Chapter Text
My weekend? Well, I guess it was alright. Actually, it was great. A lot of starlight, a nice breeze, a low pollen count. But best of all? I didn't have to hide a body.
Um, maybe it wasn't the best thing, since not being able to hide a body means that you weren't able to hide a body, but do you have any idea how hard it is to dig a grave? Because you don't. You cut the carcass into pieces, dig several vertical holes, kill a few feral dogs and cats, and bury the parts under what now looks like a pet grave. It's a lot of work. You have to dig around five six-foot holes in random out-of-the-way areas; one for the head, two for the arms, and two for the legs - and get five 'pets' to put above them. Digging all of that shit is hard. It's really, really hard. I hate the fact that I have to do all of this work for a meal that only lasts a week or so; and because I need to eat to survive, that means digging holes every. Damn. Weekend.
At least I have some decent muscles for it; people think that I'm a gym rat because of how toned I am. That's ridiculous. I don't even have a gym subscription.
But yeah, my weekend was okay. I even got to see the crime scene. That dumb detective was there, though - the one that thinks it's a pack of wild dogs? The one on the news? Yeah, I hate his guts. It's stupid - he drives me crazy. Like, look at the bite marks! My mouth is way bigger than a fat dog's! And does he really think that a simple dog can crunch through bone like it's nothing? I've measured my bite - I have a stronger jaw than a hyena; nearly eight hundred more pounds per square inch of pressure than your average rottweiler! Wild dogs, my ass! I would get him for my next meal, but that would just bring a shitstorm of trouble to my trail. And who'd want the Feds on their ass? Not. Me.
The crime scene? Oh, yeah. The police are so incompetent - I saw so much of the environment destroyed... so much potential evidence lost... not that there was anything to find, though. I'm very thorough in cleaning the area after I've eaten - you've got to look everywhere for trace evidence, and that means a lot of crawling around both in my hound skin, shadows, and human (ish) form. It's very taxing, but I haven't kept myself out of sight for this long by luck. I've had practice all these years... but anyway, there I am watching them dick around and put up police tape and a bunch of official-looking stuff, standing among a curious crowd of onlookers, when the douche-tective looks straight at me. I'm good at blending in, but it was kind of creepy how intense he looked. I mean, I'm singled out from about twenty or so people - who the heck does that?
Eventually, the hype died down, and the police dispersed everyone. I leave in my car for this British pub at a nearby shopping center - the good one that has a nice, fitting Sherlock Holmes theme going on. The douche-tective was long gone, but that stare has made me uneasy - why look at me? As far as I know, there was nothing that marked me suspect; I have on all the modern clothes, modern glasses (the nice kind that transition in sunlight), a normal, slightly greasy bedhead hairdo - I got up late today, so sue me - so yeah, your average, everyday guy. But he looks at me, out of a good amount of people to look at. Why?
I muse about it over a weird English dish that is basically a boiled egg that's breaded like a corn dog and deep fried. The sulfur reminds me of my home turf a bit. Ah, nostalgia, sweet friend of mine. It's funny how it makes me think of the pit; humans always think that Hell is full or raging fire and brimstone, but that can't be any more the opposite.
Hell is full of pet peeves now, not torture machines.
Speak of the devil, and he comes.
Well, not the devil, but the smarmy guy in a three-piece sidling up to me and my food certainly is one. I growl a bit and hunch over my remaining two eggs. What can I say? I like the tastiness of human food every now and then. Give a guy a break.
"Sxjgksmahhfyndkd. Sjdjjfdnsmdlpdj?"
And the first thing this newbie does is speak Hellish. Didn't his mother teach him better than to speak that topside? It sounds like gibberish to humans, and, as I'm posing as one, that will not do.
"You know, that's mighty fine to hear and all, but I didn't understand a word you said." I tell him. The devil standing next to my table (and food) snarls a bit.
"Your master wants you back in Hell. I suggest you obey him." He spits. Nasty, that. Some of it got on my arm.
"Uh, should I call the police? You're sounding kind of, y'know..." I point a finger at my skull and whirl it around in a couple of circles. "Or did you come from that asylum near here?"
Several other patrons near my table are looking at us now. Bugger. I need to get this business out of the restaurant and into somewhere quiet.