1) "Ignoring the severed heads in the closet does not make for a good relationship. It makes for an unsanitary closet and possible accessory charges."
2) How to Train Your Hellhound -- Gallifreya
[AN: This takes the gap count down to 11]
"NIIIIIIIIILLLLSSS!" That was not the come-here-I-am-in-trouble shriek. That was the come-here-you-are-in-trouble shriek. As a demon in the pits of Hell, he had feared little but the wrath of his master. Now on the Earth, little ever scared him more than the thought of Callie being angry with him.
Nilhomet slunk into the cold stores, where Callie was standing on a step stool and pointing to a plastic box.
"These," she said in calm, crisp, and patient tones, "had better be bread."
The objects in the box appeared to be heads, faces, and random limbs. "Er. Some of them are sculpted pork bellies," he offered.
"And the rest?"
He never liked to admit it out loud. "They're bread. With minced bacon and blood sausage inside."
"...eeeeuuuuwww... Nils, why?"
"I am a demon. I have needs."
Callie nodded. This had been one among many of their early spats. Solved with substitutes and, she must have believed, weaned away. "And why do so many of them look like our landlady?"
Nilhomet couldn't help but rant. "She's just so... annoying! She's always on my case about the music and I check it with a decibel meter and I have timers that turn it off one minute before the time and half an hour after the time I'm allowed, but she's always 'just reminding me' about the music times and volume allowed. And she's on my case about how I should obey the law."
"You did choose to look vaguely hispanic, love. And the locs don't help."
"I have to hide my head-serpents somehow... And then she talks about the roof garden and how legal all the plants are! We've had the police come and look at the tomatoes five times this week! And it's only Wednesday! She's a nuisance and a racist bitch and I want to eat her head."
Callie sighed. "Fine. But we're labelling this so no mistakes are made." She whipped out her trusty marker pen and scribbled, Nils' experiments. NOT FOR SALE!!! across the side. She climbed down from her perch and took his hand in hers. "Next day off, I'm teaching you the art of passive-aggressive gift-giving."
Callie always got the impression that Mrs Nesbit, their landlord, was vaguely upset that Nils wasn't a criminal mastermind. That did not stop her lecturing her, Nils, or anyone unlucky enough to stop for a minute that there were Rules that had to be followed. She could call the law down on any single one of them at any minute.
"Are you ready for them to inspect you, Mrs Nesbit?" said Nils innocently. "I read in the news that the police are going to start investigating the people who make too many complaints to their offices. They might confiscate your lovely pet."
Nils had long since mastered the art of false witness. Everyone in the flats knew that Mrs Nesbit's little doggy was an ill-tempered force for entropy that thought it was a re-incarnated attack dog, and everyone who wasn't Mrs Nesbit was a terrorist after the President. It also laboured under the false impression that the entire world outside of Mrs Nesbit's house was its personal toilet.
Mrs Nesbit looked alarmed for all of five seconds before she 'remembered urgent business' and took her leave. And that was how everyone on the complex was allowed to keep one (1) pet, as long as it was clean and well trained. And how Fluffles remained inside Mrs Nesbit's for his own safety and the relief of everyone else.
And that was how Nils and Callie got a hell-puppy. Most of the time, it looked like a regular, black Lab. Those who had partaken of interestingly illegal substances would swear she had glowing red eyes and more than one mouth. She came to heel for Nils without a problem and acted -well- like a little angel.
They called her Spot. And she responded just as well to Callie's cooking as Nils did. And, according to Nils, she had a very special trick. Callie, however, had to carry a pocket-full of liver treats with her to get Spot to do anything. But it still counted as 'trained' by the numerous police called in to examine the otherwise sweet little hound.
A trick that Callie finally got to see one afternoon when Mrs Nesbit was clearly picking on both him and their dog. Callie had learned to tune out her racist, sexist, xenophobic ranting, but more than a few obnoxious keywords filtered through and made her nauseated. Clearly, Mrs Nesbit hated renting to 'those types' just as much as everyone hated paying rent to her.
Nils, a picture of Buddhist-like contemplation, said, "Spot? Scary-face."
Spot's head opened up like a banana, revealing too many teeth and tentacles that also had teeth.
Mrs Nesbit fainted dead away.
"Good girl," cooed Nils, scratching Spot behind her now-completely-normal ears. "Who's a good girl? You's a good girl!"
Nobody in authority would believe Mrs Nesbit about Spot ever again. Or, for that matter, anyone living in her flats.
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