At the edge of the desert a cozy little settlement of wooden edifications by creeks and bright yellow roofs waited patiently for someone to come and cause a needless massacre, as that was the fate of most cozy little settlements. The smoke came out of chimneys like fat dirty cotton clouds. Why? They were in a tropical zone, so what were they using the chimneys for? The answer is simple: they kept a fire burning to serve as an air conditioner. But this wasn’t an action born of naivety or magical thinking, no: this fire was mistreated, downtrodden, insulted on the daily. This fire burned with cold hatred for its captors, and thus expelled heat from the house. They had finely tuned the amount of punishment a flame needed to take, the amount of malnourishment by feeding it only diet wood, the amount of insults that one needed to shout to make it hate the family. They had devised methods to almost choke the fire out, forbidden cultivation techniques to infuse it with their violating vital energy and be able to submerge it in water near the freezing point, and even a technique to make it feel pain and develop blisters on the flame when they extinguished cigars on its surface. If the CIA would ever need to interrogate a fire, they would ask the people of Honeytown for advice.

And in the heart of this town, away from the flowerbeds and the bee houses full of bees (because this is the sort of story where this absolutely needs to be clarified) rested a building several stories high, several stories wide, and severely full of stories. Above its wide gates hung a sign with equally-spaced, red letters painted on it: M O N S T E R S L A Y E R S.

A tanned teen donning a sleeveless scarf not made of cotton extended a finger, pointing at the sign. “What this say?”

Jagger sighed and squinted. Red on green, the motherfucker had to put red on green, two shades of grey together.

“Stare at it yourself, I’ll use our connection to see through your eyes. Those colors are bad for dogs.”

Kalon nodded and did as he was asked. Jagger closed his eyes and braced for the whiplash of color and visual acuity. When you lived life in 480p red-green colorblindness, 4k full HD felt like a crime against the mind.

Jagger weathered the storm of sensations as he crawled inside Kalon’s mind. The desert had more features than that gods forsaken place. The itinerant water merchant that used to be there several weeks ago had foreclosed his humble stall due to lack of clients.

Trying to ignore the deluge of color, Jagger focused on the sign. He then returned to his own mind, astoundingly furnished compared to Kalon’s, and opened his eyes. “Monster slayers. This is the place.”

Kalon punched the oaken door open as he believed adventurers were used to do, earning the gazes of the men and women leisurely sitting around the numerous white tables, orderly spread about the expansive room, overlooked by the bar where a blonde grandma whose arms had skin flaps that would make a Quetzalcoatlus blush watched over a stove with tea-brewing intent.

Jagger made a mental note that these men of culture didn’t look like the kind that have seen so many battles that they could stare a basilisk down until it dies.

Kalon sauntered up to the counter and poked the silvery bell as if he knew what it was for. He didn’t, but the thing had a button, so it needed to be pressed. ‘Twas the law.

The woman brewing the tea turned like a webnovel reader when exposed to sunlight, curled into a little scared creature, inhabitant of liminal spaces. She eyed Kalon from the tip of his bare, dirty toes to his wide, Rottweiler framed shoulders. “You are new, and you do look the part of the people that come here, dear. But I believe you may be a bit young for a job here, sweetie.”

“I am above those of my age. I am a cultivator., I can take any beast you put in my way.”

“Not a picky one, eh?” The grandma winked, and something inside Jagger screamed. Someone there smelled like urine. Cat urine. They were in presence of a cat cultivator, mayhap?

Brunhilda remained silent, licking her paw. She knew exactly what was wrong with that place. And she wasn’t going to tell, because Brunhilda was as petty as she was mundane. And also a non-speaking dog, a fact that was probably relevant to her lack of efficient communication.

After a few moments of senile silence the woman spoke again. “Are you one of those ten thousand years teens?”

“I am so old I cannot count to my age.” Kalon told the truth.

“I suspected it. Well, sir, if you want a job, pick it from the whiteboard there, we sell notebooks if you need one to write down the details of the job. Some just remember the name and location fo the monster and scream it out loud until it comes and lunges upon them. Overall, have fun dear, and make sure to go well protected out there.” The grandma said, pointing at the board with a rheumatic finger.

Kalon’s steps were wide and secure as he approached the board, where several jobs were written down in red marker. Jagger read the one closer to him.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Client’s name: Zhoyuna Ghayina.

Species: Cockatrice.

Sex: She believes she is dealing with female anatomy. Third party needed to check.

Age: about 25

Precautions necessary: Sunglasses or blindfolds.

Optional precautions: Up to the quester’s discretion.

Additional notes: Client strongly discourages the carrying of handheld mirrors in one’s person. Client has a terrible phobia of roosters.

Pay: 20”

Jagger shook his head in disbelief. Customers being unreasonable wasn’t new, but this was monster hunting they were dealing with. He read another of the squared requests while Kalon looked at them puzzled, pretending to think.

“Client’s name: Flora Cajarena.

Species: Fegyne.

Sex: not a femboy (Properly peer reviewed)

Age: Enough to decimate tuna.

Precautions necessary: Bath before meeting if you have dogs.

Optional precautions: up to the quester’s discretion.

Additional notes: Customer likes kittens. Sometimes.

Pay: 30 and, if lucky, you get to keep the tip.”

Jagger tried to purse his lips in vain. “I think it will be better to ask a veteran or two about recommendations for people starting on the business.”

“I agree, companion!” Kalon said, and believed himself a genius: he was hiding his analphabetism with utmost efficiency.

The headed to a table with a couple empty seats and an occupied one. A burly, hairy man was drinking a cup of green tea with a woman of frail aspect and long straight hair, that occupied no seat because she had brought her own, being bound to a wheelchair and all.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” asked Jagger, because Kalon was still amazed by the concept of a chair with wheels.

“For a talking dog? Of course not!” The woman said, joining her hands in a gesture of joy.

“Well, if Glina is willing to entertain you three, so am I,” said the man, putting his cup down before patting his chest and letting out a little aristocratic burp. “I am sorry, i carry the manners of the field with me sometimes.”

“Vicento is like that, please excuse him. I take you are new in town? I never saw you around.”

“We come under the gay dance of Yggdrashell, the world nutree,” Kalon said ,crossing his arms and smiling like only a moron with an high self-esteem could.”

“Under the what?” Vicento asked.

“Guidance.” Jagger clarified.

“Ah, yes, yes, makes sense. But isn’t he too young for this job?”

“He’s a cultivator, he lost count of his age long ago.”

“Ah, I see. A prodigious son, ain’t we?” He said, extending a rough hand for Kalon to stretch.

Kalon took the man’s hand and told him his name before he seated.

“And you, talking pooch, which good boy are you?”

“Name’s Jagger, and I have a tramadol addiction,” he introduced himself like he always wanted to.

Glina felt tears building on her eyes. “Me too, Jagger, me too. You may wonder why I am on a wheelchair.”

“Not really.”

She blinked twice, staring at Jagger, first bemused, then deeply offended. “Who taught you etiquette?”

“Manners make the man, they say. And now I ask you, lady: Am I a man?”

Jagger stabbed the crippled woman with his stare.

“No… but if you are curious, I took on a job regarding dollaurs.”

“What are those?” Kalon made the first not-severely-stupid question that knocked at his door.

Vicento coughed a bit and then answered: “You know centaurs?”

Kalon nodded, his stare lost, his memory of the creatures hazy. He had heard the word once or twice, so he knew them.

“These are a hundred centaurs conjoined. The ones she dealt with had two hundred heads each.”

“And two hundred buttocks,” she added with a smile.

“More to kick, am I right?” Kalon said, and the veterans exchanged a glance.

“We don’t shame here, guy. For example, see that potus over there? That’s my best friend.”

Both Kalon and Jagger turned to look at the plant hanging from the wall. Jagger was the first to turn back. “Was he given that form by demonic techniques?”

“You may call it that. He took a job regarding a giant lamia. He loved jobs regarding lamias. This was for his favorite client, his last job, and, well…” The manly man let out a tear, and te tear was so full of testosterone that it flexed its arms and posed as it rolled down the man’s cheek. “The lamia was hungry, and she devoured him. He was… pretty okay with this development, I’d assume, having known him.”

“A glorious death in battle!” Kalon claimed, raising a finger. Jagger was, instead, doubting the sanity of these people.

“You could call it that. The thing is that we didn’t hear from him… Samurel, because I forgot to tell you his name. Sam for the friends. We didn’t hear from him for months on end, and then, the client brought him back."

“In a piece?”

Glina smiled and fidgeted with her fingers “… In a bucket. A smelly one.”

“And we used his remains as fertilizer for that Potus over there. It’s growing strong. As strong as Sam’s sword when he heard a hissing sound…” he fell into a deep, meditative melancholy.

Jagger opened his mouth as realization dawned on him. “I misread the sign at the door! Oh dear heavens! You are monster layers!”

“Guh?”

“And beautiful lays they are.” the woman bit her lip, reminding the episode that had left her disabled.

“Kalon! These people… “Jagger remembered that Kalon’s knowledge of sex was null. “These people love monsters very much and aid in their preservation! They don’t kill them.” Then he remembered the postings. “Heavens, she loves kittens… the catgirl loves kittens…”

Rigid, Jagger inclined to a side, falling from the chair. His desire to die and fossilize with the neck curled back right there growing stronger by the second.

“Aha, that was what was off. You want to kill monsters!” The manly veteran accused., and then slouched onto his chair. “That’s the guild three blocks away. The guild of monster fuckupers. No hard feelings , brothers. We both…control the monster’s population.” The man winked, and Kalon scratched his chin.

“Yeah , but what do you do, exactly?” the boy asked, and , once again, the layers exchanged a worried gaze.

“Up to where do you know how to count, boy?” Vicento asked, straightening his back

“I can almost make it to the dozen. I… have a knowledge gap from six to nine but I am working through it.”

And that’s how our least favorite minor got kicked out of the guild of Monsters Layers.