There were many things to be said about Honeytown’s open market. Most of them would make my mom sad. If I had one, of course. For I, the narrator, exist since the dawn of time. And, yes, it was a very long and boring cosmic morning spent waiting for yerba mate to evolve. That’s what I looked forwards the most. A good bitter one to start the day. Once we got proper days, that is.

I digress.

The sun intruded the horizon as it was wont to do at dusk, in its constant game of “just the tip” that it played with perspective and imaginary lines. With the sky turned into the fungi-ridden underbelly of an orange, the merchants were anxious to make some last minute deals and close the day with a golden brooch. Samari knew of this, and had purposefully let Kalon guide them to the market, so as to waste as much time as possible. She wanted to buy Kalon something nice, but they still needed to save enough money for food, lodging, and training related expenses. They could probably get some food and veggies, as they went for cheap in small towns. In the particular case of Honeytown, the competence of beekeeping families also meant honey was dirt-cheap. Furthermore, Kalon was a cultivator, and a decently skillful one at that. That could give them a smidge of extra bargaining power.

But all plans went down the drain when they passed by a man with generic puppies in a box. Kalon became stuck in place, staring at the little dogs, that raised their heads to look at him. The dogs were generic gray, with an average snout length, average ear length and, you know, every other characteristic about a puppy that could go undescribed as long as I didn’t say they are yellow. Because now you are thinking of retriever puppies. Stop. I don’t allow you to think of Goldens nor Labradors. Curly coated is acceptable, but only owners of Curly Coated Retrievers know of their existence, and they aren’t yellow, unless you get a fucking mutt. Which you’d do, because I duped you into reading this, so it is clear to see: you are fucking easy to scam.

Back to the puppies, we are not going to describe them with no more detail. They were puppies that didn’t seem to belong to any particular breed, yes, but they weren’t mutts. Merely dogs. The doggest dogs to ever dog.

“Which breed are they?” Jagger asked the mysterious, lanky man wearing a tall hat.

“Yes,” the man said, not exactly speaking, but instead frightening the air enough with his darker-than-a-Giant-Schnauzer eye bags to make it sound like he wanted to. Some cultivators scared light shitless. He, instead, scared sound out of its natural, overly lazy state.

Kalon echoed Jagger’s question. The seller looked at Samari with a complicit stare and a frozen smile. “Explain, will you, Arcagnostic?”

Samari sighed and crouched next to the wooden box, the puppies raising their heads to stare at her with bright grey eyes. “The box where the puppies are piled one over another is an ancient artifact, judging by its spiritual signature. I… I think the puppies are born from the box, because that’s the most stupid working mechanism I could come up with, and my fellow Arcagnostics are not known for their seriousness when it comes to crafting artifacts of power.”

“Indeed. The box produces a new puppy every sixty-eight minutes, and can contain up to seven. You can throw jewels at it to make it produce the next pup instantly.”

“This artifact is a remnant of the long-lost Road of Microtransactions!” Jagger said, standing on his hind legs to fake a look of shock becoming of a talking puppy.

“A talking puppy. Curious. I thought it was ventriloquism at first, but it seems that’s not the case. Are you the girl’s primary victim?”

“The boy’s, he… well, the scarf… you may imagine which road he follows.”

“Road of the Talking Puppies? I met a girl that followed it. It was specially distressing during sex,” the vendor digressed, and then slapped his own face. “Sorry, most of my clients aren’t cultivators.”

“What’s your road?” Kalon asked.

“Road of sleep deprivation. Last time I took a nap, bananas still had seeds inside them.”

Samari’s eyes became a thin line. “Wild bananas still do.”

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

The smile abandoned the vendor’s face. “Wild bananas are an insult to the domesticated bananas of old. Even their seeds were edible… if you dared. I should have foreseen it, you know. The unwashed masses love deseeded bananas. Should have planted some trees of my own and keep the variety alive.”

Kalon didn’t decide to change subject, but had stopped listening to the man three sentences ago, so he had to anyway. “How much for the box?”

“It’s not on sale.”

“The puppies are, Kalon; not the ancient artifact,” Samari explained to his friend. “It would be unwise to sell an item that can basically make other marketable products out of thin air.”

“To be fair, girl, I am mad enough from not sleeping to sell it.” The vendor began, and then moved his hands into a gesture for the first time since the conversation had begun. “Or I would be, if it wasn’t so useful as a replacement for toilet paper.”

Samari averted her gaze towards the paved road. Yup. He had said that.

“Don’t think wrong of me, girl. The box has more powers than producing puppies. It allows whoever picks a puppy first to determine a breed for it.”

“And toilet paper is considered a breed?” Samari asked, at the edge of trauma.

“Yes, people call them Samoyeds. Fluffiest, softest dog breed I have found. The only problem is that their remains clog the toilet once in a while…”

Samari needed an adult. With a gun. For her skull.

The trauma also entered Kalon’s head, but found no brain to target and, realizing it was trapped with no other recourse, it screamed until it died of starvation.

“So, this gives free low-quality toilet paper?” The boy asked, demonstrating he could follow a conversation when it met the minimum quota of derangement.

“Oh no, Samoyeds are softness made animal. You wipe with them and it feels like a caress from a fairy that got particularly wooly hands.”

“But they clog the toilet.”

“Then the toilet is the one who can’t handle Samoyeds, my friend.

Kalon took his scarf in both hands and held it in front of him, as if it were a big fish. “Do you reckon they are softer than Rottweiler puppies?”

Samari begged for Jagger’s aid with a distressed stare. The puppy shook his head a bit, slowly. Nobody could deny that the scarf puppies had seen things. Things no puppy should see.

Brunhilda had also seen things in her heyday. To the date of this writing, such things regret being seen by Brunhilda.

The girl turned to look at the other stands. Turgid and juicy fruits, colorful and fashionable clothes, plastic and wooden toys. The only cultivator making business here was Mr. Samoyededbutt.

After caressing the scarf with utmost diligence, the vendor answered. “Yes, I think a Samoyed’s softness remains uncontested.”

“I may need a few. How much do they cost?”

“As there are no other dog sellers around today, I am giving them almost for free. Fifty a piece.”

Almost automatically, Samari turned back to the dog seller. Her tongue wetted her lips with a swift movement. Her inner orphan of the wilderness liked this deal. “That’s cheaper than most meats. I will take two mastiff puppies to roast tonight.”

“Why?” Jagger asked, devoid of energy to add any punch to that rhetorical question.

“Burr.” Brunhilda expressed that, if she was allowed to eat children —and she was, because nobody dared tell her otherwise— Samari was allowed to eat puppies. It was only fair.

“Can we buy a couple Samoyeds?” Kalon insisted.

Jagger raised a paw to put a stop to the rain of bullshit.

“We are going to buy them as imitation Rottweilers. They may not be the real thing, but they are a cheap way for Kalon to get at least slightly ahead in his cultivation.”

The vendor tapped his lips with two fingers. “Are you trying to outdo each other in sociopathy?”

“No, I am a dog, Kalon is an idiot, and Samari was raised by a colorful assortment of eutherians,” Jagger said, pointing with his paw at each named party.

Samari petted Jagger in his little head. “I am only endorsing that statement because my mother had already gotten over her goth phase when the time to give birth to me arrived.”

“Guh, give us between three and five Rottweilers, then,” Kalon said, raising two fingers.

“Yeah, I can cook Rottweilers.”

Brunhilda and Jagger swiveled their heads to look at the girl with whale eyes. For the first time in her life, Brunhilda felt a tinge of fear. She immediately mauled it, the fear, leaving a sorry purple and ethereal mass that bled nightmares upon the asphalt.

“I may need a good night’s sleep.” The vendor mused, and then smiled again. “Four Rottweilers, then!” He extended his open hand and gestured for them to pay.

Samari slapped his hand impolitely. “First show us the puppies can turn into Rottweilers.”

“Sure, unscammable one.”

The man picked up a single puppy, cradled in his hand. He showed the interior of the sleeves of his suit, to assure his potential clients there wasn’t anything to hide. He concentrated his will onto the puppy. Turn into a Rottweiler. A cute Rottweiler. A fat Rottweiler. Dethrone Ysabell’s dress.

The flesh under the grey puppy’s skin bulged and thrashed around, reorganizing. His bones cracked and joined again in different shapes as the animal whined in pain. Its size increased slightly as its coat grew shorter and darker. Sooner than later, the puppy finished shapeshifting into a form indistinguishable from a real Rottweiler.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Samari asked, poking the puppy to check its ontological state.

“Neither. They are asexed and sterile. Only the box produces them,” said the vendor, and then, satisfied with the product, Samari paid for four unfortunate pups.