So I yell at him, I yell, 'Get the fuck off my lawn with that thing!' and he just straight up stares at me for thirty some seconds, dead on bullseye with my cornea. But I'm not backing down, no way, not to some pastel livered sonofa. So I keep cursing him and he keeps staring at me as if that I'm eight foot tall alien that Jim saw last Summer, bug eyes and all. So I start walking towards him, stalking, pounding the grass into little craters that ants would marvel over for years to come and create theories of their destruction from. And each of those craters makes him lower himself a little further, eyes still beaming bright into the back of my skull, tickling the grey hairs that have ingrown to my brainstem. And his hand creeps caterpillar inches towards the collar of his demonic summoning, who right this minute is snarling and looking back at the priest that made it, a curious permission being asked that would be confirmed with the snap of a lock opened with the passing over of a sainted hand, and a prayer to Our Father to forgive him. I must have looked something fierce, anyone passing by might have mistaken me and the devil for a reflection of the other, rabid, snarling, hissing steam from the holes in our throats. And in all my cursing of him and his kind I pray too, I pray he'll release his cursed hellspawn, I pray he'll give me the end I need to get him and all this out of here.

My prayer seems to meet his and he moves quick now, thumb sliding olive oil over the catch, metal rubbing metal as the dash of the beast frees it from its master's responsibilities. He takes one gallop to one crater and we meet, twisted, gnarled, in air suddenly filled with tooth and nail. My arm is ruined, but my teeth slash one of his eyeballs, puking humour out and releasing a bloody worm from the tearduct. He's still gripped, teeth slipped in between Ulna and Radius and they aren't moving. So I take another bite, soft nostril now fills the space in between my molar, wet for health. My fingernails find his proud scrotum and I slash that too, dangle testes on a bungee cord to splash down in a dew-filled mud pile. That's got him, the bastard. The vice loosens by slow turns and he whimpers off my muscles, connected by a grilled drool spiderweb. His smile is stilled by a low whine, and his master is crouched, signing the father and the son, but stops short of the spirit when he catches me staring at him.

I stand, and so does he. He adjusts his mission collar and I absently stuff the veins back into my forearm. He forgives me, and I set him straight on a few things.

Out here, if you ever want people to Believe, you got to stop your dog shitting on their front gardens.

Before that, if you need a dog to protect you, your message might have some fundamental mistakes, and I'm not talking about grammar.

Finally, the mountains can't be tamed.

He nods down at the floorboards, knocks back to the ceiling, thanks me, and walks on out of there.