The following short story takes place after Unhallowed Metropolis Ep 3: Dead Flames.

I hate the dog the most. Which should be surprising, considering the cat is a arrogant piece of fur. Nonetheless, the cat tends to keep its own counsel so I can ignore it on most occasions. The dog though, the dog whines. The insufferable animal seems to whine for the most idiotic reasons.

It whines because of hunger, when we obviously no longer require sustenance. It whines because it’s too hot or too cold, even though we technically can’t feel the difference in temperature. It whines because it finds it hard to breathe, even though we don’t breathe. We are undead, I scream into its thoughts, but it just stares at me blankly, either too stupid or too delusional to accept the truth. How I wish the good doctor had attached another lizard such as myself to this body instead. Ah, the conversations we could have had.

Instead I am stuck as I am. A two foot tall undead abomination composed of three heads, four arms of varying usefulness, and a body that I can only assume was constructed of animal parts, human remains, and the doctor’s particular form of madness.

The only other contacts outside of my two mental tenants are the doctor and the Irish dhampir. The doctor doesn’t realize I am intelligent and runs experiments on my body. I generally don’t feel any pain but I attempt to give satisfying screams. I believe I quickly turned from an actual experiment to a strange form of stress relief. I should find it odd, but I find it amusing to scream out the most disturbing words possible when company is over. Their reactions are always memorable.

The dhampir on the other hand knows fully of my ability to speak. He found out in the most direct way possible: I told him. What makes that so strange is I don’t know why I did it. Something happened. Some mental tug that seemed to push me to speak. To tell him truths that I didn’t know were true till I stated them. It was, admittedly, a bit disconcerting.

Still, it does seem to bring about a certain sense of purpose. Where previously I thought I was simply an abomination against all that is holy, I am now something else. The conduit of some greater power perhaps? An avatar of some god of death? Or maybe I am simply insane. Although, how can you attribute madness to a creature who is obviously not human and quite obviously dead?  A question for the psychologists, I guess.

Ah, the dog is whining again. It…it wants to be let out…. The creature attached to two other heads on an undead body wants to be let out. “WE HAVE NO BOWEL MOVEMENTS!” I scream into its mind. “WE ARE DEAD DEAD DEAD!” A wave of rage pours from my mind into his, hopefully breaking the dam of stubbornness the dog has built around its tiny little brain.

The dog stares blankly, turns its head slightly, and urinates on the table.

Huh, well…that’s new….

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