In the beginning, not an ounce of biological intelligence existed in the universe. Millions of years and complex interactions of the physical, the divine, and Susan the Acanthostega that constantly complained to evolution’s manager to get digit reduction coupons resulted in this number steadily raising, a process that culminated some thousands of years after humanity spread across the globe. Then one day Kalon was conceived and that value dropped deep into the negatives.
Samari was almost considering taking her dagger, buying the dip and then causing a sharp rise back into the green via strategical stabbing. The airhead was ripping blades off the grass and telling it to not run while holding sharp objects. Jagger was combing Brunhilda’s hair by gently nipping it, which didn’t bother Samari because, talking or not, he was a dog at the end of the day.
Kalon crouched next to a bunch of grass, saluted it with a polite bow, and proceeded to defoliate it. He then ate the grass blades, something that is pretty bad for enamel due to the phytoliths—you know, the little fragments of silica that make grass and glass have so much in common? Of course not: you guys have never touched the former—. For the record, he did not moo. No. He definitively did not moo. Absolutely. Believe me, I am the narrator, and one hundred percent reliable regarding these subjects.
“Is he making cow sounds?” Samari didn’t mutter, because he was not mooing.
Jagger didn’t pause his task to answer that inexistent muttering. “Nothing out of the usual”.
“Moo!” Kalon didn’t terrorize grasswomen and grasschildren with his sap-curling warcry.
“Welp, when he is done, we got to go. We discovered why the place is, and imagine the scare quotes, haunted. Our work here is done and by the end of the week we are returning to Honeytown to get paid enough to buy a bag of apples.”
Samari’s tic returned. She began fidgeting with her hands. “You came here to investigate a possible invasion by vengeful spirits… for a bag of apples?”
“No, the coin needed to buy a bag of apples. That’s the acquisitive power of our payment. Was, when we parted, as inflation is a girl,” Jagger said, with all the intent to use the last world as a slur.
Samari desisted from asking what Jagger meant. “So you go and leave me alone again?”
“You can come with us if you want. You are clearly a civilized child lost in an overgrown environment. I am no pit bull; I have no urge to maul children. My breed is a proudly mauler of adults—and annoying brats—only.” Jagger panted, showing his yellowed, sharp teeth.
“Burr,” Brunhilda, who was overseeing Kalon’s botanic disarm operation, added.
“And children used as narco-soldiers, right.”
“Who’s the worst in your group? it’s like you three are trying to one up each other all the time.”
Kalon began retching, catching Samari’s attention. His chest spasmed, his ribs marked against his thin abdomen. On all fourths, Kalon kept going through the motions necessary to empty his stomach for almost a full minute. Samari scratched her head, not knowing how to react, or if she was supposed to offer help. The dogs seemed unbothered by Kalon’s dilemma, and they knew him better than she did.
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A bulge emerged, bloodied and covered by something akin to a bag, from Kalon’s mouth. This sorry membrane soon ruptured, revealing the fluffy black contents on his interior. The arising puppy stretched his clumsy legs and reached for the ground, slowly crawling out from his wet prison. The extremities of Samari’s spirit snapped in and out of her limbs, having lost control of her ability to temporarily extricate them. They felt like electrified lashes against her skin, and despite that, the disgust and shock still dominated her facial expression.
“Kalon, did you birth a puppy from your mouth?” Samari asked in her best impression of a motherly tone, as if begging reality to thoroughly bleach her brain by simply stating how absurd the situation was.
“Yeah, they come out like that every time they die. It’s easier manifesting them inside my body and then getting them out to add to the scarf,” Kalon said, mind devoid of the vile corruption that many call “intellect”.
Jagger nodded. “What he said.”
Massaging her temples, Samari considered the situation. “I want to go back to civilization and you can probably protect me from wild animals and lowly thieves when in the open, but… is it worth it? Here I have peace of mind.”
Jagger perked up and approached the new puppy. “Except when you are kidnapped by a novelist,” he nuzzled the little animal, making it fall on its side while his small legs wiggled aimlessly. “It’s a boy!”
“And what assures me that if I travel with you I’ll be safe from them?”
“Kalon’s anti-literacy aura is bound to keep them at bay.”
Samari crossed her arms, a smug smile sitting in the girl’s face. “Jagger, most fantasy writers would never read a book that isn’t written by them.”
“Intercourse!”
Samari asked the obvious question. “Why don’t you simply say ‘Fuck’?”
“I reserve my f-bombs for a rainy day.”
Kalon loss his balance while trying to stand. , propelling eastward and falling in a line parallel to the ground.
“Well, Fuck. Wait here,” Jagger said, weary, as he felt his tail begin to tingle, and a force to slightly pull on him.
And that’s how dog and moron flew a whole kilometer until they collided with an unfortunate tree that took exception to being torn asunder, but didn’t say anything, because:
a) it was a tree.
b) It had been torn asunder.
c) It gave the cultivator and his sword a cold wooden shoulder.
d) All of the above.
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Samari waited for half a half a dozen hours in company of the delicate and innocent Brunhilda until the manly men came back from their forced and perilous journey. They were spat into sight by the horizon, treading across the plains that surrounded the blackened river, bruised from the ordeal but whole. Like returnees from a heroic hunt, they donned the weary visages of them who have seen too much, of those hardened by the toil and horrors concealed by the wild lands. They looked like a boy and a dog that had been launched against a tree by forces uncaring and stupid.
Samari fed Brunhilda another roasted squirrel as they watched. The Rottweiler consumed it like the high society lady she was supposed to be: In three chomps. Taking a seep from the kettle, the little Arcagnostic wondered if she had to remind them about the landmines.
After Jagger’s severed and mangled head landed by her side, she gave Kalon a warning shout and told him to stand still until she reached to him. Just in case.
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Amidst total darkness, a being with mayonnaise-colored eyes spoke. “I ssssee you have died, Jagger.”
Floating in the middle of that same featureless darkness, Jagger answered. “Yup, that seems like it.”
“Your body got reduced to tattersss,” The avatar of the road, never revealing more than his eyes, insisted.
“Dog nuggets á la grenade, a delicatessen hailing from Diamonter town.”
“You are being pretty nonchalant about the whole dying thing.”
Jagger blinked. “Elaborate on how that would be out of character for me, if you would be so inclined.”
The avatar revealed his current form, a snake covered in Rottweiler ears instead of scales, and having the head of said dog breed, which made the moments where he tasted the air with his tongue hilarious. “Kalon is attempting to revive you, ansssswer the call.”
“But I like being dead!”
The avatar shook his head and hissed angrily. “One worsssse than the other. Bye.”
And so, Jagger popped out of Kalon’s head, back into a body.