Into the Pit: A LitRPG Adventure (Brad the Impaler Book 2), page 26
Then my little guy took center stage. He sat down on his haunches and shivered. His blinking was slow and almost labored. The longer he sat still, the more the crowd quieted. I had the sudden urge to snag him from the stage and rescue him from the fear that had obviously crippled him. The only reason I didn’t was because I didn’t want to humiliate him further. He never shied away from anything. He was the stereotypical small dog at the dog park whose presence was so large that everyone knew when he’d arrived. This was the Chihuahua who hung by the fence separating the big dogs from the little ones so he could talk shit to the big breeds that couldn’t get to him. And here he was, quaking in front of a hundred strangers.
But then his lips curled.
The charming brat. He’d created suspense simply by waiting out the uncomfortable silence. Now he had everyone’s attention.
He stood on his hind legs, swatting at the air with his front until he caught his balance. Then he planted one paw against his stomach while bringing the other toward his neck. He cleared his throat and mumbled self-affirmations while he played with the base of his neck.
“You can do this. You’re underappreciated, underpaid, and overworked.” He paused and cleared his throat again, still playing at his neck. That’s when I realized he was mimicking me every morning when I tried to get my tie to look right. That was the sort of detail my boss apparently thought was important, even though we only interfaced with customers online or over the phone. “But you will rise up again. You are the Phoenix, dammit. Never forget that. You. Are. The. Phoenix.”
He rubbed the paw down his chest like he was smoothing out the tie and bent, acting like he was picking something up. He brought his hand around to his chest and then folded the other one over it. “Inside this briefcase is what matters to the material world.” He lifted his free hand and placed it near his heart. “But in here is what matters to the special lady in my life… Once I find her.”
The crowd cheered and hooted. I wanted to tell them I’ve never said anything like what my pup was sharing, but I felt like he had the home crowd advantage and kept my mouth shut. Plus, it didn’t matter. All of this was done in the name of fun. Right?
He slumped his shoulders forward as he moped around the stage and a large circle, working every side of the crowd. “Oh, woe is me, for I must sit in a comfortable chair a few hours at a time in an air-conditioned and heated building. A shelter where I listen to my favorite music while I work. Of course, there are those dreaded mandatory breaks where I get to walk around and eat and still get paid.” He raised his paw and planted it with a dramatic smack on his forehead. “Oh, woe is me!”
He’d reached the front of the stage again, and the audience was lapping it up. Every one of them, me included, clapping and laughing.
With that, Lady Li took the stage, waving her front paws in the air. The crowd quieted almost immediately. “I believe it’s fair to say that our little friend here,” she paused and bent, whispering something. Slash’s mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear what he said. She stood again. “Our little friend, Slash, was a runaway winner. Let us hear it for both competitors.”
On cue, the crowd gave their applause. The German Shepherd quietly stepped off stage. Slash, however, did not. He leaped from his hind legs into the air. His body wiggled while airborne, reminding me of a scene from an old movie where an effeminate character threw a wobbly javelin to win an important contest for his team of nerds.
When he landed, he thrust his paw up in the air. “Fuck yeah!”
I shook my head and chuckled. Always classy, that little guy.
The next contestants took the stage as Slash bee-bopped his way in my direction, a proud smile smeared across his adorable mug. He hopped up onto the bench and then the table, raising his paw for a high five. I gladly gave him one.
“I’m proud of you, little buddy.”
His head tipped, one ear folded over on itself. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
The dog down the table, a Shih Tzu, shushed us as the new act came on. The first contestant, a mutt, imitated its owner drinking from a cup. The next put on an overly dramatic reenactment of a human getting into bed. We listened and laughed, but they weren’t nearly as funny as my dog.
The third contest kicked off while Slash ordered a round of potato wedges. I don’t know where his stomach kept all of it, but he was putting them away, including his order and part of mine.
A loud cheer went up for these contestants. I wasn’t sure if it was the pair of them or one in particular. The first one to go was a gorgeous white and gray Siberian Husky. She did an impressive impression of her owner painting her nails in the bathtub. It was funny, even though I couldn’t relate. I think she missed the mark with the audience that was mostly male, however. Her efforts weren’t helped by the next contestant, who performed a marvelously strong imitation of his owner.
This one, a Dachshund, strode across the stage like he owned it. Slash growled when he saw him, and for a second, I thought we might know the dog. We didn’t. Regardless, it was obvious Slash didn’t like the guy. Maybe it was little dog syndrome?
Despite his small size, the Dachshund had a larger-than-life personality. He carried it in the way he strode to the stage and commanded the room. Even me, well over six feet tall and weighing a few pounds over two hundred. I felt the sudden need to shift when his eyes scanned the room in my direction. The little guy gave off an air of self-importance and superiority. Lady Li almost undid his entire presence when she took the stage to announce him as Mr. Pickles.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” Slash said, chomping down on a potato wedge. “Is that seriously his name?”
Adorable name aside, Mr. Pickles imitated his owner, who apparently had a tendency to take him on walks at the worst times of the day. The Dachshund let it be known that he purposely tried to outrace passing cars as a way to repay his owner. Lousy weather was apparently beneath him. His was a funny story, but it was one that appealed to the male-dominated audience. He beat the Husky in a landslide.
Slash growled and returned to his meal.
We finished eating while the rest of the first round concluded. There were serious contenders, but I had to admit that Slash had a good chance in the next round. The imitations were generally funny, giving me a deeper appreciation for Darkworld’s complexity. If the game had a way of helping dogs communicate with humans that was entertaining and sometimes hilarious, what harm in that could there be?
In the next round, I was enjoying the evening so much that I allowed myself to relax. Doing that without dropping my situational awareness is relatively easy at this point in my life. It was the first time in a long time that I had fun. BigDk might be out there, so my guard was never down. But, as I sat here, eating and drinking, sharing in the free comedy with other players, I realized I needed this.
The next round kicked off with a Poodle against a Mastiff, the one that had been playing the dagger game earlier. The Poodle won the round handily, laying into the imitation of their owner’s incessant need to take pictures of her dogs. She really drove the message home when she mimicked her owner’s grating voice, questioning whether she saw her dog not as a dog, but as a supermodel.
A Golden Retriever was beat by a St. Bernard when he cleverly imitated what I presumed was his Darkworld companion’s voice, as if the human were talking to a dog. The retriever kicked into the imitation using a baby voice and never let up.
“Does Tubby want a snack? Does he? Does he?” the Golden said, stretching its neck much in the same way I’d seen my friends do when asking their baby a question that wouldn’t be answered until the kid was old enough to talk. “Cuz Tubby is a good boy, isn’t he? Who’s a good boy? Tubby-wubby is, that’s who.”
I felt suddenly guilty, knowing I’d done that to Slash throughout his life until he got the power of speech. Baby talk was just something all dog owners did at some point, I thought. Now, it seemed so stupid. Why did I do that? Didn’t everyone? I’d never do it again, that was for sure.
Mr. Pickles was up next. Just like the first time around, Slash lowered his head and growled.
“What is it with you and him?” I asked.
Slash never took his eyes off the Dachshund. “I don’t know. I just don’t like him. He’s long… and…”
“And?”
“Long and stupid,” he said as if that settled things.
Unfortunately for my little buddy, Mr. Pickles slaughtered his competitor. His new skit involved his human interacting with social media, posting everything mundane about their lives like they were a celebrity people were infatuated with. That went over well with the canines. Flagons were slammed to the table in celebration as they jumped on the tables and howled, chased their tails, and a few even got into dog play fights. One of those scraps carried the circle of dogs into the server, knocking her down and spilling three flagons of golden mead. She got right back up and carried on.
When Lady Li announced Slash, I wished him luck. He hopped off the bench, looking over his shoulder. “I don’t need luck, Brad. You’re my muse, and you provide enough inspiration for me to win this contest with my tail tied behind my back.”
He should have been more careful. Maybe it was his age. I shouldn’t have expected him to act any differently than a teenager. Especially as a male. God knows I was full of myself at that age, even as a skinny dork.
He almost learned a harsh lesson. This round was a close contest. His competition, a Shiba Inu, nearly got the same amount of vocal support Slash did. The only thing that didn’t disrupt my pooch was the fact that he went first. Had he gone second, I’m pretty sure she would have won. The Shiba Inu, named Mittens, did a great imitation of humans in a hurry. Slash, on the other hand, did a routine about me chastising him for chewing on everything. I don’t think the little guy appreciated how much destruction tiny teeth could wreak on a household.
“Do you see this wood?” he asked, pointing with a paw. “That’s expensive, and now you’ve ruined it. It’s not my fault I’m too cheap to buy a real house. Just like it’s not my fault that I have no discernable handyman skills where I could fix this myself. I’m too busy daydreaming about the day a woman friend will take an interest in me to learn how to do repairs.”
His routine went on, and the crowd, of course, seemed to love him.
In the end, Lady Li had to call for a second round of voting. My little guy won by three votes. As he trudged his way back to our table, I noticed a distinction in this new level of confidence.
“Tough competition,” I said as he took his seat.
“I’m just pacing myself.”
“Gotcha.”
Through the final round, I think he saw the threat of losing out on the grand prize and took the competition more seriously. Not everyone would be a cakewalk, and it only took a narrow miss for him to understand that. This time, even with the competition elevated, he won out by imitating me comparing hot dogs to actual dogs. I didn’t see the humor in it, but the canine portion of the audience absolutely ate it up. The volume in the room rose when he portrayed me as trying to pin him down to slather my pup in mustard and relish. Slash was on to the semifinals and growing cockier.
The only good news, from the perspective of the guy human who loved him the most in the world, was the fact that Mr. Pickles was also onto the semifinals, with yet another strong showing. It’d temper Slash’s growing cockiness.
What had started out as a trip to satisfy a quest for a horse we didn’t need was turning into quite an interesting day. The festive spirit within The Lucky Hound was intoxicating. If I had the realistic option, I could have hung here all day. I was going to find the man about the horse, but the drama unfolding in this ridiculous Comedy Night event was enthralling. I supported Slash because he was my best friend in the world. Funny how our brains can do that. How they can take something as trite as this event and turn it into one of the most important things to happen in our lives since the last time we ran or fought for them?
I was engrossed by what I was witnessing, and I wasn’t alone. During the breaks or in between competitors exiting and heading toward the stage, I examined the audience, watching reactions. I didn’t restrict the observations for only my dog, but did it for the ones entering the next round. I watched the other players and how they were reacting, especially those whose mascots had been eliminated. I watched how they interacted with each other, human and dog. Partners, all.
There was politicking happening between the players and the NPC dogs. In the back of my mind, I knew it was absolutely ridiculous. This contest meant nothing. In the best-case scenario, Slash would get a tiny castle that he could put somewhere near the house. Yes, his comfort mattered. Winning a small medieval castle that had a fireplace and a hot tub would make me almost as happy as it would make him. But that didn’t justify the nervousness twisting inside of me.
In the semifinal round, Slash was paired with a Bulldog. I’d noticed the Bulldog throughout the earlier rounds and thought of him as the dog embodiment of a professional wrestler. First off, his name was Bruiser. As if that wasn’t enough of a stereotype, he started to the stage in the way that bulldogs do. His bowlegged wobble made him look like the dog version of guys who spend too much time in the gym looking at themselves in the mirror. I didn’t find Bruiser particularly funny, but he was a dog, and I still wasn’t so conditioned by Darkworld that any of this was normal. I clapped at the end of his skit, but it was half-hearted. I felt bad about rooting against the dog, but Slash’s passion to win had me fully invested.
Maybe the pressure got to Bruiser because Slash went first. My little man laid into an impression of me sprucing myself with cologne when I was getting ready for a date with Tess. The skit highlighted how ridiculous humans can be when compared to dogs who were doing the same thing, trying to attract someone they’re interested in. After Slash’s routine and the resounding encouragement he got from the audience, with a fan base that was growing with each of his appearances, I’m sure more in attendance than just me were thinking about how much time humans spend primping to meet a future mate. Compared to dogs who simply walk into a park and smell each other’s asses, we can look absolutely ridiculous from their perspective. I think that’s what helped my wee man win the semifinal round. Both canine and human attendees related to the impersonation.
When he got back to the table, Slash looked drained. After the other canines at the table congratulated him on his performance, he thanked them and then exhaled, long and slow. Both of his ears drooped backward, and when I flipped them forward, he gave his head an aggressive shake.
I pulled my hand up, holding it in the air. “Sorry, buddy.”
He shook his head. “It’s not you. I didn’t expect to get this far, so now I’m in a panic about the final. This is a big deal. I could win that castle. I am going to win that fucking castle.”
“I know you can, little buddy. Don’t put pressure on yourself. You’ve got this.”
He turned his head, the folds of skin on his neck, barely covered in fur, wrinkled. “But he’s tough, and I didn’t plan another routine.”
Of course, Slash was talking about Mr. Pickles. The Dachshund started toward the stage. In him, I saw a dog who didn’t believe he could lose. It wasn’t even a matter of Slash instantly taking a disliking to the dog. I was starting to dislike him. I never enjoyed seeing people walk around this planet with the level of bravado that Mr. Pickles displayed. There’s something to be said about having a certain level of humility, and this fifteen-pound hotdog with legs wasn’t displaying any.
Slash quaked beside me. I reached an arm around him, trying to avoid the spikes in his leather jacket the best I could while also making sure he knew I was present.
I leaned my head in closer as Mr. Pickles launched into his new skit. “Listen, wee man, I want you to win this. You deserve to win this. Don’t let this guy get inside your head. You’re better than him. You’re funnier than him. You have to believe it.”
“It’s more than just belief. I don’t have anything I can use. Like I said, I already used everything I thought of. He probably had weeks to prepare, the ugly fucker.”
I knocked my flagon on the table as I ran through scenarios Slash could relate to.
My tiny pooch, only seven pounds of meat, muscle, ligaments, and bones, but one billion pounds of heart, looked up at me. He was shaking so hard that his short whiskers twitched.
“I don’t want to lose, Brad. This isn’t about a stupid castle. I have everything I need. You have done an amazing job with our home. I know I give you a ton of shit about it, but I really do appreciate everything. I’ve seen how hard you work. I’m not stupid. I know why they say, ‘it’s a dog’s life,’ and all that. I get it. Humans already work too damn hard. And you put most hard-working humans to shame. This,” he said, pausing and whipping a paw in the air in a circular motion. “All of this isn’t about winning the castle. It’s about me contributing like you have.”
I gave his butt a good scratch. “Listen, wee man, don’t do that to yourself. One thing that separates winners from chokers? Winners always see tomorrow. The losers look at something to be won, and it defines them because they let it. Don’t be like that.” I flipped my hand toward the stage. “What happens tomorrow if you lose this tonight?”
His eyes went from me to the stage and back again. “I don’t know. I guess we just get up and work the farm again.”
“Exactly.”
At that point, Lady Li spoke over the top of us, demanding quiet as she announced the second winner of the semifinal round. Of course, Mr. Pickles was through to the finals.
The crowd cheered. Those at a few tables roared as if he was about to make the difference between life and death for them.
I looked at my best friend. “No matter what you do up there in the next couple of minutes, it won’t change what happens tomorrow. Whether you go home with the castle or Mr. Pickles does, life goes on. Both in Darkworld and back home. If you win? Great. You’ll get to have a cool ass castle, with a moat and a fireplace, and even a hot tub. But if you don’t?” I leaned in even closer, pressing my forehead against his thin, barely fur-covered one. “I’m still going to love you. Kira is still going to love you. You’re still going to have a home, food, water, and everything else you need to get through the day. The results of this don’t change that. Go up there and be yourself. When you wake up in the morning, if you truly did that, then that’s all that matters. And, by the way, fuck anyone who doesn’t love you for being who you are.”
