I know onions in Earth are approximately round but some things are unacceptable. Onions being round among them. So I rushed to the vents to find god and complain, of course! When something is wrong with the world, you annoy the people with the power to change them until they agree or you end up dead in ditch, that’s what I learned by asking Walter for food at 3 AM. My platter being empty is wrong.

I jumped and jumped and them climbed the walls like possessed to reach the vent duct. Ducts are not related to ducks. Ducks are generally retrievable; ducts are seldom so. Important difference.

The ducts were painted with fire-mud and there was a level 500 rat slowly making her way up there.

“Are you going to speak to god too?” I asked Mrs. Rat.

She turned with difficulty and looked at me in askance.

“Me no speak English,” said the rat.

“It’s telepathy.”

“Fuck. No, I don’t intend on meeting my maker. Are you going to fight or fly, Goldilocks?” the rat said, showing her massive incisives.

I appeasement-licked her to appease her.

“Gross! Gross! I will need a month in the sewer to cleanse this violation of my person!” She turned again, frantically scratching the metal with her tiny cute paws, and ran away, taking the right turn in the crossvents. “A trimester, even, woe is me!” her telepathy came down the metallic tubes. It, as it is natural, echoed.

I kept crawling through it like a secret agent. Some stretches in the way are tight but I, Mariana Ursula Gallardo, am fluffy enough to manage. I licked a bobbly brown thing on the wall. It was unyummy. I vomited right there. I licked my vomit back where it should be. That is, inside my vomit stash. Vomit, like blood, can’t be a good thing to take out of one’s body. Eventually, after taking a turn to the left, at long last, I found the Demiurge, in due time. He was dressed in a formal suit and, sitting at a very peeable desk, waited inside a dark room lit solely by his mask.

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“So, Mariana, dear, you have filled a complaint against reality, correct?” he said, perusing some peeable papers.

“I like my onions like Walter likes his women: polygonal.” (Walter’s note: this is despicable defamation.) “Why are they round and poisonous to dogs, huh? That cannot be, it’s anticonstitutional.”

The Demiurge steepled his fingers.

“Where does it say that in the constitution of reality? Oh, I forgot, it doesn’t exist”

I used my spell Call Forth constitution of reality. Opened the boom with my snout, and placed my dirty paw over article one thousand nine hundred twenty-seven, section three, paragraph four. “Balls shouldn’t kill dogs under any circumstances.”

“But you see, Mariana, onions don’t count as balls,” he said, his mask smirking smugly.

“Objection! I have right to a muttorney.”

He reclined in his peeable chair, “Guess you do. Go ahead, summon your demon.”

I casted invoke Pawyer. A rift to hell opened besides us, Hands of the damned trying to crawl out of the pit of fire, the Wakfu opening blaring out from below on constant repeat, and a little white paw that grabbed the edge. Then another. Slowly, a Blenheim King Charles Cavalier clambered up the ledge, his ears tinted white and embellished with rollers.

“Madame Mariana, I am at your service,” he said, with a marked hell accent. “Monsieur Demiurge, my client…”

“Why do you speak like a stereotypical Frenchman?”

“The French demiurge developed hell, monsieur.”

He made a minute of silence, then sighed, and the mask frowned. “Of course he did, la concha de mi madre.”

“As I was saying, mondieu, my client is demanding a constitutional article to be respected, and, according to the interuniversal treatise for ball definitions, any spherical item could be considered a ball suitable for dog use if it is of the appropriate size, which is defined as ‘about the size of an average apple’ therein. Therefore, my client demands a fixing of the onions, so they either become no toxic to dogs, or lose their round shape. If no actions are taken, we will sue.”

I looked at the King Charles Cavalier, “I am representing myself, you are my advisor only, and therefore dismissed.”

“Madame, you cannot do this to me, the only entertainment down there are videogames,” he pleaded.

“Doesn’t seem so bad,” I said.

“Just Dance, Madame, only editions of Just Dance.”

“Sacrebleu!” uttered the Argentinian demiurge. The then snapped his fingers made out of tiny hands and the Pawyer disintegrated.

“I want a redo of the onions or a ontological compensation” I demanded, hitting his desk with my open paw.

“Fine, have your cubical onions.” The Demiurge asked, and both him and the desk disappeared in a flash of light, leaving me alone amidst the darkness.