Chapter Nineteen
It's not the size of the dog in the fight;
It's the size of the fight in the dog.
In this age of global electronic connectivity, that comment has been widely attributed to Mark Twain. Scholars of his work claim that it is not located anywhere in his extant writings, so this alleged authorship should be taken with a grain of sodium chloride, bearing in mind the advice from another great American thinker with a brutally practical streak, Thomas Ava Edison: 'Don't tolerate the company of fools who will believe anything just because it's on the internet'.
Quibbles over authorship are irrelevant, though, because the fundamental truth of it has been recognised ever since canines and furless apes started enjoying each other's companionship. From the half-domesticated wolf puppy who tried thousands of years ago to attack a bear (to the utter astonishment of the nomadic tribe that the pup's pack had been tagging along with) to the Yorkshire Terrier who's slavering to take on a bemused Neapolitan Mastiff, if only with the apparent intent of choking it to death on the way down, people with dogs know this to be true. You might as well go around saying that at dawn, the sun comes up. Why would you bother even to articulate it when it's so obvious?
Well, possibly because it looks good on a t-shirt, especially being worn by the person walking that Yorkie. If the guy holding the leash and wearing the shirt is a bodybuilder, and the Yorkie has a little yellow bow around its topknot, that's an even better reason.
But if this snappy slogan applies to dogs in general, in applies to Hellhounds in particular.
In concept, at least. Properties like 'size' really mean nothing to a Hellhound: rigid physical architecture is a constraint imposed on transient mortal creatures, which must see out a short life within the confines of this physical plane, where they experience only three dimensions and time moves in a narrow channel, always forward, at the same plodding rate.
Hellhounds are not like that, although they are perceived as having 'size' when they are seen by humans and most demons (who may no longer be tethered to the stifling strictures of mortal space and time, but once were, and people generally find that life can be a pretty damned difficult habit to break). It's not just because of the remarkable nature of Hellhounds, which can and do take actual or semi-physical forms when their activities take them Upstairs. It's also to do with the remarkable nature of the human mind: confronted with something that is just totally and utterly beyond the bounds of anything its very essence is equipped to deal with, the human mind interprets the uninterpretable to present an analogy or metaphor that it can handle without exploding. Not a bad trick, considering that it's a mind that originally evolved to figure out what coloured fruit was ready to eat and whether a particular pattern of movement represented a possible predator.
(Angels understand this: they have known for a very long time that a human vessel and a human voice are necessary to interact with a human, because the overwhelming majority could not handle, mentally or physically, an encounter with an angel in its true form. It did take a bit of figuring out, though – the evolution of intelligent hominids was probably put back by a millennium or two due to angels manifesting before primates that seemed to be somehow more cognisant that their forebears; they exploded quite a few of those larger-than-the-rest brains before they figured out what they were doing wrong.)
Gedda was a full-blooded Hellhound. She was not just a Hellhound, she was from a litter bred back from the original stock, to reinvigorate the Infernal Pack. She was the equivalent of taking a breed beset by problems due to shoddy management of pedigrees, and starting again with a fresh injection of the original, type-specific stock from the founding animal. If Hellhounds could be shown at Crufts, she'd have had the judges twitching on the ground, making incoherent little noises of delight.
Yes, she was small when she chose to manifest. But physical size of the body is only one aspect of the total dog: in order to be considered a good specimen, the animal must have all the attributes sought in that breed. And for a working breed, the Breed Standard will specify in detail the desirable mental characteristics, the instincts, the drives and the inner qualities required to make a dog an exceptional performer. A Border Collie with three legs may still be a great herder. A German Shepherd with floppy ears and a damaged tail can perform vital search and rescue. A Labrador with a scarred face and missing teeth can be an attentive assistance dog. For animals who actually work, not just trot around looking pretty in a show ring, these are the things that really matter.
Hellhounds would definitely be classified as a working breed. Think for a moment what their Breed Standard might specify: what makes a Hellhound a really good Hellhound?
Willingness to work tirelessly. Follow instructions at a distance. Work independent of the handler. Track effortlessly across space and time. Insatiable bloodlust. Capable of unstoppable savagery. Ability to terrify prey to death and beyond just by standing there. Exist as the very essence of horrific, vengeful predation.
And, of course, the dog must show eagerness to work. Taking obvious joy in the task is the rare mark of a true champion.
It isn't the size of the Hellhound that matters; it's the amount of Hell in the Hellhound that counts.
Gedda would've taken home a trophy bigger than herself, and all the sashes she could eat.
And perhaps her habit of usually manifesting as a small toy poodle somehow constrained it, compressed it, to make it even denser, more concentrated, and more dangerous. Just like a nuke on the brink of going critical, should anything add just enough push to unleash a holocaust…
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Crowley's face went the colour of the interior walls of that barn where the incontinent baboons had been flinging faeces as they fought over the anti-diarrhoea tablets.
"Bobby," he whispered, "Bobby, love, that can't be right…"
"I'm pretty sure it is," Bobby replied grimly. "The Hellhound has to be in its truest, purest form."
"But… but…" Crowley sat down hard, reaching unthinkingly inside his jacket for a flask. "You've never seen a Hellhound," he stammered, hands shaking as he unscrewed the lid, "I mean, a Hellhound as it really is. Not just the half-there 'true' forms they take when they manifest Up Here to fetch the souls of sinners, although that can be bad enough with most of them. If we're talking their true, pure form…"
"We are," Bobby interjected.
"Well, they're… they're…" he waved the flask vaguely. "They're… Hellhounds," he managed lamely. "I've had them set on me. Down There. While I was fighting my way to the top of the shitheap. By demons who didn't just want me dead, they wanted me exploded…"
"Gee that narrows the list down," Bobby rolled his eyes.
"Don't joke about this!" Crowley snapped, "It isn't funny!
"Do you see me smiling?" Bobby shot back with a face like thunder. "It's meant to be difficult, Crowley, it's meant to be a Trial! And you got a hell of a get-outta-jail-free card here: you'll know that it's Gedda, who actually does love you, which in my opinion is clearly indicative of some sort o' brain damage, but think how much worse it would've been if you'd had to go try to make friends with one from scratch."
"Oh, well, that's all right then," Crowley let out a little giggle, "I'm going to have the core of my very being shaken like a torn rag doll by soul-wrenching terror, but because it's a Hellhound I know, having my innermost existence shredded by a cosmic entity of incomprehensible power will be less traumatic." He glared at Bobby. "If you were run over by a prime mover, would it hurt any less if the truck was driven by somebody you know, you pillock?"
"Don't take that tone with me, asshat," growled Bobby, "This is self-inflicted for a good part, so it's time for you to grow a pair, and do what needs to be done."
Crowley cast a mournful look at his little Hellpoodle, who was sniffing around the living room with the interest of a dog revisiting a place and checking out all the new smells. "She really is a dear companion," he moaned, "How are we supposed to get her to understand what to do?"
"Easy," scoffed Bobby, "We got the extant Dominican, the Lord o' the Hounds, locked in the panic room. He'll be able to get her to understand."
The King of Hell drooped all over, and looked sadly down at his hipflask. "There's a very good chance that I'll be irreversibly and permanently damaged by this," he sighed, "She won't mean to, but just seeing her as she truly is may well shred me like a cow in a piranha tank, in which case, I would like you to have this." He handed the flask to Bobby.
"Interestin'," Bobby turned the flask over, "This is fine workmanship, a real antique. Worth a small fortune when it was made, which was a number of centuries ago, if I'm any judge."
"It has happy memories associated with it," Crowley told him, "I stole it from the husband of a woman with whom I kept delightful company whilst he was away on business."
"Why does that not surprise me," growled Bobby.
"Don't look at me like that!" sniffed Crowley. "He entertained his mistress and a number of prostitutes whilst he was absent, so what's good for the gander is good for the goose, yes? Anyway," he went on, mournful once more, "When you look at it, think of me, darling, and maybe every so often drink to the memory of my most intimate and inner essence being scattered across the cosmos in tiny slivers of tortured and shrieking id."
"Don't be so melodramatic, Your Majesty," chuckled Bobby. "We won't let it come to that. We'll rig some way to summon you back out of the fire before you get too sooty."
Hope bloomed in Crowley's eyes. "Do you really mean that?" he asked plaintively.
"Course I do," scoffed Bobby gruffly, "Can't have you bein' disintegrated on my watch."
"Oh, Bobby," sighed Crowley, "You truly are a diamond in the rough, a precious gem of value beyond reckoning in a world of dross…"
"Bullshit," snapped Bobby, "I need you more or less compos mentis to finish the other Trials, idjit. So let's go get the other two idjits. And if you're goin' to walk around with that expression, lookin' like a kicked dog, I might just kick you to make it worth your while."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
The charm didn't take too long to work up. Dean spoke to Gedda while Bobby and Sam brewed a spell that would let them keep tabs on Crowley, whilst the impending receiver of Hellhound love sat looking like a man waiting to be led to the gallows, which was set up in that barn where the unwell baboons lived and had been stockpiling their excrement in anticipation of the show.
"You'll miss me when I'm gone," he said in a small voice, "If this goes wrong, you'll miss me when I'm gone, and Hell is in uproar, and the Hierarchy all start trying to plant their arses on my bidet of power…"
"If it gets real bad, we could just take over Downstairs," shrugged Dean.
Sam's head snapped up. "What?" he gawped.
"You know, Boy King, The Younger Who Is Greater?" Dean went on. "You've seen that Hell-TV alternative reality. We could go down there, and just, you know, wipe out half the Hierarchy. The ones that might cause trouble. You detect 'em, reject 'em and eject 'em, I'll dissect 'em."
"Dean, we are not going to stage some sort of Hellside coup!" burst out Sam.
"Come on, Sam," Dean wheedled, "Think how much fun it would be! Killing all those demons, redecorating the Unattractive Office, the bouncy castle…"
"No!"
"Minions, Sam! You could have minions!"
"I don't want minions, Dean!"
"You could command them to go forth, and bring you all the lettuces in the world!"
"I don't want all the lettuces in the world, either! What would I do with all the lettuce in the world, except built the biggest compost heap in Creation?"
"Go on, maybe just for a century or two?" He called forth the First Blade, and held it to his own arm. "I can give you a mouthful, just to get you started, and once we'r-
squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt
-AAAAAAAAARGH!"
"I said, no," Sam repeated through clenched teeth, handing the spray bottle back to Bobby. "Once you're human again, we can go gank all the demons you want. But for now, we got with the plan."
"Kill-joy," griped Dean, flouncing dramatically to the sofa, where he plonked himself down in a huff.
"So, we're just about good to go," Bobby reached over and plucked a hair from Crowley's head.
"Ow!" yelped the demon, "Hey, I need all of those!"
"Shaddap," Bobby grumped, dropping it into the mortar he was grinding in, "We gotta have a way to keep tabs on what's happenin'." He ground a bit more, then tipped some of the gloopy liquid into a chipped mug. "Here, drink this."
"Er, could I perhaps carry a small vial of it with me?" suggested Crowley, eyeing the stuff dubiously. Bobby frowned, so he sighed, and knocked it back. "Oh, well, that answers that, it does taste just as bad as it looks. So, now what?"
Bobby gave him a grim smile. "You take your dog, go find an off-lead park, and play."
"Right then." Crowley drew himself up, and called Gedda, who'd been enjoying cuddles with Dean. "I go now, possibly to my own doom – should I not prevail, let these be my final thoughts to you: may your chooks turn into emus and kick your dunny down."
"What the fuck does that mean?" asked Dean.
"I have no idea," Crowley confessed, "It's something I picked up from That Shepherd Woman. Whatever it is, I hope it happens to you all. In spades."
"Where will you do this?" asked Sam.
Crowley gave him a disdainful look. "It won't be a 'where' you could possibly understand, you squishy mortal," he snapped, "You might as well as ask me what colour the smell of tomorrow will be. So, chooks, emus, dunny. Get stuffed."
With that, he disappeared, and Gedda with him.
"So, now what?" asked Dean, as Sam hurriedly drew out a summoning on the floor.
"We wait," Bobby nodded towards the contents of the mortar, which had begun to glow with a sickly pulsing red light. "And when that stops showin' the essence of Hell, and starts showin' the essence of love, we'll know he's done it, and if he don't hightail his ass back here ASAP after that, we summon him."
"What does 'essence of love' involve?" asked Dean, "Please tell me there won't be a Celine Dion song involved."
"We'll know it when we see it," Sam told him, "The colour and quality of the light will change. Think about the difference between a Hellhound's eyes, and, and, say, the radiance of Cas, when he manifests with his Angel Of The Lord thing…"
The glowing contents of the mortar swirled…
"Hey, looks like it's happening," he commented.
… And went out.
"Uh," Sam peered into the cold, decidedly unilluminating mess, "That wasn't supposed to happen."
"Balls," muttered Bobby, frantically reaching for ingredients and dropping them into the spell, "Come on, Crowley, don't faint on me now…"
"Do we summon him?" asked Sam anxiously.
"He's gotta be in a state to respond to it," Bobby reminded him, swearing as the mixture failed to reignite its glow, "If we try to yank him back here when we don't know what's happening, we might not get him. Or, we might just get some of him."
"Which bits?" asked Dean curiously.
"Possibly not enough to complete the Trials," muttered Bobby, huffing with frustration. "Damn! What the hell is he playin' at?"
Dean jumped up from the sofa. "I'll go find out," he offered, "Hey, you comin' with me, J-Man?"
Sam's eyes widened in horror. "Dean, no!" he yelped.
He was too late. Dean and his dog Jimi were gone.
That is indeed an authentic Australian curse that Crowley used, hoping that your domestic chickens transform into large bad-tempered flightless birds and destroy your outdoor toilet.
Oh dear, Dean Dean Dean - he's determined to give Bobby a heart attack, isn't he?
Send Fergus reviews because they are All The Lettuce* In The World To A Plot Bunny Fortifying Himself To Keep Dictating A Fic In Compention Against Real Life!
*Also other nutritious greens as well as lettuce. Just not kale. I have no idea what it is, but I saw it on an 'infotainment' channel touting the benefits of a thing called the NutriBullet, and I have no idea what that is supposed to be either, but from what I could gather, kale, via the NutriBullet, can turn an entire studio audience into a bunch of vacant-eyed fatuous twits. It's clearly dangerous stuff.