cockers.

“And babe, believe me when I say you saved my heart like good melarsomine…”

I considered Delpoodloning myself with the business end of Mariana. Of course, the idea was quickly discarded, for that would have ruined her dress.

“…Y míra qué duras están esas perricuras, se caen de maduras…”

This was hell on Planet. Was this my comeuppance? The logical conclusion of all my debauchery and vileness? How could it be? How could the peerless Walter Gallardo fall for a trap so simple and effective?

When the cockers started reverse twerking against the legs of the man, I decided that I had had enough and pulled out the fine literature I had (Pur)loaned from the library. Given they had infinite copies and nobody ever asked for classics of the caliber of “Don’t dissolve my mortal flesh, Slimatoro,” I doubted the fish would care too much.

“Walter, what are you reading?” Asked Sabrina.

“Highbrow slime girl erotica,” I answered, not caring about what she could think.

That shut her up. Good.

“How does he marry a slime before making love? Wouldn’t she dissolve the bond?” asked Florencia, and you could notice it was a genuine concern of hers.

“Slimes are… slimes are paganists, Flor.”

She opened her eyes wide.

“I was friends with one! Yuck!” She sat up and stormed in direction to the bathroom.

“Good job Walter, she will feel dirty for weeks on end now.”

I giggled like a perverted moron. “A job well done.”

The performer finished his act and bowed to the public.

“Get an honest job!” yelled a mildly angry old lady.

“Make me die tragically in the birth of our fourteenth or sixteenth ugly fat baby!” asked politely a young girl from the public, throwing a spare bra in his direction.

Tomás grabbed the undergarment from the floor and promptly ate it, chomping on it as if it were a pancake.

“Your gift will be in my heart, babe,” he assured, gesturing by putting both hands in front of his chest an imitating a heartbeat.

A second later, he fell dead on the floor, HP bar plummeting from 100 to 0, legs to the sides of his body, contorted hands in strange positions. That made me feel a warm sensation on my chest. Happiness from the culling of the competence.

“Never eat a bra, folks: it could be poisoned.” advised the third member of the jury, a slim, bald, black woman that until now had remained silent.

Parahealers came, dressed in their white and red robes with cowls and surprisingly tight fitting sleeves, and with levitation spells raised the body. Body around which the cockers had started twerking a last farewell, and didn’t seem to be willing to stop doing so, thus having to be levitated and carried away too. I like to imagine they were buried besides Tomás, forever twerking in the corners of his coffin.