Eerie, Indiana fanfiction: Hound
Written for Day 9 of the 31_days April challenge. The prompt was "rich, rumbling voice".
The three-headed, fire-breathing devil-dog blinked with all twelve of its lambent eyes, snuffled suspiciously at the proffered hand, and lapped up a half-pound of jackalope jerky with a twelve-inch forked tongue. The jaws of the middle head worked fiercely, yellow teeth the length of a man’s forearm making short work of Mister Radford’s patented Hell Hound Treats. Three tails wagged, the head on the right barked it’s approval in a puppy’s squeaky tones, while the head on the left rumbled out a Latin chant in a deep bass voice that made the glass shake in nearby windows.
Simon reached out with his free hand and scratched at the thick ruff of black fur over the broad shoulders. The middle head closed its eight compound eyes in bliss. The tails wagged harder and cobalt-blue wisps of hellfire rose from the dark coat, filling the air with the smell of burning. The left head pushed against his chest, nearly knocking him over. The right head whined and slobbered, straining to reach his face with a grey-green tongue covered in tiny barbs. Simon steadied himself against the broad chest and stood on tiptoe to place a kiss on the muzzle, still slick and steaming with ectoplasm after foraging in the astral plane.
From a safe distance halfway up the street, Marshall stood in stunned silence, clutching a mangled and drool-smeared silver chain to his chest. The key to the evidence locker hung from it, miraculously unscathed after being stolen by his goatee-sporting, dimension-hopping evil twin from a parallel reality, tracked across the multiverse by an army of milkmen who may or may not have been Mars himself at different points in time, and retrieved by an in-training guardian of the underworld.
In an alley behind Everything Corn, concealed by overflowing trashcans, Fifi watched in disgust.
“Traitor,” she muttered, her thick French accent turning the slur into something musical.
The three-headed, fire-breathing devil-dog blinked with all twelve of its lambent eyes, snuffled suspiciously at the proffered hand, and lapped up a half-pound of jackalope jerky with a twelve-inch forked tongue. The jaws of the middle head worked fiercely, yellow teeth the length of a man’s forearm making short work of Mister Radford’s patented Hell Hound Treats. Three tails wagged, the head on the right barked it’s approval in a puppy’s squeaky tones, while the head on the left rumbled out a Latin chant in a deep bass voice that made the glass shake in nearby windows.
Simon reached out with his free hand and scratched at the thick ruff of black fur over the broad shoulders. The middle head closed its eight compound eyes in bliss. The tails wagged harder and cobalt-blue wisps of hellfire rose from the dark coat, filling the air with the smell of burning. The left head pushed against his chest, nearly knocking him over. The right head whined and slobbered, straining to reach his face with a grey-green tongue covered in tiny barbs. Simon steadied himself against the broad chest and stood on tiptoe to place a kiss on the muzzle, still slick and steaming with ectoplasm after foraging in the astral plane.
From a safe distance halfway up the street, Marshall stood in stunned silence, clutching a mangled and drool-smeared silver chain to his chest. The key to the evidence locker hung from it, miraculously unscathed after being stolen by his goatee-sporting, dimension-hopping evil twin from a parallel reality, tracked across the multiverse by an army of milkmen who may or may not have been Mars himself at different points in time, and retrieved by an in-training guardian of the underworld.
In an alley behind Everything Corn, concealed by overflowing trashcans, Fifi watched in disgust.
“Traitor,” she muttered, her thick French accent turning the slur into something musical.