There are no real monsters. Except for the one in my closet

[extra_psychic]

According to all the literature, you weren't supposed to make any big changes in the first year of recovery. That might be all fine and good in the world she came from, Pamela thinks, but with the way the island is...well, it's bullshit. People come and go, there's snow, she's heard you can wake up as a dude. Those are some pretty major changes. So

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[saikamai]

Cuthbert jogged down the steps of the compound, several large rolls of paper cradled in the crook of his arm and a pen lodged behind his ear. Glue was waiting for him in the shade of a tree, tail whisking as his large eyes regarded a dog across the path. Bert grinned and patted his rear fondly, slipping the rolls of paper into the gunna hanging off the saddle, and, just as he was about to hop up, hesitated, thinking he must've heard the dog's owner wrong. He glanced at her and found that he recognized her from the club; he'd seen her there a few times before. She was blind, and now that he was really looking at the dog, seeing it very well, he saw that it was a leading-hound, though it looked different from the type they had at home.

What really struck him wasn't the kind of dog or even Glue Boy's wary fascination with it-- it was what the woman was saying to it. She kept repeating the word cujo, a word in the High Speech, and even that wouldn't have given him pause, really--- there were plenty of soundalikes that he'd come across since he'd arrived on the island-- what was interesting was that she seemed to actually ken the word he knew. Cujo meant sweet one and it was quite a common name for an animal; sometimes folk even used it for their babbies or sweetings.

He hesitated, briefly, not knowing quite what to say but wanting badly to say something. "That's a fine dog," he said brightly. "Wish my horse was half so obedient."

[extra_psychic]

It had been loud in the bar and she'd been drunk, yeah...but Pamela had an ear for voices and she knows his instantly. It's not just the sound of it, it's the quality of it. The way he says things has a peculiar ring. Not bad or anything, just distinctive.

"Thanks, Bert," she says, stone sober now for over two weeks. She's still feeling that void and missing her gift like crazy, but there's something about being clear that's so good that it defies explanation.

"He turned up this morning with a note card," she continues. "He's mine, and I doubt anyone else here wants or needs a seeing eye dog. Right Cujo?" She puts down her free hand and the Shepherd rises his muzzle and gives her fingers a lick.

[saikamai]

Bert smiled immediately at the sound of his name, first pleased to be remembered, then amused to think that she had an advantage with him-- with a mouth like his, it was more like he'd be recognized by his prattle than his face. And then, just like that, her name came to him-- usually he was good with them, but the island's many twinners had made him a little more cautious when matching them to faces. Also it might be said Bert had a tendency of absorbing the losses while behind the counter which may've weakened his wit a wee nubbin.

He walked over and crouched down, offering his knuckles tentatively to the dog, the smile sticking persistently to his face as he heard her say the name again. Her name for it was funny, too: seeing-eye dog. Made sense, but gave Bert an unpleasantly comic mental image of a mutie pooch with 20/20/20/20/20 vision.

"Ah, so he's your gift from the island, huh? And he's, he's trained to lead you places? Extremely trig, sai," he said, suddenly addressing the dog with that last. "It's funny-- the name you've given him..." He paused, not wanting to tell her what she already knew-- there were lots of odd similarities between his own world and some of these others. "It's a word in the High Speech where I'm from. Don't hear that very often, here." Bert squinted up at her, smiling with the sun in his face, feeling odd that she couldn't see it.

[extra_psychic]

"I didn't give it to him, it's the name on his tag. I think it's the island's idea of a joke. I was talking to a guy at a party a while back and he asked me why I didn't have a dog like this. I told him with my luck, I'd end up with Cujo..."

Then she stops abruptly. High Speech. That sounds really fucking familiar, but she sure as hell can't remember why. Kinda the way he says 'sai'. Ultimately, she shrugs it off. It'll come to her or it won't, either way it doesn't matter right now.

"...It's from a book where I'm from. A book about a dog who gets sick from a bat bite and winds up killing a fuck-ton of people. If you ask me, it sounds just like one of the jokes this place lays on people. But he doesn't seem sick. He seems pretty damned smart."

She pauses, then smiles.

"What's it mean? Where you're from, what's Cujo mean?"

Because anything's got to be better than 'scary giant rabid motherfuckin' monster dog'.

[saikamai]

Bert listened, liking the way she talked, thinking she might be from a variation on Lloyd's world and making a mental note to ask him later about Cujo.

"No, doesn't look sick in the least," he said, shaking his head. "Island joke. Ab-suh-lutely hysterical sense of humor, this place. I think if you didn't get the real article it must be awfully fond of you." Bert stood up, taking the opportunity to give the fellow a gentle scratch right betwixt those alert ears of his. "And cujo means 'sweet one'. It's a term of endearment, you know, for those of us too hoighty-toighty to use honey lips or lamby sweetkins," he added, a laugh suspended in his tone.

[extra_psychic]

"I was always partial to 'hot ass' myself, but I'm not calling my dog that," she laughs. "Sweet one, though...I like that. What do you think, Cujo? Are you a sweet one?"

The dog looked up at her with as much understanding and affection as a dog could muster, then gave her a lick. There was a smack of his chops as he did...and then he was done. He returned to his placid vigil, waiting for orders to go somewhere or do something other than visit.

Smart as he was, he was still just a dog and he kept looking over at Glue Boy with interest.

"Yeah," she continues. "I like that. I'll just steal that little tidbit for when someone else asks me what it means. I always figured it was Spanish or something. Like cojones. Co-jo-nays, you know?" she asks, pronouncing it properly, and then again the way she's heard it in St. Louis.

[saikamai]

Cuthbert erupted with laughter, both at the second botched Mejian pronunciation and at the idea of cojones as an acceptable substitute for cujo, oh yes, my dear darling cojones!

When he'd managed to recover a little, he looked up, nodding along with her. "Mmm-hmm. And hot ass, hot ass is a good one. Straight to the point. Kind of a funny name for an animal, though."

Glue Boy whuffled, either hoping to garner more attention from Cujo or protesting his owner's right to say one word about funny animal names.

[extra_psychic]

It's been a long time since she's heard someone laugh so long and so hard. And so damned genuine. She's heard his laugh at the bar, but not like this. For a second she wonders if he might start choking on it and cough himself silly.

But her own laughter joins his. It's not as hard but it's warm and real. And it feels good. It feels right, and after a long stretch of feeling like hammered shit, she can't say she minds.

"I don't know, man...I've known some animals it worked just fine for," she says. "Most of them were bikers. A couple bouncers. One rodeo cowboy..."

Easy to get lost in reminiscing about boys gone by.

[saikamai]

Bert kept on grinning, but it shifted slightly, from a kid's delighted smile to something cheeky and knowing in half a minute.

"I don't doubt it. All right, now-- I ken bouncers and cowboys, but not bikers. Tell me about these hot-assed bikers of yours," he said with mock-seriousness, as if expecting demure protest. "Pamela, look, I've got gaps in my education a mile wide, you've got to be patient with me."

[extra_psychic]

"Oh, sweetie...we've all got gaps," she chuckles. "Bikers. Huh. Well, all the bikers I knew were kind of rough. Lots of tattoos, lots of leather. Pierced ears. What made them bikers, though, was their bikes. Motorcycles. God, this one guy? I swear I dated his bike, not him."

She pauses and tilts her head, wondering if he knows any of what she's saying.

"I know you know leather because I can smell it on you, but how about the tattoos, earrings, and motorcycles?"

[saikamai]

Cuthbert got it, now-- he'd seen enough movies to get it, and even had his own very special personal experience as a biker, or mayhap a close relative of one.

"Bit of a funny story, actually," he said. "Last spring, the island decided that a lot of us were going to wake up totally mad-- utterly different in personality, completely batshit..." Bert hesitated, trying to find the best angle to grasp the story at. "Well, one morning, I woke up and started calling myself Slick. I went around pulling my knife on people, talking strangely-- even for me-- and I made my friend Lloyd slick back all my hair with this disgusting hair grease. I remember wanting a tattoo and earrings but thank the gods I was kept far enough away from all that. Not that there's anything wrong with tattoos but can you even imagine the idiocy I would've had needled onto my impressionable ass?"

He shook his head, scratching Cujo behind the ear. "Now, I don't think that's quite the kind of fellow you dated-- Mr. Bateman seemed to believe Slick was... 'imprinted' on my 'sub-conscious', I think, by a movie I saw. Grease. But I had the jacket, and I was definitely kind of rough. Got thrown into a holding cell and everything," he added, with a certain amount of pride. Sure as hell beat the last time he'd seen the inside of a cell.

[extra_psychic]

"Damn. If you'd played the guitar, that sounds like just my kinda guy, honey," she tells him. "But you don't have the voice for it. Most of the bikers I know, it's like their voice come right up outta their balls. you sound..."

She waves vaguely, searching for how to explain it. It's hard to describe how someone sounds or where their voice comes from. Some it's their throat, some their nose, some their chest. Most people are a combination and she's adapted to pick up on the subtle differences.

"I dunno. From your smile, I guess. I can hear you smiling...if that makes any sense. So, you got locked up, huh? What's that like here?"

[saikamai]

"Aw, c'mon," Bert said, rubbing his forehead as if she had been in danger of giving him a headache from sheer disappointment. "That's awful sweet, but I think I'm supposed to want my voice to sound like it's coming right up outta my co-jo-nays, you know?"

But to be told that his voice came out of his smile was a pretty good consolation prize, he supposed, especially coming from her.

"I don't know if it really counts," he hedged, "I was only in there for one night and I was so gods-be-damned drunk I don't remember much of it. Though I went around the next day and made apologies to everyone I'd assaulted, including Commander Vimes, who was apparently so impressed with my brief stunt as a criminal that he invited me to join the force." Bert shrugged, still kind of baffled by the whole thing. "Anyway, it was just the holding cell. The real prison's way out in the jungle, and it's usually empty."

[extra_psychic]

Now that almost sounded like dirt. Pamela tilts her head giving away just a hint of the curiosity she actually feels. If there's anything you've got to be good at when you're a psychic- real deal or not- it's acting. You've either got to sell it or hide it, but you never show all your cards. That just scares people.

So she doesn't let the whole of her interest show. Just a little bit.

"You say that like it's not empty now," she says. "Don't tell me we have a bona fide criminal here on Happy Vacation Island."

[saikamai]

The thing Cuthbert hated about discussing Flagg or Marten or John Farson's lady-wife, whoever and whatever the fuck he was, was that he had the disconcerting feeling that it would be appreciated by the guy. And the more vitriolic Bert was feeling, the more flattering he sensed it would be, so, to this end Cuthbert made up his mind to stow away the truly scathing barbs for use around Alain and Sandor and exercise some measure of calm.

"It isn't," he said simply, shaking his head a little. "There's a criminal, but everything he's done here's relatively small-time. He had magic once and had himself a little temper-tantrum when he realized it was gone-- injured Lloyd and Glen Bateman in the process." Without meaning it, his voice had taken on an oddly adult tone, a wearied sarcasm that was probably an unconscious imitation of Vimes himself. "Just a disguntled wizard."

[extra_psychic]

What a let down. Pamela simply snorts.

"A temper tantrum? That's stupid. I mean, I'm sorry for Lloyd and...Glen?...but really..."

She tilts her head a little, the cant of her chin making her look defiant and proud even though the line of her lips makes for a decidedly bitter expression.

"Doesn't he know that when you lose you're magic you're supposed to become a drunk?" It's the realization of what she's said after she's said it- and damn it but you can't take that shit back- that makes her tack on something more.

"That was shitty, sorry. I, um...yeah. I quit. Drinking, I mean." And considering how much she's made him tip his wrist to fill her glass, he's got to have some idea of what 'quitting' must mean.