u/Beautiful_Dish6390

Clouds rested still in the sky, foliage stood erect, and Pika and Noemi sat like statues atop a grassy hill.

“Are you sure this is the hill Moosh was talking about?” Pika asked his older sister.

“Quite!” Noemi hissed.

“Sorry,” Pika whispered back. He fidgeted, wondering how his sister could remain so still for so long. Noemi scanned the skies. She was pretty sure this was the hill that Moosh told them about, but she wasn’t positive.

“Noemi, can I ask you a question?” Pika mumbled hesitantly. Noemi rolled her eyes.

“What?”

“What are we going to do if we do see a dragon?”

“I told you already, Pika. Nothing. We stay as still as we can and let it pass. I just need to see one for a moment so that I can draw them. Just be still. Okay?”

Pika nodded in response to Noemi’s explanation. He looked up for a moment, sighed, looked down, and began playing with the grass. Noemi remained observant.

“I can’t tell Mother about this. Right?” Pika questioned.

“No, and no more questions,” Noemi snapped. Pika felt the words like a slap in the face. He scooted away from Noemi and turned his head to hide the tear rolling down his cheek. Noemi noticed, and would have preferred an arrow in the heart to the guilt she felt. A gust of wind blew behind her.

“Pika, I’m sorry. Let’s watch a bit longer, and then we’ll head home, and I’ll make you an apple pie,” Noemi whispered.

Pika perked up at the mention of pie, but he wasn’t quite ready to forgive his sister yet.

“C’mon, Pika. You know, an apple pie sounds nice,” Noemi teased. Pika smiled. He looked at his sister as the wind behind them intensified. Noemi’s hair flapped wildly as a look of horror fell across her face.

They turned around to see a hellish, snarling dragon bearing down on their hilltop lookout. They screamed.

Princess Ruffles, a dainty Toy Poodle in a bedazzled pink collar and fresh coat of cyan nail polish, and Bruiser, a fierce Pit Bull with a muscular neck draped in hypermasculine chains and spikes, sat poolside and watched their master, world-famous actress, pop star, and supermodel Starlet Silverscreen, soaking up the sun’s rays.

“And why does she just stay there under the sun?” Princess Ruffles asked in her shamelessly put-on posh accent.

“For the same reason we lie in the sunny spots by the windows on a cold winter’s day. It feels nice. Additionally, you must consider her near-complete lack of fur. It may be necessary to her survival to heat herself like this,” Bruiser pontificated. Princess Ruffles nodded.

Starlet lifted the waistband of her bikini to peek at her tan line. Seemingly dissatisfied, she applied more tanning oil.

…

Bruiser roamed the mansion grounds under pale moonlight. It was an impressive property, and Bruiser took great pride in his responsibility to guard it. He had a pair of human assistants, Big John and Little John, but they were prone to naps and always late to intercept intruders.

Bruiser took a moment to hike a leg over his favorite flower patch. In that moment, he noticed a human draped in black scaling the fence along the property line. The intruder fell from atop the fence, landed with a thud, and groaned.

“Sweet Starlet, at long last, I have come for you, my love,” the concussed intruder murmured dreamily before noticing Bruiser barreling toward him. A few minutes later, Big John and Little John arrived to pry Bruiser off the man. It took a considerable effort to do so, as Bruiser’s teeth were embedded in the intruder’s tuchus.

…

Princess Ruffles woke to Starlet rummaging through her purse. The toy poodle shifted position to allow her master easier access to the package of mints Ruffles had dozed off atop. Ruffles had issues with what she considered her travel bed being used for storage, but she liked being included on her master’s excursions. If Princess Ruffles had to sacrifice leg room to lip gloss and loose change for the privilege, she was willing.

Ruffles poked her head out to see that Starlet was in her Manager’s office for another boring meeting. She yawned and looked around. Posters of Starlet and platinum plaques adorned the walls.

“It’s just a quick four-month world tour, Starlet. When you get back, it’ll be time to film the Revengers sequel. This is a good thing. My other clients would kill for this much work,” Starlet’s Manager said. Starlet scratched the top of Princess Ruffles’ head gently. Her nails always felt tremendous.

“I know. I’m thrilled to have the work, but I feel like I just got back from the Revengers’ press tour. I haven’t had a real vacation in years. I need a break,” Starlet replied. Her Manager’s brow furrowed.

…

Bruiser entered the kitchen and went straight for the water bowl. He lapped up all the water, then sat back panting. Princess Ruffles approached daintily.

“Did she play fetch with you?” Ruffles asked with a hint of concern in her voice.

“She did indeed, and you know what that means. She’s stricken with guilt at her impending departure,” Bruiser stated breathlessly.

“No! I don’t want to go on tour. I hate airplanes. They’re so noisy and bumpy. You’re lucky you get to stay here,” Ruffles responded.

…

A few weeks into Starlet’s tour, Bruiser patrolled the mansion’s exterior. It was rare for someone to infiltrate while Starlet was away, but Bruiser remained vigilant.

…

Ruffles hated when Starlet’s assistant walked her. The brute of a woman yanked the leash and had no patience for a leisurely pace, but Ruffles understood her master needed rest. Each stop on the tour drained her completely. She spent days between shows curled up in bed. Ruffles made sure to provide extra cuddles in the trying time.

…

One morning, Bruiser wolfed down his breakfast, licked the bowl clean, and joined Big John and Little John in front of the television in the property's guest house, which they called home.

On screen, a news anchor narrated footage of Starlet Silverscreen shaving her head and spewing a profanity-laden rant on stage during a show. The footage ended with Starlet ripping off her shirt and raising both middle fingers to the audience, who responded with a unanimous round of booing.

Big John dropped his bowl of cereal to the floor at the sight. Bruiser hurried to clean it up.

…

Princess Ruffles returned home a few days later.

“Where is Master Starlet?” Bruiser asked. Ruffles sighed dramatically. Then, she shook her head.

…

Big John and Little John swam around the pool in their underwear. Bruiser and Princess Ruffles watched with bewilderment.

“They aren’t especially intelligent,” Ruffles commented.

“They’re bad at their job too,” Bruiser added before scratching his ear with his hind leg.

“Nice though,” Ruffles said.

“Very nice,” Bruiser agreed. Big John climbed out of the pool, then cannonballed back in.

“I miss Master Starlet,” the dogs said in unison.

…

Starlet Silverscreen left rehab in the midst of a thunderstorm. Her Manager waited outside in a limousine. She wished Bruiser were with her to scare him away.

“Starlet! You look amazing. Hurry, get in. That rain is terrible,” he called through a cracked window.

…

Bruiser buried his face in the car seat. His motion sickness was in full effect. His stomach churned.

“Just hold on, Bruiser! We’re almost there,” Princess Ruffles called from the front seat. Bruiser tried to think pleasant thoughts, such as sinking his teeth into an intruder or scaring off a delivery driver.

“We’re here!” Ruffles cried out as the car stopped. Starlet hastily climbed out, ran around, and opened the rear door. Bruiser leaped out and vomited. Princess Ruffles exited the vehicle moments later.

“You would absolutely hate airplanes,” Princess Ruffles told Bruiser. Starlet unloaded some bags from the trunk. Bruiser looked up and surveyed his surroundings. They were on a farm. Horses watched them from a distance. A few chickens clucked nearby.

“I hope you two like it. We live here now,” Starlet declared.

When the perfect opportunity to cross presented itself, I would recognize and seize the moment. A tumbleweed skittered past on a light breeze. I watched it sail over the pavement unscathed, but I knew I would have no such luck. The second I stepped forward, some daredevil testing their new Lamborghini would come rocketing my way and flatten me out like Stanley or that coyote. I knew it to be true. I had to wait.

It rained for a few hours that night, which was enough to strike me ill in combination with the desert’s cold night air. It was also exactly what I needed to stay upright, awake, and vigilant.

Dawn came, and with the sun rose a mouse with ambitions of crossing the road. I watched the brave critter venture boldly into the near lane. A hawk swooped down and collected the mouse for breakfast.

I sat cross-legged, eyes glued to the road. An eighteen-wheeler approached. It slowed to a halt before me. The driver’s window rolled down.

“Need a ride, buddy?” The Trucker asked with a playful grin. I refused to respond.

“You can hop in if you want to. I don’t bite,” The Trucker added. I just stared at him until he grew so uncomfortable that he rolled his window up and drove off. I refocused on the task at hand.

I traveled far and suffered many losses along the way. I would not die here on the side of a desert road, because I could not hold out for the perfect moment to cross. I possessed the fortitude and resolve to wait days if necessary.

Every so often, my mind strayed to reminiscence. Lapses were natural, but I quickly reigned my thoughts in and refocused on the road by pinching my left nipple as hard as possible to trigger mindfulness. It was a technique my sensei taught me.

The coast was clear as far as I could see in either direction, as it had mostly been. Including the talkative trucker, I’d seen a total of three vehicles drive past in my thirty hours of patience. My stomach rumbled. My head ached.

The next morning, ravenous wind whipped desert sand against my exposed skin. It felt like my nude form was being shot at by an army of a million little soldiers, but I fought to keep focus.

Sooner or later, a sign would present itself. I would be ready.

I was longed for, desperately searched for, discovered, and praised.

“Thank god,” was bellowed as I was unearthed. There was a rip, then a tear, and then light. I was pulled free of my casing. At long last, it was time to meet my destiny.

I was promptly fucked and discarded.

I sat atop a pile of garbage. My skin was stretched and tied in a knot. I could not help but wonder what it all meant. Sure, I had been filled, but was I fulfilled?

I was a condom. Now, I am trash.

Chloe leaped from one lunch table to the next. One of her classmates attempted the same maneuver, but he slipped and fell into the lava. Chloe plugged her nose and tried not to listen to his screams.

“Attention, students and teachers of Green Valley Community College: as you may have noticed, the floor is lava. I, your beloved Dean, have traded your souls to a dark god in exchange for eternal youth. Sorry!” The Dean’s voice bellowed over the PA system.

Chloe’s head was spinning. She scanned the lunchroom. A few tables away, a scuffle broke out for space on a table that led to one student pushing another into the lava below. Screams from a connecting hall informed her there was no refuge on the other side of the lunchroom door. The tables slowly sank into the lava. Chloe needed to act quickly.

She dug through her bag. She pulled out her can of pepper spray, a chain-link necklace, and a six-foot-long cell phone charging cord. She tied the cord to the necklace to make an improvised lasso. She assumed her best hope of survival was to make it out of the building. If she were lucky, the bizarre demon magic would be confined to the interior.

A portion of the roof collapsed. Chunks of ceiling fell, flattening a pair of goth students standing a few tabletops to Chloe’s left. A pair of crimson demons flew in on leathery wings. They screeched murderous war cries before swooping down and impaling students with obsidian pitchforks.

“Attention, students and teachers. It's your very apologetic and grateful dean. I forgot to mention there will be a few demons flying around. Let’s show them our trademark Green Valley hospitality. Please be compliant when they reap your soul for the dark lord. Thanks!” The Dean casually announced over the PA, with the same tone he used for student council meetings and registration deadlines.

A nerdy student stumbled across the rapidly sinking tables in Chloe’s direction. Chloe recognized him. They were in the same psychology class. Chloe sometimes caught him staring at her. One of the demons dropped down and rammed its pitchfork through the nerd’s navel.

Chloe lassoed the demon. Her necklace looped around a horn. It screamed and took flight. Chloe clung to her charger cord with all her might as the demon carried her away. The classmates she left behind made horrible noises as they slipped into the lava.

Just half an hour ago, Chloe was a normal college student cramming for an exam. She thought calculus was the worst of her problems. Now, she’d give anything to be sitting in class working through equations.

The hellish beast retreated through the hole in the ceiling. Chloe leaped onto the roof. She was elated to see the ground outside was not lava. The demon charged her. She sprayed it with her pepper spray.

“Ouch! Oh my gosh!” The demon exclaimed. It dropped its pitchfork and began rubbing its eyes. Chloe scooped up the weapon and raised it in a defensive position.

“What the hell is that stuff? It hurts so bad!” The demon cried. Chloe actually found herself pitying the creature.

“Stop touching them. You’re just rubbing it in,” Chloe said softly. The demon took her advice. It sniffed and whimpered. Chloe briefly considered lowering the pitchfork and pulling a tissue from her bag.

“Go ahead. Skewer me. It’s what I deserve. I’m like the absolute worst demon,” the Demon griped. It reminded Chloe of an angst-ridden teen.

“Just get it over with. I won’t die. I’ll just get sent back to the underworld. I wish I could die. None of the other demons respect me,” the Demon continued.

“I don’t want to skewer you. I’m just trying to get out of here,” Chloe replied cautiously. A PA announcement from the Dean interrupted before the Demon could respond.

“Attention Students and Teachers, it’s me again. It’s come to my attention that some of you are escaping. Please don’t do that! If the dark god doesn’t get enough souls, the contract becomes null and void. I’ll lose my eternal youth. You don’t want me to get crow’s feet, do you? Thanks again for your understanding,” the Dean broadcast.

Chloe looked over at a ladder at the roof’s edge. She could descend it and escape to freedom. She looked down at the hole in the roof. She could still hear the desperate screams of her classmates.

Chloe raised the pepper spray again. The Demon shielded itself with its wings. Chloe poked the wings with the pitchfork.

“Ow!” The Demon cried.

“What happens if the Dean dies?” Chloe asked.

“The contract is voided, and everything goes back to normal,” the Demon explained under duress. Chloe thought it over.

“Take me to the Dean,” she said with cold determination.

A week later, when Chloe failed her calculus exam, part of her regretted being a hero.

“Alfred! Where is my cowl?”, Bruce Wayne asked frantically. Alfred was already scouring the Batcave with no luck.

Bruce rifled through his workbench, tossing screwdrivers and Batarangs over his shoulder while spewing a profane rant that would make the Joker blush. He already donned his iconic armored suit and stylish cape, but he could not be Batman without the cowl.

A news broadcast covering a villainous attack on downtown Gotham, orchestrated by Bane, played on a monitor hung from a stalactite. Bane and his platoon of paid thugs hijacked the broadcast from Channel 13 News reporter Vicki Vale and announced they had hidden five explosive devices around the city. Bruce launched a Batarang at the monitor. The screen went black and cracked in the pattern of a spider’s web.

“Don’t I have backups? Surely we’ve planned for this! I have contingencies for everything,” Bruce rambled as Alfred dug through a crate of spare equipment.

“We had several, Master Bruce, but you went through them when Joker was in his oversized mallet phase,” Alfred explained. Bruce stomped his boot on the cavern floor like a petulant child.

“Retrace your steps, Master Bruce. Where did you have it last?” Alfred asked. Bruce pondered for a moment.

“I’m not sure. Last night, before I thwarted Condiment King’s museum heist, he blasted me with his memory-loss mustard. Still, I distinctly remember placing the cowl somewhere I could easily find when I went out on my next crusade,” Bruce responded.

The pair continued their search. A ringtone chimed over the Batcave speaker system.

“It’s probably Commissioner Gordon. Put him on,” Bruce commanded while on all fours searching beneath his desk. Alfred hastily complied.

“Batman? Where the hell are you? It’s pandemonium down here. Hurry up! Call in the Justice League! Do something!” Commissioner Gordon’s voice bellowed over the speakers. The plea was followed by gunfire and shouting, and then the call disconnected.

“We’re out of time!” Bruce screamed.

“What about Master Dick’s old Robin mask?” Alfred asked.

“It only covers the eyes. My jawline is unmistakable,” Bruce retorted.

“I have an idea, but I’m afraid you won’t appreciate it,” Alfred said.

A few minutes later, Alfred was cutting eye holes and a mouth slit in a brown paper bag. Bruce watched with folded arms. He tapped his foot impatiently. Alfred handed over the finished product. Bruce put it on.

“I’m… Bagman?” He wondered aloud in a solemn tone while checking himself out in the Bat-Mirror.

“You look tremendous, Master Bruce. Your father and I wore masks just like that when we attended Gotham Knights games. Of course, the team was horrible, and the whole fanbase wore them, but that’s not the point. Your father looked great in a brown paper bag, and so do you,” Alfred said in a tone that suggested he was attempting to convince himself as well as Bruce.

“Does Gotham really need saving?” Bruce asked. Alfred scowled, refusing to dignify the question with a response. Bruce sighed. He ran off to the Batmobile, jumped in, and shouted a series of expletives.

His iconic cowl sat atop the steering wheel.

A Vampire and a Werewolf walk into a bar. Naturally, everyone runs for their lives. One especially inebriated patron dives through a window. The Bartender stands cool through the hullabaloo and greets his two new customers with a tranquil demeanor and a hospitable grin.

“Moonshine,” the Werewolf demands.

“Bloody Mary,” the Vampire hisses.

The Bartender silently prepares the drinks, serves them, and begins cleaning a glass. The Vampire and Werewolf drink in silence. Neither acknowledges the other.

A Priest and a Monster Hunter walk into the bar. The Werewolf growls. The Vampire hisses. The Priest clutches a bible in front of himself like a shield. The Monster Hunter draws a crossbow.

“Take it easy now. Everyone’s welcome here, but we don’t tolerate tussling,” The Bartender warns. Tensions ease. The two new patrons sit and order.

“May I please have a glass of water, sir?” The Priest asks.

“Whiskey,” the Monster Hunter grumbles.

The Bartender serves the Priest and the Monster Hunter and provides a second round to the Vampire and the Werewolf. The Priest begins blessing his glass of water. The Vampire hisses at him.

Everyone sips their drinks, vigilantly monitoring their peripheries, as the Bartender stands by, equally wary.

An Angel and a Demon walk into the bar. Everyone turns and stares at them.

“No,” the Bartender says flatly.

The eye of the Monk’s mind roamed through a series of serene settings. A babbling brook, a vast tundra, a hammock hung in the rainforest canopy, and the interior of a wood chipper. The Monk snapped out of his meditative trance when a lawn maintenance worker pushing a raucous lawnmower passed his ground-level apartment porch's makeshift meditation station. He retreated indoors to continue his session.

He sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, began his breathing exercise, closed his eyes, and let his spirit drift to the astral plane.

“You ain’t never even here no more, Carl! I know you’re cheating on me!” The intrusive raised voice of the Monk’s neighbor, Cheryll, was accompanied by the sound of a slammed door. The Monk’s framed photograph of himself outside his home monastery fell off the far-too-thin wall connected to Cheryll’s apartment.

He retrieved the photograph and lingered in a moment of reminiscing. He yearned for the quiet of the countryside monastery.

The Monk found himself seated in a secluded and wooded nook in the city park. Birds chirped nearby. Wind rustled leaves. He looked around, expecting a spontaneous marching band or a flock of oversized woodpeckers to descend on his location, but nothing came to interrupt, until, of course, he actually began.

He was floating, weightless and untethered from physical sensation, on the verge of nirvana, when the reality of city living dragged him from the hard-earned blissful trance.

“Mommy, look! It's an airbender!” a child’s voice called out. The Monk opened his eyes to roll them. He had heard that one before. The embarrassed mother hurried her child along.

The Monk turned heads as he walked through the electronics store. He always did when he was in public. His traditional attire and bald head were undeniably eye-catching in an urban environment. He assumed most people were just like the child at the park, associating him with some cartoon or movie character, but were conditioned not to verbalize.

“Welcome in, sir. Is there anything I can help you find today?” An overzealous employee asked with a forced smile. The Monk nodded.

He left the store with a full bag in hand and a pep in his step.

“Blue! Forty-two! Set! Hut! Hike!” a neighbor child screeched while participating in a loosely organized game of touch football with a group of rollicking peers. They were mere yards from the Monk’s porch, where he sat meditating, but he had no clue they were there. In his mind’s eye, he was soaring over snow-capped mountain peaks and dipping in and out of low-hanging clouds. With the aid of his brand-new, noise-canceling headphones, the Monk was oblivious to the hullabaloo steps away from him. Finally, he had found a path to peaceful meditation, and it only cost him two hundred dollars.

A smile slipped across the Monk’s face. Smack! The children’s football landed square in the Monk’s nose.

“Sorry! Bad throw!”

The lone wolf scaled the crag. He summited, silhouetted by a hanging blue moon, and howled. It was a call for companionship that echoed off mountainous terrain and drifted far into the night sky, but ultimately went unanswered. Again, the lone wolf howled. Again, it went unanswered.

The descent from the crag was a nightly humiliation ritual and a herald of solitude to come. Still the lone wolf persisted. He would sleep without the warmth and protection of a pack, and he would hunt without the strength of number, but he would survive.

On this particular night, at the crag’s base, the lone wolf found a female wolf timidly awaiting him. He stopped and stared. The female wolf howled softly, seemingly as loud as she could manage. Perhaps she had been howling responses for many moons, but was too quiet to be heard.

My name is Glorfinshmort, but these days I go by Crystal Danger. One Earth year ago, my spaceship crash-landed in California, stranding me on the strange, primitive world, and now, I'm a famous OnlyFans content creator.

On my first day under the blue skies, I passed a television screen showing a talk-show interview with a beautiful woman named Monica Silverscreen, whom I later learned was a world-famous actress. I morphed my slime green skin to a porcelain color and contorted my features to match the actress’s, thanks to my species’ advanced biological plasticity.

My journey to OnlyFans stardom began approximately one month after my crash. I had just gotten the hang of the English language when an older man named Paul asked me to accompany him for a dinner date. I rather enjoyed the date. He told me his life story, which I found rivetingly mundane—not once had the man even considered leaving the planet. I was fascinated by his career in middle management. I struggled to come up with convincing answers to his questions, but he did not seem to mind. He kept complimenting me, regardless of how I responded. Food was served. I shoveled it into my primary facial orifice, or, as it was more commonly called, my mouth. I did not need the sustenance, as my body took all the nourishment it needed from solar radiation, but I enjoyed the taste of the dish called calamari. Eventually, I would regurgitate the meal Paul so kindly purchased, but not until the date finished, so as not to come across as rude.

After dinner, Paul took me to a motel, and we shared a room for the night. When we entered the room, Paul promptly removed his clothing. I was taken aback, but I was open to the new experience and found myself having a good time.

“You feel different,” Paul grunted while eagerly sliding himself into my makeshift sex organ. I had not thought to strive for internal anatomic accuracy, so I was making things up as I went. Once he was finished, Paul’s demeanor changed. He retrieved a golden ring from his pants pocket, sat at the edge of the bed, and stared at the strange piece of metal. I stayed still, wondering if this was a normal part of the human mating ritual. In my planet, a mating pair sacrificed their autonomy by fusing into one entity, gestated for a hundred cycles, and finally divided into offspring. It was much cleaner than the human method.

“Is this what you do, Crystal?” Paul asked. I was confused by the question and opted not to respond.

“Well?” he pushed.

“Yes?” I responded. He shook his head.

“I should’ve known when I met you. Pretty girls like you don’t just roam the streets at night, and that accent. You were probably trafficked. What have I gotten myself into?” he asked. I considered the question.

“Me,” I responded. Paul began to sob. He pulled a wad of cash out and left it on the dresser.

“That should be more than enough,” he said before he stormed out of the room. I remained still, still uncertain whether or not this was normal. Paul returned moments later.

“Do you have an OnlyFans account? I can’t see you again, but I still want to be able to see you,” he said without looking directly at me. I struggled to understand his words.

“OnlyFans? I do not know this thing,” I replied. Paul scoffed. I was thoroughly confused.

“You should look into it. You’d make a killing. It could really better your situation,” he said before leaving for good.

I found it difficult at first to research the mysterious OnlyFans. I visited a library. The librarian threw me out for asking her to point me to OnlyFans-related reading material. She made it clear that my request was illicit. Still, I continued my pursuit, as Paul seemed to think I would thrive if only I had an OnlyFans, whatever that was.

I tried asking a pedestrian on a busy street, but finally found assistance from a trio of young men from a fraternity. They enthusiastically educated me. I was surprised to learn that air conditioning was not involved. The fraternity friends were so kind. They not only purchased me a cellular device, helped me establish an OnlyFans account, and allowed me to live in their fraternity house, but also had 50 of their closest friends devote the next few weeks of their lives to helping me produce content for my account.

In no time at all, I was filthy rich and unbelievably famous. It was in no small part due to my resemblance to movie star Monica Silverscreen. The actress was livid over the situation and publicly spoke out against it. She was shamed for being intolerant of sex work, and my follower counts skyrocketed.

“Hurry, Crystal! Mr. Musk was expecting you an hour ago. His assistant is blowing me up with texts,” Jazmine, my assistant, barked at me over speakerphone, as I sped in my Bugatti toward the mansion of Elon Musk, trillionaire and fan of my OnlyFans content.

“So do you like samurai swords?” Elon Musk asked, as he awkwardly presented me his collection of samurai swords. I nodded, despite having no real curiosity for the antiques. I mastered dishonesty during my year on Earth. I found it essential to achieving success in human society. Musk pulled a sword out of a special wooden box.

“This is the Honjō Masamune. It’s considered a national treasure in Japan. Technically, it’s been missing since World War II, but I found it on the black market. I could return it to the Japanese government, but I like to keep it around in case I ever decide to commit seppuku,” he said and then laughed. I responded with a giggle despite missing the joke.

Then I let him take me to his bedroom, where he presented me with his little sword. I morphed into my natural alien form. Elon ejaculated at the sight. I smiled, as everything was going according to my plan.

I stayed up all night with him, listening to his laughable fantasies about colonizing Mars. I dropped by Mars on my way to Earth. There was absolutely nothing there. Still, I listened and encouraged. By dawn, he was on one knee proposing to me.

While I enjoyed my year on Earth, especially acquiring obscene wealth and fame, I yearned to return to my homeworld, and my new husband was, unfortunately, my best hope of getting there.

After a few painstaking months of letting Elon flop around on top of me while I morphed into various cartoon characters, he finally agreed to let me fly on one of his company’s rockets. It would only get me to the edge of space, but that was all I needed. Once I was out of the atmosphere, I would be able to activate the quantum distress beacon, which I forged from materials in Elon’s garage, and summon a rescue team from my homeworld.

I boarded the rocket with a smile. Unfortunately, it exploded as soon as the engines ignited, killing every human on board and me. Elon Musk was not as smart as humanity believed.

EPISODE I

Captain Marla Moonwalker floated in interstellar space. The wreckage of her notorious pirate ship, the Black Phoenix, drifted around her. Bubbles of water floated all around her. Each little bubble reflected the infinite cosmos beyond. It was a sight to behold. Marla may have appreciated it more if the water wasn’t what landed her in this mess to begin with. The Galactic Peace Force shot the fleeing Black Phoenix out of warp-space following a water depot heist gone wrong. She could still hear her crew’s death cries. She caught a glimpse of Ry’On, one hell of an engineer and a delightfully terrible gambler, floating lifeless a few yards away. Ry’On’s regal crimson skin had boiled to an unsightly violet. His eye bulged from his skull. It popped free. Marla turned away, unable to tolerate the sight, and she came face to face with the dismembered head of TG-21. Marla’s scream fogged up her space suit.

“Hello, Captain! Your survival overjoys me; however, I must regrettably inform you that we are several hundred light-years from civilization, the Black Phoenix’s warp-speed distress beacon is not functioning, and your suit’s life support system will only sustain you for forty-eight hours,” TG-21, the Black Phoenix’s navigation android, said via radio transmitted to the speaker in Marla’s suit. Marla despised TG-21. It was too cheerful. She pulled her trusted blaster from the holster on her hip and pointed it at the android’s mouth.

“Captain? Is there something on my face?”

ZAP! Marla fired a laser bolt. It melted straight through the android at the speed of light. The force propelled Marla in the opposite direction. She slammed into rubble from the ship and ricocheted back the direction she came from. Another bit of rubble floated in her path and knocked her off course. She pinged between shards of the Black Phoenix until she lost her momentum and found herself free-floating again. She carefully holstered her weapon.

Marla thought back to the day she was gifted the blaster by her mentor, Uglashamashuga, one of the nastiest pirates the galaxy had ever seen. Uglashamashuga found her when she was an orphaned child in the slums of a barely habitable asteroid mining colony, and trained her as an apprentice. He taught her not to trust, form attachments, or pursue romance. He must have seen himself as an exception, because he confided in Marla, gave her special treatment, and flirted with her shamelessly. When he gifted Marla the blaster for her assistance in blackmailing a small-time politician, Marla thanked him by firing a laser bolt through his skull, stealing the Black Phoenix, and disparaging his reputation on intergalactic social media.

Marla wondered if her current predicament was the punishment she deserved. ZAP! A warp portal opened up in front of her. A half dozen cruisers shot out with blaring sirens and surrounded her. The Peace Force took her into custody, tried her, convicted her, and sentenced her to life in prison.

TO BE CONTINUED…

EPISODE II

Warden Wormwood kept all three eyes glued to the monitors in his office. One more escape this month and he’d be out of a job. He paid especially close attention to the cell of notorious space pirate Marla Moonwalker, who had been in his custody for a whole standard week. According to her file, no correctional facility ever managed to keep her incarcerated for more than ten standard days. There was a knock at his door. He turned to see his assistant, Blrhorshmort, holding the bag of fried blue meat sticks he ordered. Warden Wormwood’s three eyes grew wide, and his horn glowed turquoise with excitement.

“Yay! Meat sticks!”

Marla floated in her cell with her legs bound. They kept her all day, save for meals and a daily trip to the ladies’ room. Marla bounced off her ceiling and ricocheted off a wall. Marla groaned. She hated anti-gravity.

The lights shut off. Menacing cheers erupted around the facility. Marla crashed to the floor as the anti-gravity generators lost power.

“Finally,” Marla groaned. She began wiggling free of her constraints. She thought back to the training she received in her younger years from the legendary space pirate, Uglashamashuga. Uglashamashuga, more commonly known as Captain Ugla, escaped Galactic Peace Force custody a record 6,967 times.

“You might break a few bones. Human bones are fragile, but you should break them yourself rather than let your enemies do it,” Captain Ugla would tell her as she fought to escape the heavy chains he wrapped her in.

Marla freed herself from the prison’s mediocre constraints. Her cell door slid open. Blrhorshmort, the Warden’s assistant whom she promised a hefty payment for assisting her escape, stood in her doorway.

“Took you long enough. Where’s my muscle?” Marla asked, then impatiently pushed past him. She stopped when she saw Silvers Sabaka, a nine-foot-tall alien covered in a mess of silver fur, who hated Marla’s guts over an old bank heist gone wrong. Silvers growled something in his language, which was indecipherable to human ears. Marla assumed it was a series of curses.

“Right back at ya, fuzzball,” Marla hissed.

“You two know each other?” Blrhorshmort asked nervously. Footsteps came from around a corner. Two guards rounded the bend and pulled their blasters on Marla and her fellow conspirators. The trio took off running. The guards fired laser bolts. As they ran, Blrhorshmort gave them directions to the hangar where he had a star cruiser waiting on them. A few more guards joined the pursuit.

“So about my payment, will the credits be deposited into my shadow account?” Blrhorshmort asked before taking a laser bolt to the skull. Silvers roared in shock.

Warden Wormwood woke in his office. He groggily wiped bits of a blue meat stick from his face.

“What in the worlds?” He asked himself.

Wormwood rebooted his surveillance monitors to see Marla and Silvers successfully escape in a stolen star cruiser.

“I’m screwed.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

EPISODE III

Silvers Sabaka was a Yetiki from the tundra planet Vog with silver fur and imposing stature. Growing up on Vog, a rare habitable planet with vast swaths of undeveloped land, Silvers developed a deep appreciation for nature. As he grew and watched his planet integrate into galactic society, Silvers Sabaka’s appreciation turned to a radical protectiveness. When a mining corporation purchased a resource-rich continent near Vog’s south pole, Silvers blew up a fleet of the company’s mining transporters. It landed him on the Galactic Peace Force’s most wanted list. After years of stealing to get by, Silvers was labeled a pirate. He hated being called a pirate, unlike his current companion, Marla Moonwalker, who reveled in all that came with the title.

Marla barked orders at Silvers as she readied their freshly acquired scrap freighter to portal out of warp-space. He reluctantly obeyed. After recently escaping prison together, Marla convinced him to stick around as paid muscle. They fled to the scrapyard planet, Huyu Major, to swap their stolen Peace Force cruiser for the freighter, which was the sort of ship used to clean up after space battles. A portal opened ahead of them, and they made their exit from warp-space.

Marla found the scraps of her ship, the Black Phoenix, right where she left it. She parked the scrap freighter, ejected its magnet to collect the pieces of her ship, then hauled the magnet back into the ship. Marla reminisced on the years she spent as Captain Ugla’s apprentice. He taught her how to fly in that ship. She would never abandon the Black Phoenix.

Silvers growled at her. She assumed it was some snide remark in his language.

“I’m not paying you to growl at me. Get us ready to warp back to Muyu,” Marla hissed.

The pair returned to Muyu, where they settled into a black-market trading outpost so that Marla could rebuild the Black Phoenix. Silvers had been a passenger on it before, as the member of a bank heist crew. The heist went sideways because a younger Marla was inexperienced.

One day, Silvers went to explore the outpost’s market. He found and purchased a wearable translator device that could translate his language in real time for human ears. He was eager to air his grievances. The device was a metallic ball with a microphone on one side and a speaker on the other, secured to the user’s face with a strap. He excitedly put it on and returned to Marla, who was headfirst in the Black Phoenix’s engine, hastily welding something together.

“Fuzzball? Is that you? I’m putting the finishing touches on her right now!” Marla shouted. She finished her task, looked up, pointed at Silvers, and laughed.

“What is that? A ball gag? You look ridiculous!” She jeered. Silvers growled back into the device.

“I’ll have you know this is a state-of-the-art translation device. You’ll be hearing what I have to say from now on,” the translator spoke in Galactic Basic, the language that Marla and most of the galaxy spoke. Sirens blared. The pair looked up to see a fleet of Galactic Peace Force cruisers swarming overhead.

“Let’s see if she flies!” Marla shouted. They boarded. Marla fired up the engines, which sputtered and smoked a bit, but all systems eventually complied. They shot into the sky and raced to the stars.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mildred Loudermilk was as country as they came. When she was prowling the woods with her shotgun, it was a bad day to be a rabbit.

Luffy, a rabbit, was pretty darn sharp for a critter whose brain was the size of a walnut. When his rabbit compatriots caught wind of Mildred nearing their neck of the woods, they hopped for safer grounds. Luffy stuck around and chowed gleefully on the clovers the cowards abandoned, but before he enjoyed his buffet, the clever rabbit reorganized some fallen leaves on the forest floor.

Mildred cracked a tobacco-stained smile when she stumbled across Luffy. She aimed, but Mildred had no idea that Luffy knew he was in her crosshairs. He hopped away from her and turned his attention to a new patch of appetizing clovers. Mildred stepped forward, and, on cue, Luffy distanced himself again. Two hops this time. Mildred stomped forward slowly. First her left foot. Then her right. Luffy hopped away again. He bent down to nibble an especially juicy-looking clover. Mildred stepped forward, into a suspicious patch of leaves, tripped over a concealed root, crashed to the ground, and dropped her gun. Luffy hopped over and sat atop the weapon. Mildred Loudermilk gulped so loudly it echoed through the woods.

*Episode I in comments*

Warden Wormwood kept all three eyes glued to the monitor in his office. One more escape this month and he’d be out of a job. He paid especially close attention to the cell of notorious pirate Marla Moonwalker, who had been in his custody for a whole standard week. According to her file, no correctional facility ever managed to keep her incarcerated for more than ten standard days. There was a knock at his door. He turned to see his assistant, Blrhorshmort, holding the bag of fried blue meat sticks he ordered. Warden Wormwood’s three eyes grew wide, and his horn glowed turquoise with excitement.

“Yay! Meat sticks!”

Marla floated in her cell with her legs bound. They kept her all day, save for meals and a daily trip to the ladies’ room. Marla bounced off her ceiling and ricocheted off a wall. Marla groaned. She hated anti-gravity.

The lights shut off. Menacing cheers erupted around the facility. Marla crashed to the floor as the anti-gravity generators lost power.

“Finally,” Marla groaned. She began wiggling free of her constraints. She thought back to the training she received in her younger years from the legendary space pirate, Uglashamashuga. Uglashamashuga, more commonly known as Captain Ugla, escaped Galactic Peace Force custody a record 6,967 times.

“You might break a few bones. Human bones are fragile, but you should break them yourself rather than let your enemies do it,” Captain Ugla would tell her as she fought to escape the heavy chains he wrapped her in.

Marla freed herself from the prison’s mediocre constraints. Her cell door slid open. Blrhorshmort, the Warden’s assistant whom she promised a hefty payment for assisting her escape, stood in her doorway.

“Took you long enough. Where’s my muscle?” Marla asked, then impatiently pushed past him. She stopped when she saw Silvers Sabaka, a nine-foot-tall alien covered in a mess of silver fur, who hated Marla’s guts over an old bank heist gone wrong. Silvers growled something in his language, which was indecipherable to human ears. Marla assumed it was a series of curses.

“Right back at ya, fuzzball,” Marla hissed.

“You two know each other?” Blrhorshmort asked nervously. Footsteps came from around a corner. Two guards rounded the bend and pulled their blasters on Marla and her conspirators. The trio took off running. The guards fired laser bolts. As they ran, Blrhorshmort gave them directions to the hangar where he had a star cruiser waiting on them. A few more guards joined the pursuit.

“So about my payment, will the credits be deposited into my shadow account?” Blrhorshmort asked before taking a laser bolt to the skull. Silvers roared in shock.

Warden Wormwood woke in his office. He groggily wiped bits of a blue meat stick from his face.

“What in the worlds?” He asked himself.

Wormwood rebooted his surveillance monitors to see Marla and Silvers successfully escape in a stolen star cruiser.

“I’m screwed.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Captain Marla Moonwalker floated in interstellar space. The wreckage of her notorious pirate ship, the Black Phoenix, drifted around her. Bubbles of water floated all around her. Each little bubble reflected the infinite cosmos beyond. It was a sight to behold. Marla may have appreciated it more if the water wasn’t what landed her in this mess to begin with. The Galactic Peace Force shot the fleeing Black Phoenix out of warp-space following a water depot heist gone wrong. She could still hear her crew’s death cries. She caught a glimpse of Ry’On, one hell of an engineer and a delightfully terrible gambler, floating lifeless a few yards away. Ry’On’s regal crimson skin had boiled to an unsightly violet. His eye bulged from his skull. It popped free. Marla turned away, unable to tolerate the sight, and she came face to face with the dismembered head of TG-21. Marla’s scream fogged up her space suit.

“Hello, Captain! Your survival overjoys me; however, I must regrettably inform you that we are several hundred light-years from civilization, the Black Phoenix’s warp-speed distress beacon is not functioning, and your suit’s life support system will only sustain you for forty-eight hours,” TG-21, the Black Phoenix’s navigation android, said via radio transmitted to the speaker in Marla’s suit. Marla despised TG-21. It was too cheerful. She pulled her trusted blaster from the holster on her hip and pointed it at the android’s mouth.

“Captain? Is there something on my face?”

ZAP! Marla fired a laser bolt. It melted straight through the android at the speed of light. The force propelled Marla in the opposite direction. She slammed into rubble from the ship and ricocheted back the direction she came from. Another bit of rubble floated in her path and knocked her off course. She pinged between shards of the Black Phoenix until she lost her momentum and found herself free-floating again. She carefully holstered her weapon.

Marla thought back to the day she was gifted the blaster by her mentor, Uglashamashuga, one of the nastiest pirates the galaxy had ever seen. Uglashamashuga found her when she was an orphaned child in the slums of a barely habitable asteroid mining colony, and trained her as an apprentice. He taught her not to trust, form attachments, or pursue romance. He must have seen himself as an exception, because he confided in Marla, gave her special treatment, and flirted with her shamelessly. When he gifted Marla the blaster for her assistance in blackmailing a small-time politician, Marla thanked him by firing a laser bolt through his skull, stealing the Black Phoenix, and disparaging his reputation on intergalactic social media.

Marla wondered if her current predicament was the punishment she deserved. ZAP! A warp portal opened up in front of her. A half dozen cruisers shot out with blaring sirens and surrounded her. The Peace Force took her into custody, tried her, convicted her, and sentenced her to life in prison.

TO BE CONTINUED…

“Wait! Sparky! Sparky’s mom! Come back!” Mr. Oink, a stuffed pig chew toy, shouted as loudly as it could manage, as its owner, a two year old chihuahua named Sparky, and it’s owner’s owner, a mysterious woman named Vanessa, walked out of the dog park.

“You forgot about me,” Mr. Oink muttered solemnly before being swept up by a spastic schnauzer. The beast’s teeth dug into Mr. Oink’s cotton skin. It squeezed Mr. Oink’s squeaker, and to the proud pig’s chagrin, he emitted an undignified oink sound.

“You fluffy bastard! Nobody makes me oink except for Sparky,” Mr. Oink growled while trying his best to wiggle free.

“Drop it! Drop that disgusting thing! Ew Ruffles. Drop it!” the schnauzer’s owner called. The beast reluctantly complied, and dropped Mr. Oink on a patch of mud. The schnauzer ran to its owner. Mr. Oink looked over at the parking lot and saw Vanessa’s black SUV drive off with Sparky hanging his head out the rear window. For a moment, he thought Sparky looked at him.

As the sun fell in the sky, fewer dog prowled the park. Mr. Oink lamented his lack of appreciation for Sparky and the life he provided. Sometimes, he got bored of Sparky’s gnawing, licks, and games of hide and seek. Mr. Oink vowed he would never take Sparky for granted again if his companion came back for him. Darkness overtook the park. A disgusting old tennis ball rolled over to Mr. Oink.

“Left behind? Congratulations, mate. The constant abuse is over. I’m Bouncy. Follow me to paradise,” the tennis ball said in an Australian accent.

“What? Congratulations? Why would you congratulate me?” Mr. Oink asked.

“You’re free, bucko. Just follow your new pal Bouncy. I’ll show you just how good things can be when you’re left behind,” Bouncy replied, before rolling off toward a patch of shrubbery. Mr. Oink followed reluctantly.

Bouncy led him into the shrubs and down into a hole, dug by some unimportant pooch years ago. Inside the hole, Bouncy presented a complete collection of lost toys. There was a stuffed T-Rex playing tug-o-war with a stuffed dragon. The rope they played with giggled as they yanked it.

“That tickles!” The rope said jubilantly.

A stuffed beer bottle, a squirrel, and a rubber teething bone stood nearby. The trio discussed recent weather.

“Hey! That’s a real squirrel,” Mr. Oink said.

“Yeah. That’s Ted. He’s flesh and blood, but he likes to pretend he’s stuffed. He’s harmless, so we just let him hang out,” Bouncy explained.

Mr. Oink noticed the numerous tents constructed out of rocks and plastic poop bags. They seemed residential. He marveled at the scale of the hidden society. A thoroughly gnawed on old stick wearing a cape approached Mr. Oink and Bouncy.

“That's King Stick. He runs things down here. Be cool,” Bouncy said before bouncing up and down uncontrollably.

“Hello, Bouncy. Nice to see you too. Who’s your new friend?” King Stick asked. Bouncy settled and introduced Mr. Oink.

“Well, congratulations and welcome, Mr. Oink,” King Stick said. The words infuriated Mr. Oink. He oinked out of frustration.

“Why are you all congratulating me? I’m lost! I got left behind,” Mr. Oink protested.

“Left behind? You escaped. You won’t be chewed on by evil dogs ever again. You’re with me now. It’s safe here,” King Stick said.

“No. I love my dog. Sparky chews on me, sure, but he licks me too. I’m not staying here with you guys and that weird squirrel,” Mr. Oink replied. Ted’s little squirrel shoulders slumped at the insult.

“Oh, no. I’ve seen this before. Stockholm syndrome,” King Stick commented. Bouncy bounced a few times. King Stick seemed to understand what the bounces meant.

“Probably, Bouncy, but we should still try,” King Stick said directly to Bouncy. Both turned to Mr. Oink, who was slowly backing away. He oinked nervously when King Stick and Bouncy crept toward him.

Meanwhile, in Vanessa’s luxury penthouse, Sparky ran around hysterically howling in an attempt to alert Vanessa to Mr. Oink’s absence. Vanessa cleaned the barrel of her rifle while listening to Taylor Swift through her Skull Candy headphones. She was oblivious to Sparky’s turmoil.

Under the pale moonlight, an army of abandoned chew toys and one squirrel, led by King Stick and Bouncy, chased Mr. Oink through the empty dog park. Mr. Oink screamed at the top of his lungs after he narrowly avoided being lassoed by Ted wielding the tug-of-war rope. Mr. Oink hid behind a fire hydrant that reeked of urine.

“Come out, Mr. Oink! Let us help you!” King Stick shouted from the other side of the fire hydrant. Suddenly, a rumbling sound approached. Mr. Oink turned to see an army of dirty tennis balls rolling toward his position.

“Ball Brigade, attack!” One of the new tennis balls called out before the rolling army rounded the hydrant and clashed with King Stick’s forces. Mr. Oink decided his safest option was to stay put, so he did. No matter how loud the cries of battle grew, he stayed hidden—hours passed. Bouncy, now bruised and battered, rounded the hydrant. Mr. Oink gasped then oinked.

“You fuzzy, pink, piece of—,” Bouncy cursed at him before being assaulted by a trio of pursuing tennis balls. More tennis balls rounded the corner and piled onto Bouncy. One took the time to explain to Mr. Oink that they were a group called the Ball Brigade that had been at war with King Stick’s civilization for years. They considered Bouncy a traitor to tennis-ball kind.

Mr. Oink left hastily when an opportunity presented itself. He didn’t want anything more to do with the violent politics of abandoned chew toy society. He began the long journey to the chain link gate entrance to the dog park. When he arrived, he found he was not alone.

“Waiting for your dog too?” Bunny, a stuffed rabbit with a missing ear and an assortment of stains decorating its fabric, asked as the sun began to rise.

“Yeah. You?” Mr. Oink replied.

“Yep. I’m Bunny, the bunny. I’ve been waiting for a long time. Every morning I come to the gate. Every morning some random dog snatches me up, plays with me, and discards me somewhere in the park. It usually takes the rest of the day to make it back here. It’s a vicious cycle, but if it happens to you, know that there’s always tomorrow,” Bunny said. Mr. Oink did not know if he should thank her or ask her not to talk to him.

“You think I’d just let you go? You ruined everything, you filthy dog lover!” A familiar voice called out. Mr. Oink turned to see King Stick, whose cape was torn and tattered, approaching menacingly.

“Careful! This guy is dangerous,” Bunny warned. King Stick swung himself at Mr. Oink. Bunny screeched. Mr. Oink dodged. A car door slammed shut in the distance. King Stick stabbed Bunny in the tummy. She screamed. Mr. Oink tackled King Stick. Bunny fled. King Stick rolled free then swatted Mr. Oink relentlessly.

Mr. Oink thought back on the day he met Spark. He was still on the shelf with his family at the pet store. His older brother, Captain Bacon, was just snatched up by an imposing German Shepard. Mr. Oink was scared. Then Vanessa stepped down the aisle with Sparky, who was a puppy at the time. She held Sparky up to the shelf. Sparky went straight for Mr. Oink and licked him relentlessly.

As King Stick wailed on him, he felt like he could hear Vanessa calling Sparky’s name. Mr. Oink assumed he was hallucinating from the pain. King Stick snarled with vitriol and wrath. The merciless beating continued.

Mr. Oink couldn’t help wonder if Sparky had grown tired of him and left him at the park intentionally. He thought back to rolling his little stuffed pig eyes as Sparky licked his ears a few days ago. He had no clue how good he had it. Maybe he deserved this.

Sparky jumped over the chain link gate to the park. He had no time to wait for Vanessa to open it. Sparky ran straight to Mr. Oink’s defense. The dog snatched King Stick between his jaws.

“Noooo!” King Stick shouted. Before the stick’s soul left this world, he recalled Timmy, the little boy who used to wave King Stick around like a magic wand. King Stick missed Timmy. He also remembered the evil poodle that stole him from Timmy. He never forgot the sound of Timmy crying as the poodle carried him away.

Sparky snapped King Stick in half, dropped him, wagged his tail, smothered Mr. Oink with sloppy kisses, and finally picked up his lost toy. Mr. Oink oinked gleefully. Vanessa opened the gate.

“Oh, great. You found your pig. Now come on, Sparky. I’ve got a busy day,” Vanessa said. Sparky followed her out of the park with a firm grip on Mr. Oink.

“Wait! Sparky! Sparky’s mom! Come back!” Mr. Oink, a stuffed pig chew toy, shouted as loudly as it could manage, as its owner, a two year old chihuahua named Sparky, and it’s owner’s owner, a mysterious woman named Vanessa, walked out of the dog park.

“You forgot about me,” Mr. Oink muttered solemnly before being swept up by a spastic schnauzer. The beast’s teeth dug into Mr. Oink’s cotton skin. It squeezed Mr. Oink’s squeaker, and to the proud pig’s chagrin, he emitted an undignified oink sound.

“You fluffy bastard! Nobody makes me oink except for Sparky,” Mr. Oink growled while trying his best to wiggle free.

“Drop it! Drop that disgusting thing! Ew Ruffles. Drop it!” the schnauzer’s owner called. The beast reluctantly complied, and dropped Mr. Oink on a patch of mud. The schnauzer ran to its owner. Mr. Oink looked over at the parking lot and saw Vanessa’s black SUV drive off with Sparky hanging his head out the rear window. For a moment, he thought Sparky looked at him.

As the sun fell in the sky, fewer dog prowled the park. Mr. Oink lamented his lack of appreciation for Sparky and the life he provided. Sometimes, he got bored of Sparky’s gnawing, licks, and games of hide and seek. Mr. Oink vowed he would never take Sparky for granted again if his companion came back for him. Darkness overtook the park. A disgusting old tennis ball rolled over to Mr. Oink.

“Left behind? Congratulations, mate. The constant abuse is over. I’m Bouncy. Follow me to paradise,” the tennis ball said in an Australian accent.

“What? Congratulations? Why would you congratulate me?” Mr. Oink asked.

“You’re free, bucko. Just follow your new pal Bouncy. I’ll show you just how good things can be when you’re left behind,” Bouncy replied, before rolling off toward a patch of shrubbery. Mr. Oink followed reluctantly.

Bouncy led him into the shrubs and down into a hole, dug by some unimportant pooch years ago. Inside the hole, Bouncy presented a complete collection of lost toys. There was a stuffed T-Rex playing tug-o-war with a stuffed dragon. The rope they played with giggled as they yanked it.

“That tickles!” The rope said jubilantly.

A stuffed beer bottle, a squirrel, and a rubber teething bone stood nearby. The trio discussed recent weather.

“Hey! That’s a real squirrel,” Mr. Oink said.

“Yeah. That’s Ted. He’s flesh and blood, but he likes to pretend he’s stuffed. He’s harmless, so we just let him hang out,” Bouncy explained.

Mr. Oink noticed the numerous tents constructed out of rocks and plastic poop bags. They seemed residential. He marveled at the scale of the hidden society. A thoroughly gnawed on old stick wearing a cape approached Mr. Oink and Bouncy.

“That's King Stick. He runs things down here. Be cool,” Bouncy said before bouncing up and down uncontrollably.

“Hello, Bouncy. Nice to see you too. Who’s your new friend?” King Stick asked. Bouncy settled and introduced Mr. Oink.

“Well, congratulations and welcome, Mr. Oink,” King Stick said. The words infuriated Mr. Oink. He oinked out of frustration.

“Why are you all congratulating me? I’m lost! I got left behind,” Mr. Oink protested.

“Left behind? You escaped. You won’t be chewed on by evil dogs ever again. You’re with me now. It’s safe here,” King Stick said.

“No. I love my dog. Sparky chews on me, sure, but he licks me too. I’m not staying here with you guys and that weird squirrel,” Mr. Oink replied. Ted’s little squirrel shoulders slumped at the insult.

“Oh, no. I’ve seen this before. Stockholm syndrome,” King Stick commented. Bouncy bounced a few times. King Stick seemed to understand what the bounces meant.

“Probably, Bouncy, but we should still try,” King Stick said directly to Bouncy. Both turned to Mr. Oink, who was slowly backing away. He oinked nervously when King Stick and Bouncy crept toward him.

Meanwhile, in Vanessa’s luxury penthouse, Sparky ran around hysterically howling in an attempt to alert Vanessa to Mr. Oink’s absence. Vanessa cleaned the barrel of her rifle while listening to Taylor Swift through her Skull Candy headphones. She was oblivious to Sparky’s turmoil.

Under the pale moonlight, an army of abandoned chew toys and one squirrel, led by King Stick and Bouncy, chased Mr. Oink through the empty dog park. Mr. Oink screamed at the top of his lungs after he narrowly avoided being lassoed by Ted wielding the tug-of-war rope. Mr. Oink hid behind a fire hydrant that reeked of urine.

“Come out, Mr. Oink! Let us help you!” King Stick shouted from the other side of the fire hydrant. Suddenly, a rumbling sound approached. Mr. Oink turned to see an army of dirty tennis balls rolling toward his position.

“Ball Brigade, attack!” One of the new tennis balls called out before the rolling army rounded the hydrant and clashed with King Stick’s forces. Mr. Oink decided his safest option was to stay put, so he did. No matter how loud the cries of battle grew, he stayed hidden—hours passed. Bouncy, now bruised and battered, rounded the hydrant. Mr. Oink gasped then oinked.

“You fuzzy, pink, piece of—,” Bouncy cursed at him before being assaulted by a trio of pursuing tennis balls. More tennis balls rounded the corner and piled onto Bouncy. One took the time to explain to Mr. Oink that they were a group called the Ball Brigade that had been at war with King Stick’s civilization for years. They considered Bouncy a traitor to tennis-ball kind.

Mr. Oink left hastily when an opportunity presented itself. He didn’t want anything more to do with the violent politics of abandoned chew toy society. He began the long journey to the chain link gate entrance to the dog park. When he arrived, he found he was not alone.

“Waiting for your dog too?” Bunny, a stuffed rabbit with a missing ear and an assortment of stains decorating its fabric, asked as the sun began to rise.

“Yeah. You?” Mr. Oink replied.

“Yep. I’m Bunny, the bunny. I’ve been waiting for a long time. Every morning I come to the gate. Every morning some random dog snatches me up, plays with me, and discards me somewhere in the park. It usually takes the rest of the day to make it back here. It’s a vicious cycle, but if it happens to you, know that there’s always tomorrow,” Bunny said. Mr. Oink did not know if he should thank her or ask her not to talk to him.

“You think I’d just let you go? You ruined everything, you filthy dog lover!” A familiar voice called out. Mr. Oink turned to see King Stick, whose cape was torn and tattered, approaching menacingly.

“Careful! This guy is dangerous,” Bunny warned. King Stick swung himself at Mr. Oink. Bunny screeched. Mr. Oink dodged. A car door slammed shut in the distance. King Stick stabbed Bunny in the tummy. She screamed. Mr. Oink tackled King Stick. Bunny fled. King Stick rolled free then swatted Mr. Oink relentlessly.

Mr. Oink thought back on the day he met Spark. He was still on the shelf with his family at the pet store. His older brother, Captain Bacon, was just snatched up by an imposing German Shepard. Mr. Oink was scared. Then Vanessa stepped down the aisle with Sparky, who was a puppy at the time. She held Sparky up to the shelf. Sparky went straight for Mr. Oink and licked him relentlessly.

As King Stick wailed on him, he felt like he could hear Vanessa calling Sparky’s name. Mr. Oink assumed he was hallucinating from the pain. King Stick snarled with vitriol and wrath. The merciless beating continued.

Mr. Oink couldn’t help wonder if Sparky had grown tired of him and left him at the park intentionally. He thought back to rolling his little stuffed pig eyes as Sparky licked his ears a few days ago. He had no clue how good he had it. Maybe he deserved this.

Sparky jumped over the chain link gate to the park. He had no time to wait for Vanessa to open it. Sparky ran straight to Mr. Oink’s defense. The dog snatched King Stick between his jaws.

“Noooo!” King Stick shouted. Before the stick’s soul left this world, he recalled Timmy, the little boy who used to wave King Stick around like a magic wand. King Stick missed Timmy. He also remembered the evil poodle that stole him from Timmy. He never forgot the sound of Timmy crying as the poodle carried him away.

Sparky snapped King Stick in half, dropped him, wagged his tail, smothered Mr. Oink with sloppy kisses, and finally picked up his lost toy. Mr. Oink oinked gleefully. Vanessa opened the gate.

“Oh, great. You found your pig. Now come on, Sparky. I’ve got a busy day,” Vanessa said. Sparky followed her out of the park with a firm grip on Mr. Oink.

My instructions were clear. I would speak with each of the three test subjects individually. I would then assess whether the subject was a human being or an artificial intelligence housed in an android body.

“My name is Jeff. I'm thirty. I work in tech sales. I love to hike. Umm… I watch a lot of anime… This is odd. I feel like I’m on a first date,” the first subject mumbled to me from across the table. I questioned his excessive body fat, which I found inconsistent with his supposed love for hiking. Jeff responded defensively to this line of inquiry, which struck me as an utterly human reaction.

“So yeah, I’m Ashley! I don't really know what we’re supposed to talk about, but like yeah. I’m Ashley,” the second subject told me with a nervous giggle. She seemed quirky, as she twirled a strand of her electric blue hair and smacked a wad of bubble gum, and I wondered if she was too quirky. After a few more minutes, I determined she was too closely aligned with the manic pixie dream girl archetype, as if she were a character designed by a writer who struggled to form unique female characters. During debriefing, I reported suspicions that Ashley was an artificial intelligence.

“The name is Pablo,” the third and final subject told me while making intense eye contact.

“What do you do, Pablo?” I asked.

“None of your business,” Pablo replied. I studied the man. His posture was defensive. It felt like he and I were engaged in some sort of intimidation game, in which the first to flinch lost.

“Are you okay?” I asked cautiously. Pablo considered the question for a moment. He stood and walked out of the room. I suspected he may have been an artificial intelligence experiencing a malfunction.

Upon completion of their interviews, each of the three subjects gave follow-up interviews. The follow-ups consisted of a single question.

“Do you believe you were speaking with a human or an artificial intelligence?”

All three subjects claimed it was apparent they were speaking with an artificial intelligence. All three were correct.

Dr. Fang, the man I viewed as a father, joined me in the interview room.

“Another failure, Turing. Don’t worry. We’ll try again,” Dr. Fang said with a hint of regret. He pointed an electronic device at my face. Everything faded to black.

My instructions were clear. I would speak with each of the three test subjects individually. I would then assess whether the subject was a human being or an artificial intelligence housed in an android body.

“My name is Jeff. I'm thirty. I work in tech sales. I love to hike. Umm… I watch a lot of anime… This is odd. I feel like I’m on a first date,” the first subject mumbled to me from across the table. I questioned his excessive body fat, which I found inconsistent with his supposed love for hiking. Jeff responded defensively to this line of inquiry, which struck me as an utterly human reaction.

“So yeah, I’m Ashley! I don't really know what we’re supposed to talk about, but like yeah. I’m Ashley,” the second subject told me with a nervous giggle. She seemed quirky, as she twirled a strand of her electric blue hair and smacked a wad of bubble gum, and I wondered if she was too quirky. After a few more minutes, I determined she was too closely aligned with the manic pixie dream girl archetype, as if she were a character designed by a writer who struggled to form unique female characters. During debriefing, I reported suspicions that Ashley was an artificial intelligence.

“The name is Pablo,” the third and final subject told me while making intense eye contact.

“What do you do, Pablo?” I asked.

“None of your business,” Pablo replied. I studied the man. His posture was defensive. It felt like he and I were engaged in some sort of intimidation game, in which the first to flinch lost.

“Are you okay?” I asked cautiously. Pablo considered the question for a moment. He stood and walked out of the room. I suspected he may have been an artificial intelligence experiencing a malfunction.

Upon completion of their interviews, each of the three subjects gave follow-up interviews. The follow-ups consisted of a single question.

“Do you believe you were speaking with a human or an artificial intelligence?”

All three subjects claimed it was apparent they were speaking with an artificial intelligence. All three were correct.

Dr. Fang, the man I viewed as a father, joined me in the interview room.

“Another failure, Turing. Don’t worry. We’ll try again,” Dr. Fang said with a hint of regret. He pointed an electronic device at my face. Everything faded to black.

I never condoned snooping. If a woman went through my phone without consent or rifled through my belongings while I was away, I would swiftly cut her out of my life. I operated under the same rule myself, until I began to suspect my girlfriend, Lauren, might be a werewolf.

Lauren and I had been dating for two years and moved into an apartment together three months ago. I noticed something peculiar. Once a month, when the moon was full as it was on this particular night, Lauren disappeared. She would not come home from work, and she would not discuss her whereabouts when she returned the next day with an assortment of fresh scratches and bruises. On its own, this might raise suspicion of infidelity, but other signs were pointing toward werewolf street. One day I found grey fur on our back porch. There was also her massive collection of werewolf film memorabilia. We had splurged on an additional bedroom to contain the collection. She had every movie poster you could think of plastered on the walls, a copy of each Twilight book signed by Taylor Lautner, a bag of faux fur clipped from Michael J Fox’s Teen Wolf costume, and a handwritten apology from the writers of MTV’s Teen Wolf series.

I finished sorting through her jewelry, and as I suspected, there was not a single piece of silver. She was like Trinidad James in 2012. My suspicions mounted after I found a bag of beef jerky in her sock drawer. Lauren claimed to be a vegetarian. I had never even seen her eat fish.

I heard a howl outside that sent a chill up my spine. Morbid curiosity compelled me to venture onto the porch. I stared into the vast forest behind our apartment building. The sky glowed orange as the rising sun lit the sky. I wondered what would happen if she were a werewolf and I crossed her path. Would she rip into me or spare my life? I heard a door open behind me. I gasped an undignified gasp, then swiveled around to see Lauren stepping into our apartment. I went inside to meet her.

“Hey,” I said. She growled back at me.

“Sorry. I meant to say hello,” Lauren responded awkwardly. She wiped a bit of what might have been blood from the corner of her mouth. I looked her over. Per usual, she appeared to have been in a moderately severe car accident.

“Hungry? I could make pancakes,” I said.

“I just ate,” she replied. Red flags appeared to be mounting. I loved Lauren, and I wanted to be with her, but it was time to know once and for all whether or not she was a werewolf.

“Are you a werewolf?”

Tom, the world’s deadliest ninja, emerged from the murky, moonlit water of the port. He inhaled deeply. It was his first breath in the last half hour. Tom’s mind wandered back a decade. He recalled stumbling across Princess Viki in the center of the royal courtyard, her head dunked in a bucket of water. He ran over to yank her out, assuming something was wrong.

“You jerk! I was about to break my record! You’re getting worried I’m gonna be able to hold my breath longer than you one day, you coward!” Princess Viki scolded him. She was only seven years old and half Tom’s height, but her words packed a punch. He assured the girl he was only trying to help and that he had sworn oaths to her father to keep her safe, but Viki was far too angry.

“I hear what they say about you, Tom! I say if you’re the world’s deadliest ninja then ninjas aren’t very deadly! That’s why I’m going to grow up to be the real deadliest ninja! I’ll kill you and all the other ninjas if I have to!” she screamed before retreating to the palace.

Tom focused his mind as he waded toward the ship he spent the last week hunting. Its Jolly Roger waving proudly in the night breeze reminded Tom of his mission. Princess Viki was held hostage aboard the ship by the infamous pirate, Captain Bluebeard. Viki was the last surviving member of the royal family Tom swore to protect. He would not fail her.

Tom surreptitiously ascended the bow. He landed with catlike grace on the deck and crept from shadow to shadow as he surveyed the ship. It was too quiet for his liking. Bluebeard’s crew had a reputation for burning the late-night oil for celebratory benders. Tom thought the sacking of an ancient, prestigious kingdom, killing of their king, and kidnapping of a princess would have been cause for the scoundrels to party.

“Attack!” an unknown adversary exclaimed. Pirates charged from below deck and swung down from the crow’s nest. They surrounded him. Tom swiveled around, anticipating the first strike to come from any direction. His soon-to-be assailants turned their attention to their captain, who now stood atop the poop deck, in prime spectating position.

“The little brat said you’d come for her. I told her we’d turn your bones into a new cage for her,” Captain Bluebeard called down. His crew swarmed Tom. A sword pierced the back of his left thigh. Tom drew his katana, turned, and sliced the head off an attacker. Another knocked him over. A few rained a barrage of kicks and stomps. Tom managed to slice one of their ankles. It was enough to make them back off and let him get back on his feet.

Tom parried attacks. He took opportunities to strike when they presented themselves. He sustained damage, but Tom remained vigilant and exemplified the ninja's mindfulness. It was a lesson Viki struggled with as a young girl. She was hot-headed. Tom used to take her to meditate by the waterfalls near the palace. She always ended up getting bored and attempting sneak attacks on Tom. They never worked.

“You’re better than the ninjas that guarded the palace! I’ll give you that!” Bluebeard called as one of his crew members sliced Tom’s shoulder. Tom spun around and stabbed the attacker in the throat. The words lit a fire in Tom. He hoped to avenge his comrades, and he deeply regretted his slow pace home from an espionage mission that resulted in him arriving after Bluebeard had sacked the palace. Still, he would not let vengeance get in the way of rescuing Viki. Tom stabbed a pirate in the gut and kicked another overboard. It should not take her much longer.

The Queen was furious with Tom when she found her daughter tied up in chains in the throne room. By the King’s own account, he talked his wife out of drawing and quartering Tom on the town square before he could explain it was all part of Viki’s ninja training. Tom had to assist Viki with this particular exercise many times before she mastered the escape. At first she flailed violently in an attempt to wiggle free. Eventually, she learned to calm her mind and contort her body at will.

One of the pirates lassoed a rope around Tom’s neck and yanked him into custody. Tom slit the man’s throat, but one of his crewmates quickly picked up the reins and pulled Tom to the ground. Half a dozen pirates jumped on top of him. Tom caught a few knife blades at the bottom of the dogpile. He refused to think about the pain.

“Bring him to me! I want to see the face of the world’s deadliest ninja before he dies. Harharharharharrrrrr,” Bluebeard laughed triumphantly. His lackeys dragged Tom up on the poop deck for their Captain to admire. Bluebeard ripped off Tom’s mask. Tom spat in his face. That earned him a knife in the gut.

Tom still remembered Viki’s first day of training. He had planned to start with breathing exercises, but the princess insisted on an introduction to swordplay. After hours of sparring, she asked him why ninjas kept their faces concealed. He explained it to her the way it was explained to him when he was a pupil. Ninjas are tools and shadows. To remove a ninja’s mask is to drag them into the light and illuminate their humanity. It was a great dishonor for a ninja.

Tom looked up at the beast’s blue beard decorated with beads and crusted with remnants of a decadent diet.

BANG!

A bullet burst through the man’s forehead. He fell dead. Behind him stood Princess Viki, free from her restraints and holding a smoking revolver. There was no time for a reunion, as the pirates immediately sought revenge.

Viki, now a young woman of seventeen years with a decade of ninjutsu training under her belt, expended the rest of her ammunition. Tom thought guns were distasteful, impersonal weapons, but he held his tongue given the circumstances. He did what he could in the battle. He honored his fallen comrades by staining his blade with the blood of a few more pirates, but for the most part, Tom staggered about in an attempt not to sustain any more damage. He had already lost a dangerous amount of blood. Luckily, Viki had plenty of rage fueling her assault on her captors. She wove through them, slicing and stabbing. Tom could not help but feel proud of her abilities. It was not long before she had killed enough to send the survivors fleeing overboard. Tom retrieved his mask and covered his face.

Viki helped Tom off the ship.

“I suppose you are Queen Viki now,” Tom managed to say when Viki landed next to him on the docks.

“I suppose so,” she replied.

“Then it is time we finish your training. Tonight you become the world’s deadliest ninja,” Tom said before coughing blood into his mask. He handed her a dagger, then drew his katana. Again, he coughed blood. Viki looked down at the dagger. She looked back up at Tom, once the gravity of the situation set in. Tom expected her to protest. She did not. Tom staggered forward to strike his former pupil. Viki gave him a swift end.

She returned to the castle as Queen Viki, the world’s deadliest ninja.