What is wrong with the two of them, not calling and letting her sleep until nearly noon? Don’t they know she has a schedule to keep? As if these puppies and their lack of spots hadn’t already ruined her plans enough.
She screams for both of them as she enters their moldy hideout, forgetting that the fat one isn’t even in – he’s taken ill since that damned whelp bit him. Probably rabies, but she’ll be damned if she’s going to pay any hospital fees.
The Dalmatians had been a devil of time, really. The two idiots were covered in bites, and the puppies didn’t respond to any threats or punishment. Too many pelts had been wasted by throwing them in the incinerator.
She’s beginning to regret the whole thing, but the worst should be over by now - the remaining puppies were to have been skinned last night. Except the thin one never called this morning to tell her the job had been completed.
Still, the house is quiet - a good sign. It had been almost impossible to hear one’s thoughts with all the whining and barking, and she smiles grimly at the silence.
It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark, dusty shadows of the kitchen, but eventually she can see movement in the cages and crates.
They’re still alive. Silent, but alive. Some, the ones who are being eaten by their brethren, don’t move, while the others patiently scratch at the bars.
She screams in frustration - so much fur has been shredded by sharp, little puppy teeth. The lot of them look up at her angular form in the doorway, then continue to paw at their cages.
“What is going on here?” she shouts into the stillness of the mansion. “I gave you one simple task! One simple, easy task, and you manage to botch that up!”
Her rant stops short as she enters the living room. She half-expected to see the thin one drunk on the sofa, bleary eyes glued to the television set.
Instead, his body lies on the floor, face down, an empty bottle of gin near his bloody hands. At least a dozen of the filthy beasts, the ones who’d overturned their crates, loudly chew on his neck and hands and shoulders.
“Ugh, you wretched things!” She kicks at the nearest puppy with one stiletto-shod foot. It flies across the room, thuds against a dusty cabinet, and then wobbles back to the thin man’s body.
Another of the Dalmatians bites her ankle as she attempts a second kick. She shrieks a curse and falls against the sofa.
She takes off her shoe to examine the damage. The leather is ruined with tiny puncture marks. “Filthy bastard!” she shouts, and swats at her attacker with the now-worthless stiletto.
The thin one’s body begins to twitch. At that moment, the others stop feeding and look at her. They begin stumbling on their pudgy legs toward the couch. So many of them. A pack, almost.
She throws her stiletto at the nearest one, but it doesn’t seem to notice the resulting wound. The shoe bounces into the corner, forgotten, as the puppy’s dripping mouth continuously opens and snaps shut.
Mesmerized by the palette of black, white and red, she slowly backs out of the living room and bumps into a familiar, flabby form. The cheesy stink of the fat one is almost welcoming.
“It’s horrible!” she sobs. “Do something, you fool! They’re eating him, they’re...”
The fat one wraps his arms around her, and for a sickening moment, she thinks he’s going to try to kiss her. And even after all the times she’s made it clear that she finds him revolting.
She tries to break away, but he holds her head in a clumsy, powerful grip. His mouth is open, his eyes are open - not at all the proper way to kiss someone - and she is screaming, struggling, crying, and blood spurts and her eyes are closed and she is eaten.
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