“Something,” grumbled Flanders from where he still lounged on the floor.
“Flanders!”
“All right!” Flanders groaned, lifting his head. “I haven’t seen Lou murder anyone recently. How’s that?”
Day growled.
“Hey. You.” Flanders arched a brow toward Day. “Even though we can’t understand her, she can understand us, right?”
“Yes, she can!” Day huffed impatiently.
Seymour briefly considered scruffing Day, grunting as he struggled to keep a hold of her. “Yes!”
“All right.” Flanders turned his gaze toward Day. “What else do you remember?”
“What? What does it matter?” Day scoffed, finally breaking free of Seymour’s grip. She landed on the floor and then made a beeline for Lou.
Seymour groaned. “Dammit, lil’ girl! C’mere!”
Flanders was startlingly fast for a beast his size, and he cut her off. He bowed his head so they were eye to eye, and he asked again, “What else do you remember?”
Day took a step back, hissing.
Flanders narrowed his eyes.
Seymour was ready to spring into action. Not that he wanted to get mangled by a giant fiery dog monster, but he wasn’t going to let Day get hurt either.
Day’s anger broke, and she let out a frustrated huff. “I, I don’t know! There, there were a lot of them! At least four or five?” She looked up at Lou. “He… he smelled like chicken. A really spicy chicken.” Her nose wiggled. “And, and some sort of perfume.”
Izba moved the letters around on the big menu to translate what Day said.
More or less.
Flanders read it and then asked, “Can you describe the perfume?”
“Sweet? Like spun candy?” Day frowned. “I am not sure.” She sniffed the air, scowling at Lou. “He doesn’t smell like it now.”
“And the chicken?”
“Spicy? I… I don’t know.” Day blinked in surprise. “Oh! And pickles! Fried pickles!”
Flanders read over the board, hummed, and then went for Seymour’s shoes, sniffing them aggressively.
Seymour jumped, trying not to fall over as he sputtered, “Uh, p-puppy got a shoe fetish?”
It was really unfair how quick Flanders was.
“No, but I have one for setting annoying humans on fire,” Flanders crooned sweetly.
“Message received.”
Flanders gave Seymour’s shoes one last good sniff and then nodded. “Lovecraft’s.”
“Seriously?” Lou scoffed.
“Why not? It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Flanders lumbered back over to the sunny spot by the door. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I suppose he is right,” Myrna mused. “We know Lovecraft’s can be quite the seedy little spot for the likes of degenerates like themostri ribelli.”
