Simon thanked the person on the other end of the line, settling the phone down gently in it's receiver before turning to Marshall.

"Good news and bad news," he said.

"Go on," said Marshall, inwardly bracing himself. Sometimes even Simon's good news could contain a fair amount of bad.

"Sparky only counts as one enrolment- he's got three heads but only one stomach, so feeding and clean-up is about the same as for any large dog."

"But?"

"Since the Wild Hunt's hounds aren't always or even mostly confined to dog shape, Mustard's technically a polymorph so they won't take him."

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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"Come on," Simon coaxed. "Just one more."

At his feet, a great black Hellhound whimpered and writhed, it's central head held in place by the pressure of Simon's knees on either side of his muzzle. Eight red eyes, crusted with yellowish phlegm, rolled and blinked and watered as Simon raised the pipette in preparation for the final dose.

"It's almost over," he soothed, reaching out his free hand and scratching as far up the thick trifurcated neck as he could reach. "And after this, no more trying to read the signs outside of churches, okay?"

Sparky barked his mournful agreement.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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It was obvious from Simon's expression that he'd somewhat missed his mark.

"It's nothing infernal," Simon hastened to explain. "It's just... you know how Boris Von Orloff got a job on that old radio we brought from the Secret Spot?"

Marshall nodded. While the self-proclaimed star of stage and screen had proved somewhat obnoxious during his impromptu visit to Eerie, it hadn't lessened Marshall's enjoyment of his movies nor, post-resurrection, his voice work.

Simon's gaze flicked to the Hellhound, currently asleep in a slightly-scorched basket made of packing crates.

"I think he's too young for ghost stories," he told Marshall.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The sound of sausages hissing in the heavy cast-iron pan drifted out through the hairline crack in the almost-closed kitchen door, accompanied by the savoury aroma of fried grease and onions.

In the living room, a great Hellhound sat inside a circle of salt, commanded to stay and none too happy about it.

Dash, who had been similarly banished, could sympathise.

"What do you say?" he asked the massive three-headed beast. "I break the salt-line, you rush in there and distract him, and I raid the fridge while you do it?"

Sparky's three heads drooled, and his eyes shone red.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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"Good boys," Simon cooed, reaching up to scratch Sparky's centre chin with one hand while simultaneously reaching down to rub Mustard's ears with the other. "Daddy's very good babies, yes!"

He gave Sparky's collar a tug, bringing the gigantic Cerberus to sit at his feet, then produced a much-chewed rubber ball from his pocket.

"Watch this," he told Marshall, then turned back to his pets.

"Sparky, stay. Mustard," he hurled the ball as far as he could across the wet grass, "Go fetch!"

To Marshall, it looked for one horrifying moment as if Mustard had exploded. Teeth and fur and limbs were suddenly spread over the ground in front of him, two, three dozen legs writhing and churning as long black nails tore clumps of wet soil as they sped away. Drool-smeared lips peeled back from a hundred pairs of long jaws and a thousand yellow-white teeth snapped around snarls from an infinity of throats.

He stumbled back, hands raised to ward off the scene unfolding before him, and the enormous serpentine shape that had been Mustard flung itself away, vanishing across the park in a stomach-churning roil of sinewy muscle.

A few seconds later, Mustard trotted back into view, a battered rubber ball clutched in his single, normal-sized pair of jaws, a smile on his single, normal-sized doggy face.

He bounded over to them, plumed tail wagging, yellow-gold coat streaked with nothing more than earth and grass, and deposited the toy at Marshall's feet.

"I think the King probably breeds them himself," Simon said.

Marshall nodded weakly, then knelt to pick up the ball. Mustard barked, leaping about in excitement as he prepared to play fetch.

"I guess this is why you always come to the park so early," he said.

"Yeah," said Simon. "It's nice and quiet now."

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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"Oh," said Simon. "I guess that's just how he likes to look. I don't know that he was ever even part of the Chase."

Marshall's brow furrowed.

"So he's just a regular dog?" he asked. "I guess I thought that the Wild Hunt bred their hounds specifically and Mustard was just kind of an outlier, but now I don't know. Is the King recruiting out of our world's pounds and petshops and stuff?"

"I think even the Wild Hunt wouldn't dare poach from Fifi's talent pool," said Simon. "Which is good, because otherwise his hounds would be a lot crueller."

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: CAT

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Marshall shifted on the park bench, the metal slats cold even through layers of clothing. At his side, Simon filled a small plastic mug from an insulated flask, filling the air with the rich scent of cocoa and sending plumes of steam wafting into the damp air of an unseasonably cold spring morning.

A little way ahead of them, two shapes moved in the undergrowth. One vast and black, setting off bursts of hissing fog wherever hellfire-hot fur brushed against the dew-soaked branches, the other smaller and yellow-blond, sticking close to the first one's side like a pale, nervous shadow.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Simon nodded, his hands already deep inside his field kit as he retrieved blocks of latex, a set of smallish glass beakers, and a single eternally-burning tear from a Hellhound's eye.

(He'd harvested it from Sparky one night when Marshall had refused to feed him a second French stick of garlic bread, on the basis that the first had probably been a bad idea to begin with. He'd been right, but it hadn't stopped their dog from turning on the waterworks).

"Janet has been giving them hell lately," he said. "Apparently the clowns ate one of her delivery drivers, so..."

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Janet

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The afternoon sun shone through the empty spaces in the car park across the street and cast a single patch of warm gold on the cheap and faded living room carpet.

The manticore flopped bonelessly down in the sunbeam, belly up and paws splayed. It furled and unfurled it's wings, angling them carefully to ensure every drop of light would be captured.

"Hey," said Simon, nudging it with his bare foot. "Move up. Share with your brother."

He gestured to the hulking three-headed Hellhound that pressed against his legs, three mouths turned down in a reproachful pout.

The manticore chuckled.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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"I call him Big Moo," said Farmer Chambers, patting the enormous cloud-buffalo on the muzzle.

Simon walked a slow circle around the massive animal, taking in the thick mane comprised of thousands of tightly-clustered balloons.

"He's very pretty," he said, holding out one hand for Big Moo to sniff.

"The only cloud-bison in the entire state of Indiana," the farmer declared proudly, as Big Moo licked Simon's hand with enough enthusiasm to earn a glare from Sparky. "Look at that coat. You could make balloon arches for a dozen weddings and still have some left over."

Big Moo moo'd, loudly.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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