The God of Popcorn felt overworked as his peers sat on the infinite circular divine sofa and leisurely watched the crystal ball of the universe, which they didn’t need to see the events of the world, but helped with bonding. Deities ruling over all sorts of concepts obeserved Samari’s last stunt with great interest. And, oh joy! Jagger the Puppy was also featured in this episode of Samari’s life!
“I made that one,” the God of Granting Sentience to Random Objects That Struck His Fancy spoke like a proud parent, a single tear rolling up from his floating stone eye and into his luminous core.
----------------------------------------
Samari emerged from the cloud of bees that was the interior of the house and instantly flattened herself against the wall, letting the bees scatter by dispelling her Inner Control Incunabula. And, holding in her excited giggles, she waited in silence, her sweaty hand grasping Halgor’s metallic lighter inside the pockets of her pants.
Enraged, with eyes bloodshot and every bit of exposed skin red and swollen, the Soup Garou erupted from the main door, leaping violently, ready to pursue Samari, landing on all fours upon the dirt path in front of the porch — or, as Jagger could proudly call it now, a minefield of piña colada (Liveration edition). His hollow talons fought for purchase as he toppled several bowls of the beverage, soaking himself in the heavenly spirit, his head swiveling to look for Samari. Then he heard a click behind him, and he turned.
I want you to picture the following: You jumped out of a hell of bees and landed over a bunch of dog bowls filled with rum with mere traces of pineapple and cream to be found in it, just so it can technically be called a piña colada. You are now dampened by an alcoholic drink with a high alcohol content by volume, that makes the bee stings itch way more than they previously did. You scream in rage as you see the one guilty for this, a bald brat that is waving you goodbye, and you ready your gun to fill her with more holes than the bees bore into you, just to, in the last moment of this adrenaline-rush-fueled-ire that seems to slow down time, notice a silvery square with a flame on top. It is describing an arch in your direction. And you are covered in rum.
Jagger’s gaze widened in awe at the show fo fireworks that unfolded before him. The Soup Garou howled in pain and rolled frantically across the ground as the alcohol burned him more and more. The freedom fighter was encased in his own personal hell, his mind distorted by pain and the flesh-chewing sensation of failure. I cannot save them, he thought once and again, I cannot ever save them. Then, his lamentations subsided as renewed wrath welled from deep within him. He couldn’t save them.
But he could avenge them.
Still ablaze, he leaped back into the porch, ignoring the pain as surprise settled briefly in Samari’s face. “Come here darling. In the pools of hell, we both shall simmer until we are cooked al dente!”
Samari thought about flaring her Inner Control Incunabula once again, but Jagger was too close, and, while his death would be mostly inconsequential compared to hers, she didn’t want to cause her little companion such a trauma. Samari looked around, faking nervousness her as with painful and heavy steps, like a crumbling, half-charred zombie coming for her brains, the soup garou gained on her. If she ran, he could get their client.
Jagger latched to the extinguished, if still steaming, calf of the monster.
“How cute, you won’t save her, little one: your teeth don’t even do anything to me.” The soup garou readied his gun and pointed a t Samari. , pulling the trigger several times. No mostaccioli came out, but several cracking sounds were heard inside the homemade pistol. “The heat made it jam? Piece of shit!”
Jagger was broadcasting thoughts to Kalon. They were getting stuck in the mind voicemail queue.
Then he chucked the gun at Samari, something shit didn’t expect, and thus was unable to avoid being hit with it on the forehead. This knocked a very pained Samari onto the floor and disoriented her for a few moments.
“End of the line, little shit.” In all fours, The Coup Garou lumbered up to Samari, and raised his muscular forepaw , ready to maul the little girl to death. And an instant before he swung, a tremendous force began pulling from his leg, dragging him back.
It couldn’t be the puppy, that was just coiling around his ankle like a dog donut, holding himself by his own tail.
But of course, it was the puppy. Or, potentially, whatever was using the puppy as the hook of a fishing rod.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
The Soup Garou lowered his hand and sighed out of frustration. “I got to be fair with you all: You lot are more resourceful than ninety-five percent of the monster hunters I have met.”
Then, the pull from having Jagger tied around his leg became too much, and despite the Soup Garou’s reluctance to let go of the planks, the planks decided to let go of the rest of the porch, and then… well, have you ever watched Disney’s Aladdin? Because Jagger took the pasta monster with him, flying across the country, elevating over the beehives and soaring towards the moron pulling from his chosen weapon. After he decided his prey had gathered enough momentum to reach Kalon, he let go. In other words, this princess of Italian descent would not be shown the world.
And there was our superstar, follower of the Road of the Rottweiler, swinging his puppy scarf on his side with one hand, and extending the other to catch his… long dagger and/or short sword of a dog.
“Hi Jagger.”
“He hurt Samari.”
The Soup Garou tried to spin midair, flailing his arms and kicking, but, of course, he wasn’t Kalon to have gravity be his personal bitch.
Kalon made the puppy scarf descend from above, upon the falling Soup Garou, swatting him on the back and against the dirt road, like a giant, screaming, innocent (male) mosquito.
Whining, the soup Garou came to his feet, and saw Kalon ready to punish him again once he recovered. “Why torture me? I do the right thing! I fight for freedom, Cultivator. Freedom, like the one you use to pursue immortality and follow your road. I am not your foe.”
“You hurt my friend,” Kalon said, his lips pressed tightly together as he pulled the puppy-whip back.
The avatar inside Kalon’s inner desert spoke. “That means we should reward him.”
Jagger, who could also hear Kalon’s avatar thanks to their spiritual connection, told him to shut up.
“Come on, Jagger, don’t be a party pooper. I am just joking,” said the one that screamed in horror every time Samari drew close to Kalon.
Meanwhile, the Soup Garou had been giving a heartfelt discourse about the importance of liberating noodles all over the world, or saucing for the cause. “Are you guys listening to me, at least?”
“No. Not at all.” Kalon hit him with an intellectual honesty only possible to achieve for psychopaths or morons.
Something broke inside the Soup Garou. Something important. Something that wasn’t one of the intervertebral discs. Once again, he shot, rushing forward with Claws extended, ready to tear Kalon to flesh. The man, this vigilant antihero, was gone. The angry and burnt pasta remained.
He threw his claws forward in throw wide swings, the air hissing due to the force of such swipes, and Kalon could barely duck under them. The cultivator used his chance to swing the puppy whip sideways, and make it coil around the leg of the Soup Garou, then pulling with all his strength while the beast tried to claw the whip off, stressing the jaws of the puppies that were determined to die biting each other’s butts.
An elbow met Kalon’s back with the intent of overthrowing his balance. The doughy scales dug into the boy’s bare flesh, leaving a mark as the air abandoned his lungs in a whimper. With his leg now ffreed from the pull, the Soup Garou followed with a powerful knee to Kalon’s abdominal area, which sent Kalon to the ground face first, gasping for air as he grabbed his stomach, and the Soup Garou limping backwards , his whole body encased in pain. Pain from stings, pain from blistered and scorched skin. Pain from broken conchiglie shaped teeth all across his cannelloni snout.
He couldn’t fight no more. Adrenalin and broth were abandoning him. The cultivator would recover soon, and rage couldn’t fuel him further.
He hobbled towards the Sky Gazes. Live today to fight tomorrow. Run now and cry later, lay low among the flowers. Escape!
He felt Jagger latching to his leg once again and prepared to tear him to shreds with a single swipe. When his claws descended upon the determined puppy, they didn’t contact Jagger. They found another Rottweiler. Brunhilda, to be exact, who wasn’t precisely thrilled to have sharpened pennes drawn so close to her favorite puppy.
Jagger turned and sat, eyes closed to not get tempted to watch the massacre behind him.
“Mercy! From a vigilant to another, I beg your mercy!”
Brunhilda burred darkly.
“My arm! I need it to liberate noodles! Give me back my arm. My arm!”
Kalon, coughing and holding his stomach, approached, saw what was happening, and picked Jagger up, making sure to point the puppy’s eyes away from the massacre.
“Burr.” Brunhilda said. Which roughly translates to “There’s no escape for you. No tricks or bees, no claws that can pierce my skin. I have fallen men who killed more innocents than whole nations, I have put an end to whole narco empires. I am a dog, Soup Garou. How can you kill a dog?”
Brunhilda kept attacking tearing the few clothing remaining on the monster’s body and, with them, ribbons of his flesh and pasta.
“My Gnocchis! I need my gnocchis! Stop mangling them!”
Then Brunhilda chomped, and a mixture of blood and tomato sauce splattered on her face, surging like from a crimson geyser.
“My rigat… my… my…” The pain was so great that the Soup Garou began ventilating and foaming at the mouth. He was entering a shock state. Sweet bliss, his fight had ended. Now, only oblivion awaited.
“Burr,” Brunhilda paid her respects before beginning to eat the, still alive but unconscious, monster.
An hour later, Samari — who seemed to have been promoted to unicorn, as she now sported a veritable bump on the middle of her forehead — and the farmer — still wearing his beekeeper's suit and unwilling to take it off in presence of Samari — would find the half eaten corpse of the Soup Garou, two snoring Rottweilers with bloated stomachs, and Kalon, sleeping next to them, covered in sauce too.