Bitefighter here. I’m Kent Wayne’s Buddy For Life, 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire, and the most lethal mind within this 54 galaxy cluster known as the Local Group. I have an unparalleled understanding of quantum physics, consciousness-driven electrogravitics (UFO propulsion technology), mind-to-mind combat, and the best damn places to buy doggie biscuits (may I humbly recommend Indiana Bones’ Temple of Groom, Dog Treats and Salon). If you need a sentient being that’s capable of doing anything from seducing a Great Dane to hot-wiring an F-23 raptor, I’m your Terrier. I’ve thwarted hordes of Insectoids, turned a run-of-the-mill, San Francisco dumpster into a cool little hangout with enough weapons and mobility to rival the Batmobile, and prevented cats from taking over the world. Indeed—I am what lay people call a “badass mofo.”
Spare me your judgments. I have neither the time nor inclination to demonstrate false humility.
Today began like any other. I woke up, meditated myself into a state of ecstatic bliss that exceeds the potency of a heroic dose of DMT by several orders of magnitude, then returned to my tiny furry body, ready to kick some fucking ass. I proceeded to engage in my daily regimen of doggy calisthenics, interspersing rigorous gymnastics with a series of five lb. kettle bell (hey, that’s a lot of weight for a 10 lb. Terrier) maneuvers I’ve adapted from Keith Weber’s cardio kettlebell routine. I worked up a good sweat, bathed myself (fuck you cats; you’re not the only ones), then got ready to start my day. No need for breakfast; I take full advantage of the autophagic and cognitive benefits gleaned from intermittent fasting. Subsequently, caloric intake is restricted from 4-10 pm.
I get on my laptop and scan the news. I proceed to check the traffic on the SIPR net, then the latest goings-ons in the world of Special Access Programs and compartmentalized top secret intelligence. Doo be doo be doo…everything seems fine….cool.
I close my laptop and get ready to walk my pet human: Kent Wayne. But wait…where IS Kent? Typically, he snoozes on the couch in a mountain dew and pizza-induced coma, but today, he’s nowhere to be seen. I cast a quick glance around the interior of the dumpster. Nope—nowhere. I open the hatch and look around. Hmm…curious: the streets are completely devoid of activity. I cup my paw around my mouth and call for my pet human.
“Rowfowfowf! Rowfaroooo!” (Translation: C’mere Kent! C’mere buddy!”)
Thoroughly puzzled, I emerge from my dumpster and begin walking through the empty San Francisco suburbs. It’s mid-morning; there should be hundreds of humans milling about, getting their daily dopamine rush from checking notifications on their be-shitted smartphones. But there’s nothing. Nobody.
And then I hear it—a vast tide of testerone-free gibbering, interspersed with a brain-grating storm of chirps and chitters. Instinctive dread curls through my gut.
Somehow, I know I’m listening to the absolute worst manifestation of both man and dog.
I turn west, toward the ocean, and see something that makes my chestnut-sized heart drop in my chest: An unending sea of beta-males and chihuahuas, flooding the streets of San Francisco. Wolves’ balls—they’re fucking EVERYWHERE!
I race back to my dumpster-home, abandoning decorum and using all four legs. I slam the hull shut, and consult my holographic whiteboard of reality-bending equations. What the fuck did I do, what the fuck did I DO…carry the tautology, account for the acausal lambda in the gauge symmetry substrate…
In my attempt to decode reality through the use of metaphysical math, I’ve inverted the divine will, transforming all existing people into nutless beta-males, and every existing dog into their chihuahua overlords. Good Dog in heaven, what have I done…a world filled with acorn-dicked dorks and rodents masquerading as real canines…
Only one option left, I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
All of reality dissolves into a swirl of color. I’m pulled into an endless tunnel of shimmering light, where concepts and emotions are instantiated as physical symbols. They float by me in various forms of code, both familiar and arcane. Everything begins strobing, and I feel my 83rd level intellect start to unravel. This is too much…I know everything…I AM everything…holy biscuits and chew-toys I’M GONNA—
I clutch my head with my tiny paws and squinch my eyes shut. But before the core of my being completely unwinds, the pull of nth-dimensional powers ceases its assault on me.
I open my eyes and look cautiously around. I’m still inside my dumpster. Everything SEEMS normal…imagery flicker across my monitors, and I see that San Francisco is once again filled with mobs of oblivious citizens. I look over at my couch, a little afraid to see if my pet human is—
Sweet! There he is, that goofy bastard!
I run up to him and leap onto his chest, waking him up.
“Wha?” he grunts, wiping a string of drool off his lips. “Oh there you are Bitey.” He scratches my back and my head, then flops back onto the couch. “Good little fella,” he murmurs, before falling back asleep.
I shake my head in relief. Beta-males and chihuahuas! Sweet Fido, that was a close one!
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