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The Nine Headed Fox urgently reminds you that the production of art like this story would not be legal under fascism, like that currently being advanced by the American government. During this difficult time, the Foxes advise you, the readers of stories such as this, to familiarize yourself with left-wing groups in your areas and join opposition efforts.

Passionflame’s Playdate

By the Nine Headed Fox

Hark;

In the Doghouse there are Ninety Million rows of game machines

And there are ten thousand games being played

And the croupiers are ageless and play every game well.

There are daemons from the many Hells

And angels from paradises past sensorum

And explorers from the many fabulous Earths.

The daemons come in noble parades of darkness

Inviting with their rich dark depths that you may come and take of them as you like

And the angels which fly in radiant choirs

Commanding an awe which moves every beating heart to tears

And the explorers are the finest scholars of their ages

Exceeding all empire or faith.

And aside from these there are wild beasts who cannot be tamed in any cage:

There are nine-eyed owls whose names cannot be said

And there are many-headed dogs who bare strange lustful bodies

And there are scores of sally unicorns.

And all of these—demons, angels, beasts, and men

Give homage to the great Hound, Passionflame

On whom the whole realm spins.

In aspect cursorily canine

And in her heart of hearts just as she seems

She is a galaxy that walks

And can be mistaken for no other thing:

Seeing her remote she burns brightly, and in rare fabulous colors, which nothing of your world can match

And in silhouette she is a vast and mighty creature, going equally well on four legs and two,

And seeing her close you pick out the great voids of her spots worlds that spin within

The great rod and orbs between her legs, with which she might mount your world

And the suns that are her eyes.

Seeing her you [KNOW] she loves you

And in that love she would eat you

As soon as she would be your sister.

Passionflame is a Hellhound

Who is formed when the will of worlds cannot content with idle being

And makes for itself a way to walk and talk.

She is not a hellhound

Who licks at the hooves of daemons, and abides their conniving ways

But she and her kin have taken that word from them

Like fire from the gods.

She is capable equally of all motions

Taking great fiery bounds that leave craters in her wake,

And stepping so daintily that she would not bend a blade of grass.

But most often her way is to appear where she wills, at one with the scene, endowed with purpose and a lucky fool's [KNOW]ing: dimly aware of all things, and forgetting those things which displease her.

And those things which displease her fly in shame from the world, while those things she finds pleasing wax manifold

So that her presence and [KNOW]ing of things remakes worlds to her liking.

By the Angels, her passage is called damnation; by the daemons, a rapture; by the men of living worlds, apocalyptic in the simplest sense—that where she has gone, the old world decollates, and something else remains.

At [this] moment, Passionflame is in the Doghouse, playing poker on the Great Wheel: where gamblers wage their physicality and their ontology, not in hope of gaining but in hope of understanding; for they are themselves enlightened, seeking to understand eternally.

She is at the table beside the Ninehead Fox;

And across from her, Pabl0 the halfthing is sitting alone;

And at the end of the table the Hellwhite Unicorn is attended by her supplicants and actuaries;

And the croupier is the one called Greg.

Passionflame, who by her reckoning is ever-cursed with too much knowing, has laid on the table her latest adult understanding, which has taken her a week to grow, and she is playing to win, though she hopes in her heart to lose; meaning, at the end of things, to be puppylike.

And Pabl0, who is three eyes up, is still trying to get Hellwhite to wager her secret technique to hitting fireball with a 100% success rate; but Hellwhite's secret is to cheat, and she is cheating now, which is what you do if you really want to win.

And Passionflame knows she is cheating but Greg does not, because he is for the most part an ordinary man; and she is wondering when he will notice, with the dispassionate curoiosity of a creature who cannot know misfortune.

But the Ninehead Fox is a truly horrible gambler.

At the end of the hand Passionflame still has her adulthood, and gains an extra head; which sits on her shoulders, slobbering and ongoingly horny, yammering on and on about the limitless beauty of the assembled gamblers and all the things it would do to them if they only had the chance,

and while it's halfway fun being able to make out with herself she prefers making out with someone else

So two hands on she has lost the extra head and instead gained knowledge of how to how to play the Bleizelhorn, which can't be heard by monotemporal entities, and then she trades that for a couple of cup sizes from one of Hellwhite's supplicants.

She lays her brobdingnagian bosom on the table.

Now Ninehead tells her: your tits are larger than my heads.

And she jokes that she hadn't noticed; though in her heart she is already picturing the climactic moment when she will spend all that mass in a dramatic act of passion; and wishcasting the lover whose head she will squish between them.

The Hellwhite Unicorn decides to take her winnings and go; she has not been caught, but she is no fool, and knows that Passionflame is wise to her. She makes a concession to the great hound, wagering a Mixalot's worth of assmeat and folding the hand.

Passion accepts the new assets gladly, and now her rump commands the attention of all those whose hearts beat for flesh. Now her cheeks are clapping moons of moussebrown fur; her tail is a great belt of muscle which leaps up behind her like a solar flare, stellar flames licking at fur that cannot be burnt.

The people up close cannot often look straight at her, for they are awestruck by her brightness and her joie de vivre;

And her prodigious musk as well, which issueth forth like the fragrance of vibrant blooms and can be smelled in the soul—you think of the last time you thought everything was going to be okay and you feel like that moment is nearer now than it has been in howevermany years.

Those watching from far away see constellations dancing at the edge of her silhouette; trace her curvatures the way you trace a mandelbrot set, and marvel that anything with a tits and ass that large can hold up under her own power

And those who are very blessed, and can bare to meet her blazing form with their naked eyes, behold the field golden cotton curls that is her rolling belly.

Ninehead keeps losing and Pabl0 has nothing left he wants—the game is over. Passionflame rises from the table and opens the atlas of the many worlds before her, which even in her vast appetites she will never come to fully know.

She chooses a place of repression, where the people labor tirelessly under injustice, and rarely realize their dreams

And as a missile wreathed in fire, she steps forth from the doghouse into that world.

Passionflame hits the universe the same way a locomotiove hits a jam jar. She rips her way into three-dimensional space in tidal whirl of atmosphere and beholds the whole of the earth, senses instantly enveloping its entirety: she sees every ripe fruit and every flashing light; she hears every song and cuss; she tastes raw meat and acres of banana trees and the lacre of rapture-tears the sultry funk of lovers' emissions. The world world is one big rotisserie chicken peppered with seven billion souls—and all of the pepperflakes are becoming aware of her, in turn, though they do not really give her any notice. They are aware of her in the same way they are aware of gravity or time, understanding simply by observing. She has a sort of gravity of the soul: there is nothing in this world as big as her, nothing who wants as deeply, no soul who can feel anything even half as powerfully; and that she is aware of something is enough to in some small way affect it. From the very moment she sets her eyes on the planet, the people of Earth know her name.

The place is wrapped around her whims, the laws of the universe laid out like LEGO bricks at a hands-on museum. Soon she will be hands on, though for now she looks and waits: orbiting the planet on a whorl of argent fire, her vast curvature like unto a lesser celestial body, perusing the places where this world happens. It is not entirely like any other she has seen before, for no two worlds can be; but it is not wildly tangential from the ordinary courses of living man. There's plenty of places to spend her winnings: hundreds of little cities with hootnannies and shrines with seasonal festivals, and a tall order of big cities with their own party palaces and parades; but there's one city gleaming brighter than the others, where the greatest things in the world all flow like water and every stripe of person walks shoulder to shoulder in a nonstop bacchanalia, and that is where Passionflame must be.

She's seen New Yorks before. This one doesn't have a Spider-man or a Keanu but they're all the same in every way that matters: whether it's the huddled masses or the fortunate few the people are a constellation of wants; and whether the wants are as tedious as 'world domination' or as visionary as indoor plumbing, they run so thick together in this place that even the most ordinary place will never be boring. But she is not going to an ordinary place—she is going for the very heart of it, where the world is brightest and loudest. She takes a step through the void—

And now she's in Times Square, the place where it happens, the jewel in the imperial crown. Ten feet tall and radiant with fuchsia flames, she is a lighthouse rising from sea of bodies where people move in currents a couple-hundred strong. Even in the very dead of night it is stormy with voices and footsteps, and all of the people want so much that she can feel their desires swimming past hers, trying not to get sucked in her wake: this guy's going to get a drink and thinks about maybe pregaming with a shot out of her nutsack; this fella's on his way home but thinks for just a couple seconds about maybe asking her to use his face as a chair instead.

There are walls of light in every direction, a tornado of chroma that feels a hundred stories high; but it's all empty light—ads, not even worth the electricity it takes to run them. Now that Passionflame is here the photons have something they'd rather be and the TV has something it'd rather be playing—logos turn into rainbows, screens start playing classic film. She turns in place, taking it all in with a sigh, and the jumbotron reflects her smiling face; and all around the square, the screens are flashing parts of her—her enormous ass, which demands a worthy conqueror; her enticingly padded paws, calling out for supplicants; and her winning personality, here represented by her giving the thumbs up next to the words WE CAN DO IT!

From where she was standing you could pick a random direction and find adventure, so -

“Hey, big lady.” A hustler tugs on her tail, quickly yanking his hand away before her feelings can burn him. “You wan’ buy my mixtape?”

“I’m not carrying cash.”

“Aight.”

-so that’s exactly what she does.

She takes a few dainty ordinary-person-sized steps down Broadway, wondering if this is one of those universes where the Dragonball live show made it to America; but unfortunately, going by the marquee labels and the rows of twee fascists in tacky scarfs, this is one of the universes where people still go to look at the terfy wizard show. Frowning quietly, she adjusts the lower bar of the universe; everyone who had been planning on seeing the next one suddenly gets better taste and decides to do something more valuable with their time, like a goon sesh.

It's seeming like this isn't one of those New Yorks that gets invaded by aliens every so often; but rather it's one of those New Yorks that's grappling with the banalities of man's inhumanity to man, which is really more about the locals than the sights—and a city like that is no place to be by yourself, so she decides to grab the first guy who isn't doing anything more important. She points to the first person she sees-

"Hey, you on your way to make the cure for cancer?"

"No?"

"Cool, you're comin with me."

And the date she's selected stares her up and down, much as she does to him. He stands straight—not at attention, but straight—tugging on the lapel of his jacket, and adjusts his flatcap. He purses his lips and checks his watch: he had been on his way to drink alcohol and smoke weed with a collection of beautiful women, at a high-end club his buddy owns—but it's a thin, brittle, desire, propped up on inertia and old habits: it catches in passionflame's aura and goes up in a flash. For sure this is the place he wants to be, but there's a dance to these things: he circles her like a moth, a playful grin twisting over his weatherlined face.

"Well, you know—it's been some time, since I took a lady out by her lonesome. Where it is you think we oughtta be going, lil puppygirl?" He says this to her even though he is eyelevel with her tits, which is how she knows she picked a good one.

“You decide." Says Passionflame, squatting down to be at eye level with him. Her enormous bosom almost drags on the ground, but he can only stare down her muzzle—at the teeth which once were mountains, and the abyssal inferno of her appetite. The old man's throat runs dry. He doesn't know what he's gotten himself into—nobody on this planet has the imagination for that—but he's quick enough to put together the broad strokes. He sees a vision of his bedframe lying splintered and himself slumped over the fire escape window with his pelvis in pieces, dead stupid off one drag of hellhound pit-musk. Now, he has a conception of himself as a silver fox—if not evergreen, then gracefully fading—and she can see it smouldering in his heart of hearts, that he really does think he stands a chance with her. But in his conscious mind he is keenly aware that time comes for us all.

"Are...you the kinda lady who likes a little somethin lowkey, or..." He trails off; looking her up and down, that is a damn stupid question. "I mean, I think I know somewhere."

"Well..." She huffs a deep hot breath; smells of hot candy and deep space and dog breath chase each other around in the steam. "I'll make it easy for you. If I don't like the way the date is going, I'll change things until I do." And she grins in a way that makes the man purse his lips and furrow his brow in quiet concern because something about it has him feeling like she's got a few things in mind already.

"Well, what all kinda things do you not like?" He asks. And at about that moment one of New York's finest comes up to them, twirling his nightstick and popping his bubble gum. He nods at Passionflame, who rolls her eyes.

"Hey, hound, -" And before he finishes the thought he instantly transforms into a chubby furry tgirl with an encyclopedic knowledge of 40k and a quartet of mean sisters who pass her around like a blunt that sucks your dick. She wanders off to go have sex with interesting strangers.

"Answers that." Murmurs the man, who is trying not to sweat. Passionflame can sense his dread, and his desire: he likes big girls, tall or wide; and, even seeing what happens to people who don't amuse her, he's still getting ready to climb her mountain. He's wondering how he'd look with bowling ball boobs and an expensive niche interest, and Passion might just be about to show him. But the old son of a bitch truly has nothing better to live for. He tells her his name is Dante; which, of course, she already knew; and because she already knows that her attention starts to wander—past the entrepeneur trying to make it big with some goofy promo video, past the hustlers hocking their mixtapes, where where two lovers are locked arm-in-arm in front of the crosswalk; their love burns as bright as anything in this sorry world can muster and Passionflame loves the sight of them so much that she turns the pair of them into titan-titted empty-headed bimbo foxgirls who start sloppily making out right there in the square, sapphic yapping louder than the traffic; it does her heart good.

"Hey—hey, Passion -" Dante starts, and hearing her name Passion whips around and grabs him by the shoulders and hurks him up to her bosom and squeezes him so tight he can only squeak, and then she turns around again and points him towards the young ladies who are now stripping off each other's clothes, beach-towel tails wrapped around each other, and their beach ball bazongas are squishing against each other like pillows and people are stopping and staring: excited old perverts and blinkered drunks and shithead zoomers with their cameras out; and Passion herself, whose cosmic-purple canine shaft is testing the rim of her fuzzy brown foreskin.

"Why don't you ever kiss me like that anymore, Dante?" She whines, squeezing him tight—and then she gives him just enough to breathe before she twirls him around again to be nose-to-nose with him. "Kiss me! Right now, sweep me off my paws!"

Now to the man's credit he answers the challenge: he leans in with his lips puckered up, aiming right for her kisser; but over those giant breasts of hers, he can hardly reach her lower lip. She waits patiently and the best he can do was give her a smooch right on the snoot, which he can only do with her holding him at chest level: he for sure isn't going to be sweeping her off anything.

But, she can fix that.

Passionflame sits Dante down on the ground and rolls her shoulders. Then she jumps into his arms and he catches her like she doesn't weight anything. He has no idea how he's done it—he stares at her and she stares back at him, looking perfectly innocent. But then across the square a guy gently lifts up his suitcase and it hurtles ten feet up in the air; and the lumberjacks from Yukon to Punjab get to be Paul Bunyan, and the powerlifting records are all going crazy—because, as of about three seconds ago, things are no longer heavy. They still have weight, but nothing is heavy when you try to lift it; so all around the world, little babies are picking up tables and auto mechanics are carrying cars over their shoulders, and of course Dante is carrying Passionflame, barely able to believe his middle-of-middle-age body can hold her for one step, much less hiking down Broadway. He still doesn't "know" just what he's got himself into, but he sure knows the stakes.

The man's idea of a good first date is taking a lady out to a classy restaurant where they serve you good food, but by this hour all the great French venues are booked up; and if he's got this notion that if he takes her somewhere with small portions, she'll eat the serving staff instead. Passionflame is a woman of appetite, demanding fine things in high amounts; so Dante starts walking for Ichi-Nissan Sushi on 40th. More like jogging, really, because he likes—or is at least accustomed to—the rules of his world and wants them to stay for the most part as they are.

Passionflame is riding in the loverboy's arms like a big puppy, two feet of tongue lolling out, firebrush wagging so fast it leaves neon trailing in the air behind it. He can't see where he's going over her: her enormous fuzzy ass is all he can hold onto, while the rest of her is jiggling over and around him like a horny flan. Her flames are licking playfully across his hands, teasing out the memories of all the places he's put them, smoothing out the arthritis just as a matter of first principles. The New Yorkers, whose first instinct is to avoid whatever weird shit is happening near them, part around them like sea spray: cabbies, bikers, pedestrians all, eager to get well out the way—for the most part they just turn their heads and pretend they can't see it—if you ask them did they see 'the ten-foot tall flaming dog, or her watermelon sized dick and balls', they'll say no, even though they did, because that's just the way things work in that town.

When they get to Ichi Nissan there's a gang of young people at the tail end of a complex series of romantic falling-outs and breakups that aren't really any one specific person's fault but they've all got a lot of growing up to do; so before they go belowground, Passionflame—for the sake of young love—turns the four of them into shaggy neolithic cat furries with clacky sharp fangs and wet needy pussies. The problems start solving themselves.

She's walking by herself now, On the way to the table Dante is flexing his fingers, wondering where the pain went. He reflexively goes for a set of arpeggiated piano-picks he hasn't been able to do for some-on two years; she can hear his heartbeat quicken, feel it in her own. She slides into the booth opposite—she has to change it to fit, first, giving it about three feet of back clearance so she can plomp her full weight down on it—and her breasts crash down on the table between them.

"So do y'all do that to everyone?"

The waiter who comes to give them the menu is a little bit of a dweeb but he wants to get huge, so Passionflame tips him for prompt service with a 20% increase in muscle mass—she takes it out of his brainpower, naturally, but what he loses in critical thinking he's already made up for with increased libido and a winning smile. It's a wolf smile, because she also turned him into a sexy wolf. And by dint of being a huge hairy wolfman he smells like wolf nuts and no longer fits into his uniform—but he's also a pack animal, and a disciplined one at that, so he starts them for the all-you-can-eat and gets it back to the kitchen. And then he pitches up outside the kitchen and starts furiously cranking his hog. Dante doesn't watch; Neither does Passionflame, but she can smell his dick mixed in with the kitchen smells.

"No, just people who want it. Why, you interested?" She lifts her hand-

"Wait!" He yells, throwing his hands up over his face—and she waits, grinning, pilot lights flickering in her eyes.

"Young lady." He straightens himself up in his seat. He's got fear-sweat running in lightning bolts down his back, gunshots going off in his heart: he can't stop thinking about how he's face to face with this universe's only God and he's trying to daddy up on her. He's glad for all the bullshit that taught him a cool head.

"I have worked hard on my swagger—and you're very fine, but I can't be having you give me a makeover now."

"Why not?" She bats her eyelashes looking so cute you'd think the worst thing she'd ever done was skip teatime with Polly Pocket. But in an instant, her desire becomes a cyclone: she will give anything to transform this man—the same way hero monks want world peace she wants this; more than Goku wants a contest, she wants this. And that desire is a pyre shining light through the darkness of the people's grey foggy existences, that they cannot see but can feel in their hearts with utter clarity; in the other booths the people are hanging up on their business partners and telling their cabbies to forget about it and texting their band members No, you get over HERE right now, and every single one of them is staring at their table, eyes flickering back and forth between them, salivating with anticipation.

"I think you'd be really great as a-" And at that moment, the hunky wolf waiter boy brings their first course. "Hold that thought!"

It's ten pieces of spicy tuna. Simple as it gets, peppery on the tongue but doesn't leave a sting going down. Not sriracha, which is a good sign, means they're not cutting corners. Passionflame unhinges her jaw and hunches over the plate, but then at the last moment sits up again.

"Hey, can I get some cum to go with this?"

"They don't pay me enough to jack off here, boss." The wolfman shrugs, so Passionflame looks at Dante and wiggles her eyebrows. He whips out his wallet.

"I'll give ya twenty, right now!" So, obviously, out comes the enormous hairy cock. Passionflame waits patiently, drumming her palms on the table, while the waiter squeezes out some white sauce into a dish. Dante has one piece, no cum; it's pretty good.

He's playing it cool but his heart is pounding, because he saw what happened to the wolfman's uniform: his fit is in jeopardy. And more than that her desire is so real, purer and more potent in his own mind than anything he's willed himself to do in the last six months at least.

It's realer in everyone's minds. The wolfman, who is workin the gherkin like it's a lifelong trade, has been staring directly at an increasingly-uncomfortable Dante the entire time. The people at the next table over are bent over looking at him, seeing what the couple does next. One says 'dog', another says 'cat', a third says 'dolphin'—and they start taking votes on boy or girl. The new-agey polycule sitting in the midroom are telling all their pervert friends on bluesky about how much this guy should be something other than human—'Horse! 'Owl!’ The wolfman busts a goopy white nut into the sauce dish and throws Dante a wink as he's leaving. In the corner a bunch of elderly powerbrokers are trying to figure out how they can divvy this guy up—'Raccoon! ''Zebra!' 'Monkey!'—but then the bouncer tells them that's not okay and they have to leave.

Dante has a second bite of sushi. It's still pretty good.

Then Passionflame unhinges her jaw, grabs the plate, dumps the other eight pieces into her mouth, and upends the dish of cum on top of it. Her mouth is a metaphor for a stellar-scale blender eternally combusting trillions of tons of matter, and there is no conceivable number of sushi rolls preparable by human hands that could make the smallest dent in her hunger.

"Oh, that's pretty good!" But she likes the taste. She pats her belly and looses a thunderclap burp. "Rmmm...not sure about the cum here, though. Think they charge a bit much."

"You're tellin me." Dante murmurs, handing the wolfman a twenty. He had been hoping that the hunk would catch her attention, or that her mind might wander while she was eating—but still he feels her desire's gravity pulling against his own. Still her eyes are pilot lights, waiting for the stream. Like Amy wants Sonic, she wants this; more than the head chef wants the waiterwolf, she wants this.

"So..." She playfully grins. "Will you let me turn you into a hunky furry daddy, pretty-pretty please?"

Dante takes in a deep breath. She is towering above him, an immaculate mountain of desire his mortal vessel cannot claim. She is a thing so many orders of magnitudes higher than his dreary existence; nothing he has ever done will matter, or could have possibly mattered, as much as amusing her in this moment.

"No. I worked too hard on this fit."

Passionflame blinks and tilts her head. Someone gasps. Someone stands up from their table—'Let me at 'im—the son of a bitch, let me at 'im!'- and their buddies hold them back. And she grins, eyes igniting into wildfires, because she realizes she has just found something so much rarer than a good first date.

"Well...if your outfit means that much to you...then you definitely oughtta take me clothes shopping next!”

Course 2. Yellowtail.

"Here." Passionflame splits the course six-four her way, and pushes the yellowtail across the platter. "It's really hot when a guy can eat a lot." Which is a wraparound kind of truth: eating a lot wasn't, in itself, hot. But all of her favorite shapes come with big appetites; big appetites make all of her favorite shapes. Dante hasn't had a big appetite in twenty years but of course he wants to impress the lady, so he takes them two at a time—which she thinks is just delightful. There's drive in him—a vision, a verve, a passion. She takes her time eating the rest, now—two bites of three instead of one for all six. He has to work his jaw like a piston but finishes eating before she does; in the back of his mind, it occurs to him he hasn't eaten that quickly in years. But he doesn't feel like he wolfed it down—he feels like he enjoyed it just as much as he ever did, or maybe even a little more.

"So—if you don't mind me saying—I'm not sure there's anywhere I know, that might cater to a lady of your proportions."

"Are you calling me fat?" She teasingly asks, flashing her fangs.

"Indeed; lucky me."

"Well, you're pretty big—where do you get your clothes?" He has no idea that the question is load-bearing; no idea that the fingers are already on the jenga block.

"I've got a tailor." And the tailor is closed, of course, because it's late at night, but that's not the important part. Dante isn't pretty big by anyone's metrics, least of all hers; but he's got the idea in his head that could be, maybe, if he wanted to—and, he does want it. Just not bad enough, yet.

Course three: crab, some kind of tangy sauce. Passionflame cuts the platter again, now half and half. They finish at the same time; she's eating slowly but he thinks he's eating quickly. And as he looks across the table at her slavering slobbery maw, he conceives of himself as equally ravenous—now he flicks his tongue across teeth that are warm with sleepy starfire.

"Is he expensive?" To most of the diners, these questions sound an awful lot like ordinary first-date talk; they're groaning and disinterestedly picking at their dinners, wondering why the hound doesn't just get him already. On the socials, there's a raging argument between team #Dogte and #Dantneigh, and the hylics are baying like hogs for her to just send it already—but a few very careful people, serene among the anxious restaurant crowd, recognize her move for what it is. She's sniffing him out: learning what he loves about life, and where he sees room for improvement.

"Well...let me say he's been nothin but good to me these nine years. And he's worth it." Passionflame senses the moment the desire takes root. The 'but' that springs from his satisfaction like the first sprout of the new growth. "But I can't afford to go seeing him every day."

"Hard times?"

Course four: shrimp, tempura, spicy mayonnaise, some kind of vegetable. She doesn't cut the plate this time: she lets him reach up and pick them off the platter as he's talking, eating whole bites of sushi like they're single popcorns.

"Hard times? No, just the ordinary hokum -" Chomp. "I work a ten hour day, I make three hundred bucks." Crunch. "Boss makes a dollar, I make a dime, you know."

Now she knows she has him. Or rather, the man has himself. He's lathering himself up now, talking about the things going awry, all the people who done him wrong, all the bullshit that doesn't make any sense: he's going on and on about labor theory of value, explaining that White Man's laws are basically just excuses to steal from hardworking people. Course five is a palate-cleansing california roll with grated ginger. He throws down chunk after chunk, never noticing the way his teeth are beginning to sharpen; he doesn't feel the cosmic fire flickering to life in the cockles of his belly.

"Never you mind a tailor, puppygirl, I know what y'all really want. How bout we get you somena smoke, baby?"

"Oh yeah? Whatcha thinkin?"

Course six comes and goes in the time it takes Dante to explain that he has a guy named Snake who runs shit up from Appalachia, who grows a hybrid strain he calls "Dueling Ganjas". Passionflame listens politely, chin resting on her enormous fuzzy paw. She's not picky about the particulars of what she smokes—she's so good at doing drugs she can get rolling-on-the-floor dead off a single puff of stems—but she appreciates the craftsmanship, and the stories of it. She doesn't even eat a single bite: Dante takes the whole plate, without even really noticing he's doing it.

Now it's time for the check: Dante pulls out his wallet, bracing for a triple-digit bill, but here Passionflame stops him.

"Hang on there, loverboy—I just won big at the casino, let me." She takes the bill, folds it up, and eats it—then her breasts lose a couple of sizes, shrinking from an absolutely outrageous pair of dirty pillows to a merely-very-large EE cup; and in exchange, every one of the restaurant's employees now has a rack that's only a little smaller than hers. The hunky wolfboy and the receptionist and the entire kitchen brigade are overjoyed—they're squeezing themselves, moaning shamelessly, rubbing up against one another.

Dante rises from the booth, feeling pretty light on his feet for a guy who just ate most of six courses. Where there should be about eight pounds of rice and fish there is instead only an appetite, ever-deepening; in his head he's thinking she must have eaten it all, he's thinking he only had a few bites, the way a bag of snacks can kind of get away from you. When he stands up, his jacket is two inches too short on him, his shirt only reaching to his belly button—but before he notices this, he adjusts them out of habit; Passionflame watches, saying nothing, as the clothes lengthen to fit him, violet flames licking at the hem.

"Now this time of night—my man Snake, will be squattin in the Kitchen." Dante starts off, Passionflame following behind—he doesn't see the flames following at his heels, or the sooty four-toed pawprints that blossom on the ground where he walks. She is going on all fours, the better to be closer the action—she trots along behind him like a big puppy as they turn down 40th heading for Broadway. It's just past midnight and the party is going for three more hours; the crowds are loud and flashy and more than a little drunk. There's a couple of cops standing on the corner, glaring at everyone who comes near; now they're all drooling big-titted poodles, spreading their asscheeks for everyone who looks at them twice.

He asks her about herself: where she's from, what she does, what it's like in other dimensions, who she's seen, and what she's been a part of. She has a whitewater worth of stories, linked together by a jumble of recurring places and characters. He follows along as best he can but he can barely keep the names straight.

"So you're telling me—he fights robot animals, and—and an egg-man?"

"Yeah, my dad is the coolest. "

"But...I thought you said your dad was the Saiyan fella."

"Oh—no, no, that's my other dad."

That's all a bit new-agey for him—he hadn't even heard that two men could have a baby, much less that the baby could be a big dog—but he's hip. He just nods along, wondering when some part of her life story is gonna make even a little sense to him; not that the confusion truly bothers him. In his mind, women are like jazz: you're not really meant to understand every single thing they say, you just listen to appreciate what you can. He's got his ears trained on her, and his ears have a thin carpet of shaggy grey fur; but he's been so busy trying to make some sense of her story that—like the fire in his wake and his extra inches of height—he hasn't noticed. But she has, and she's more excited with every passing moment.

Now they're in Hell's Kitchen: a neighborhood that sounds like it should be full of crack houses and roving street toughs, but it's actually just swanky bars and roving drunks. The sky isn't lit up like it is in the square: here the lights are fixtures at street level, and the only neon is in the understated Open signs. It could almost be Sesame street, if not for the people: here's a lady with a shirt that just says "FUCK ME $20"; here's that guy named Snake, who indeed looks like an Appalachian drugrunner.

"Aw, look who it is!" He exclaims, raising up his arms—he brings in Dante for a hug, slapping his shoulder. "And it's the fuckin Hellhound, too! You pull some real crazy bitches, man."

"Hey, you watch yourself—she's a lovely lady."

"Nah, I'm a crazy bitch."

Snake whips out a bag of skunk so loud it'd knock you back, and Passionflame does the bug-eye reaction bit, her tail curled back into a flaming fuchsia heart; the stuff lifts her by the snout, right off her feet, and she faceplants the dealer's outstretched palm. She takes a deep breath, sucking up the loamy stank: subtle notes of deer butt and pinewood; she can practically hear the banjos. She knows she's gotta have it.

"How big?" She asks, snatching it up out of his hand—for a picosecond he considers trying to hold it away from her.

"How big what?"

"How big do you want your boobs to be?"

"Uhhh...Iunno?"

"Good choice." She pats the newly-minted Skunksnake's rapidly draining noggin—it's all rushing out of her brains and into her boobs at a ratio of about one to four, leaving her with a rack so big she can hold a joint in her tits. She still remembers the way back to the farm, which is the important part, but she can't remember a good reason not to start offering titjobs to her clients—so that's what she does.

"No, no- I'm good." Dante huffs, gnashing his teeth—they click together pronouncedly, fangs more exaggerated with every moment. He's thinking to himself there's gotta be a limit to this—that it's one thing to make a waiter a stupid furry, and the police into stupid furries, but if you go around turning the plug into a stupid furry, society's gonna fall apart; how the fuck the kitchen business gonna keep going around if the plug is too stupid to hook you up?

"But", He says to Passionflame, "I was just thinking -" And just then she tosses him the bag and now that he's close enough to really breathe it in it makes his nostrils flash with purple firelight. Right between his eyes, his nose turns cold and dark, doglike, and for the first time his tongue lolls out over his chin. His saliva sizzles on the sidewalk, droplets of violet magma becoming pebbles. "Never mind what the hell I was thinking, puppygirl, let's light this shit up."

They find a place to sit down: not a special place for sitting, just some bare concrete with nobody to harrang them for sitting there. They're just off the Kitchen now, in a gap between two busier streets. Dante keeps his pipe on him, in a special snakeskin case. It's a cheap piece of crap, seven bucks at any store, just a glass tube with a ceramic bowl at the end shaped like a doberman's head. But he cleans the glass fastidiously, keeps it looking brand new, because the ritual of the thing is what truly matters to him.

"A dog's head..." Passionflame chuckles, pinching a bud out of the bag—two claws are all she needs to grind it down to powder. She loads it up and gives him the first hit. “You believe in destiny, devil dog?”

"Only in that we've all got something coming for us." He has no idea how right he is: he's eye level with her collar bone now, and thinks she must be slouching. If he took the time to compare himself to anyone else he'd see it's him who's gotten taller—that he's standing almost seven foot tall, whole acres of new muscle tone deftly hidden under his constantly expanding clothes—but no one else is quite so intriguing; no one else makes him feel like he's got a furnace in his gut. He holds the pipe to his lips, reaching for his lighter, but all she has to do is think and the herb catches with the same cosmic fire that rides her.

"And what's coming for you?" She asks, with a devilish grin—she wants his thoughts turned to the far future as this stuff hits his blood stream; she wants to see how far his heart can stretch. He hoovers up a long hit and holds it until his eyes start watering, then blows so much smoke you think his lungs elected a pope. When he passes her the pipe he has to cough and suck air but he's already feeling himself coming on, now: aches and pains slipping away, mind opening to wild possibilities.

"Uncle Sam been comin for me since two-thousand-one, Puppygirl. An' plenty motherfuckers in between."

"Forget Uncle Sam, player; you really think he's gonna be here in the morning? First thing I do, every dimension I go to, clean this dog-shit country off the face of the spirit." Passionflame always did it with flash, but only sometimes with fire. Depending on the timeline, cleaning America off the earth could take a couple of words or all afternoon; going by the cops and the terf wizard show, she was thinking this one would be a little bit of effort. Maybe even as much as 90 minutes.

"You for real, girl?" He grins—he's rocking back and forth on his haunches now, trying to wag a tail he's still a couple degrees of intensity out from growing. But he can imagine it—the way Passion's tail has been blowing fire all night, he's been thinking about it more or less as often as he's ben looking at her; and now that his head his swimming and his homunculus is heading for a smoke, he's about what it might be like to have one of his own. He reflexively squashes the desire, as humans are taught to do, putting it into a box marked 'stupid—not going to happen'. But it's man's desires that lie down and die when told; Hounds' desire keep smoldering, as long as it takes to summon their own oxygen and blow the lid away again. He keeps thinking—if he had something to wag, something to wrap around her, something she could put her slobbery muzzle under and take a drag out of like out of it like she was tryna get lit off him. He takes another drag—then a third, after that, as she talks.

"For suuuuure. First stop Washington DC...'en...soon as I get bored of wherever I landed. Usually I turn em all into horny bimbos, but sometimes I turn them into squeegees, or aftereffects." Passionflame giggles as she takes the pipe, and pulls another drag. She's already rolling-on-the-floor-dead, the way it will take Dante four or five hits to get; but it's fun, and it gets him talking, and he says something fun.

"Man, fuck that. You wanna start right here in Manhattan, girl."

When he said that, he gave her just what she'd been hoping for: now her attention is laser-focused on him, never mind the horny parrot girls fucking each other over there on the parked steamroller. His heartbeat jumps as he speaks, feelings quickening in his chest until they fill up his lungs an started bubbling up out of his chest. He's drooling more and more with every word, long canine tongue hanging over his sharpened fangs, effulgent violet percolating in his throat. The drugs have shaken something loose in him: he's forgotten to guard himself against his passion; he's daring to dream of the impossible; monkey sees, hound does. Now his eyes are pilot lights.

"Oh yeah?"

"You ever heard'a Wall Street, puppygirl?"

She pinches the pipe in her lips, hands free, and sparks another hit. "Tell me about it, stud." Both of her forepaws are on his shoulders.

With thoughts hazed in marijuana smoke, Dante's words flow freely; action follows words, and Passionflame follows him. In twenty minutes the two of them are downtown, the financial district: evil's tacky palace, where its soulless executors meet every day to kill people with penstrokes. It's a different, uglier caste of person who walks there, than you find in the rest of town: they don't have the dreams, the flair, or the liveliness of the city folk. They have surrendered their dreams to the idea of ownership, each carrying himself somberly in a suit that make him look like a grave marker.

It doesn't even look like the rest of the city: here—only here, in all of Manhattan—the streets are devoid of life, and the ground-floor lights are dim, and the city noise is gone; you can hear your own footsteps. The buildings are uniformly angular dark monoliths, rising from the earth like unto the fingers of a grasping oily hand—bejeweled with lonely twinkling office windows, where the city's worst lowlifes are staying late for the love of the game.

Passion's flames are twisting restlessly on her back—rolling behind her in a train, arcing geysers of starfire that sputter across the concrete. The air here is the closest thing to poisonous anything can be to her: this place is an abattoir for desires, the incalculable many slaughtered for the tedious few, and the stench of it offends as nothing else can in any dimension. She has been nose-to-nose with galaxy-conquering warlords who were less despicable than the average stockbroker; and though it is her custom to scour this place off creation as soon as she arrives, today she indulges in a most unusual pleasure: restraint.

"Them's the motherfuckers, right there." Dante points across the street, to the Eichmann-Blackerby office. "Cheated me back in 2008, took my goddamn house." He has a half-empty bottle of Trace, though he doesn't remember where he got it. Passion's thrilled to see him doing hammerspace already.

"Whatcha gonna do about it?" She snorts and grins, tossing a fireball back and forth between her hands—she holds it like a baseball, itching to pitch it through the front window; but still she restrains herself, waiting to see what she can drag out of the man. Here in this locus of evil, his anger is growing voluminously, and he is growing with it: a human form is too small too contain feelings like his. He is eight foot tall now, violet flames rolling over the back of his waistband, ears set in jagged peaks on either side of his head, smoke rising from the holes. He takes a drag from the pipe—not noticing that he didn't light it, or that the flames are a different shade of violet—and necks a cowboy's glug of whiskey, such as ought make him wince and shudder but trickles as easily as water over his slavering canine tongue.

"Not sure yet. I'm a lil spoiled for choice. You can do just about anything, right?" His voice is oscillating between its old shape and a newer one—deeper, louder, rolling with subtle intensities, a little closer to his inner monologue.

"I can. But I asked what are you gonna do?" She points a playful finger—balances the fireball on the other hand and spins it like a globetrotter. Dante doesn't know what the hell he's gonna do, because he feels powerless—always has around these buildings, because even at night they radiate the air of malice that comes with the NYPD's unconditional fealty. In his head he is not a man swollen to the edge of demidoghood; he does not see the coat of shaggy black fur blossoming under his custom threads; and because he sees himself as a man he wishes he had a rocket launcher or a flamethrower or at least a real big hammer, and without them he feels as helpless as he ever has. But the way she's looking at him, she expects something, and he's loathe to let her down.

"Screw it." He snorts, grabbing the first decently throwable-thing he sees—a mailbox—in one hand and hurls it overarm.

Caught up in that moment, he'd acted without thinking—and now the thing's in the air that he realizes he's just yanked a hundred-pound steel postbox out of the ground and hurled it like a brick. He watches as the box crashed through the front door of Eichmann-Blackerby, ripping the revolving door off its hinges and twisting the windowframe up like cheap wire. The glass shatters into a storm of crystal and the building alarm rips off full tilt: a red light flashed overhead while a deafening siren shrieks into the night, echoed in the distance by police cars.

"Oh, right, things...aren't heavy anymore." He takes in a deep breath through his nose, and the pilot lights in his eyes ignite, lurid phantasmagorias of destruction unfurling in his imagination. Like he said, he's spoiled for choice: everything he sees is a weapon, and everything he sees is a toy. Would it be better, he wonders, to beat down this place's walls with an uprooted street light, or a fire hydrant?

He's still making up his mind when the first cop car pulls up, and that makes the decision real easy: he bounds down the street on four legs, clawed hands ripping gouts in the asphalt as he yanks himself forward, closing distance before the swine are even unbuckled—he hooks a hand under the front bumper and hurks the whole car up over his head, dropping two hateful-eyed piglets face-first into the plexiglass, noses cracking under their own weight—they don't even have time to scream before he hurls the whole thing like a discus after the mailbox, and the car twists around at half-a-thousand RPM as it rips through the front lobby, crashing through two different pillars and hitting the back wall a hundred yards away, both policemen instantly turning into a goopy red pulp that painted the inside of their squad car—which, after the third second impact, begins trailing a trail of fire through the air as engine suffers a breach. Moments after the last impact, it explodes.

"Shiiiit, I just killed them motherfuckers." He snorts, and that by itself is enough to catalyze one more brilliant change, which Passion has been waiting for intently: he leans forward, resting his weight on his fingertips—his enormously muscled forearms now reach the ground even when he's standing up—and starts to wag his rump; metronomically, side to side, fire spilling further over his waistband with every turn, until it is lolling over his rump and down his thighs—leaping violet flames, some places blinding white and others a deep silky black—black, like the shaggy coat of fur that winds its way down his body, from his slobbery fang-filled maw to his gently smoldering brisket-scented pawpads.

"And I do it again. In a heartbeat. Hope they sendin more, that's what I hope..." His anger is as bright and merciless as the lights of times square; it fans out behind him in a billowing cloak of fire that scorches the stonework black and throttles the streetlights into melting. It's so hot that Passionflame feels it—it is as distant a feeling as someone dropping a glass in the next room, but she is feeling it—whether she wants to or not. He walks on all four legs up the stairs into the lobby, tail wagging quicker and quicker as he beholds the destruction he has wrought—and this, at last, is too much for him to ignore. He surveys the things which catch in his aura: the couch cushions in the from waiting area, the desks in the secretary bay—turns to face Passionflame, grinning wild-eyed, and raises a forepaw—he conjures a violet fireball, which dances playfully on his fingertips.

"Puppygirl...I thought I told you I ain't want you doin nothin to my look." Yet for all his resplendent fury, he doesn't sound any angrier with her than you'd be with your own daughter for using a bit of your lipstick playing dress-up.

"I didn't." She beams, feeling every bit like a precocious brat, even though it's him who's the puppy. "This is all you."

"All me..." A hound's truth is bright and self-evident; the capacity for subtlety is rapidly leaving his body. Rolling his shoulders and threading his enormous furry knuckles, Dante stares transfixed at his own jagged claws—which even at this moment are growing sharper and harsher, their tips scorched by ever-rising flames. These hands can rip steel like wet paper; to say nothing of the fangs—which will one day be as mountains, but even now are pneumatic drills that might grind down castles. It is just as he would like them to be; as surely as the regal purple flames which are rising from his back to engulf the building are just as he would like them. All of this is him—his own wrath and passion, both tempered by fate until they were harder than osmium, now loosed on a world that can hardly contain him.

"Well, maybe. But I shouldn't be the only one having fun." He permits himself a hound's grin—wide-lipped, tongue lolling, eyes blazing with inhuman joie de vivre—and his flames surge higher, to twine with Passionflame's, scorching the ceiling and igniting the next floor up. The sprinklers are impotently discharging gallons of water onto quenchless hellfire, and the alarm are still blaring—less a coherent sound every moment, more just a rhythmic white noise. In the distance, a rising cascade of police sirens sounds to both of them dinner bells.

Dante breathes in deep, tryna catch his head. Instead he huffs a noseful of the craziest stank that's ever kissed this town: armpit sweat and pot smoke and corn chips and smoked salmon and red wine and cinnamon whiskey and Araby incenses and dog ass and pancake stacks thirteen stories tall and gallons of blood sprayed across distant battlefields and hot chocolate and hydrogen reaction septillions of processes deep. His coal-dark canine nose scrunches up at the end of his nose; he breathes in deeper, reflexively, trying just to wrap his head around the scent—and presently he follows it to Passionflame.

"Holy hell..." She's just standing there with a smug look on her face, one just daring her to say any of what's going through his mind right now. Even affecting perfect innocence, she is a latter day work of Reuben, sultry and corpulent: her modest E-cup breasts frames a valley of cosmogone fur, which itself crowns her beanbag ballsack and her quivering fire-hydrant cock; and yea the thighs which flank the shaft are like unto the golden strand around a mighty sea. Every part of her calls out and no part of him can resist—he is more deeply in love now with her than he has been with any living thing, and that love doubles upon itself every moment. His wagging tail flies rivers of fire out the open door, falling down the stairs; and up above him the screams are starting, as the late night traders realize what is going on—but then, blessed quiet.

The hellfire climbs in giddy leaps and bounds and when it meets the souls of algorithmic men it scorches them with an indescribably vast agony—as for one distended moment their mind's eyes are opened wide to the true weight of the dreams they crushed and the lives they ruined, and the things of beauty which they despoiled, which makes them hate themselves as much as they are hated by the world around them, and in that moment they are mazed in loathing and understand what it means to wish in their heart of hearts that they were dead. They stop screaming because they pine for oblivion, which vengeful Dante and merciful Passionflame grant them—but their bodies take almost three whole minutes to burn, and there are no words for what a truly wretched thing it is to burn.

"Girrrl..." Mutters Dante, taking in a deep whiff of Passion's pangalactic musk. He circles her, studiously; almost predatory. "You- Iunno if I ought really to say this, to a lady of good character, but-"

A rifle round rips into Dante's skull through his cheek and up through his nose and brainpan and out the other side into the open air.

His titanic form sways on his four legs, tail horribly still; his grin frozen, without light, in a vile one-eyed mask. Violet magma trickles from the wound, gushing down over his cheek and out of his open mouth.

In frustrated silence, Passionflame turns her head to the shooter—a policeman posted up at the end of the street, with his rifle braced on a wall; he's racking the bolt for another round. In that space of time she stretches her arm out towards him, and it extends like unreeling firehose in a long ropy cord of muscle, at a breakneck clip, until her timeshredding right hand is past the rifle barrel, level with the shooter's nose. She taps him right between the eyes and retracts it as swiftly as she had stretched it; before she is back to her ordinary shape the man has screamed his last, because he has been sucked headfirst into his own asshole and turned into a dripping pale sausage donut. Then she returns her attention to Dante.

"You okay there, buddy?"

Dante's one good eye blinks. His tail gives one limp, uncertain wag. He doesn't know if he's okay: his physical body—the hound's proximar in this dimension—was doing most of its thinking with that brain; he hasn't learned to just do all of his thinking in another dimension yet, the way older hounds do, and his thoughts are a jumble. He's missing a whole jumble of higher thoughts, running on instinct, sensorum, and libido: drooling, he leans forward, to shove his nose under Passionflame's sheath and rest his head on her balls. She giggles, cradling his other cheek in her paw. Magma is boiling in his opened-up brain, flames licking at the edge of the wound—as they burn through the open air, his split-open brain regrows in its place. He's searing himself back into this world a few hundred brain cells at a time, like a newborn puppy learning to impose himself on reality.

"Aw, my gosh, you're just a puppy...Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?" She scratches his chin and he barks ecstatically.

She could sit there for half a century—well, more realistically, half a minute—cradling the dumb doggy in the fire and rain, but people just can't leave well enough alone: outside in the street, the NYPD's army of legendarily overmilitarized jackboots is enacting a cordon plan they got from a video tape wearing armor that they got from a video game, carrying guns that look like a telescope fucked a stapler, yelling hup-two-three-four-steady-now-steady-now like they have the slightest chance of getting anywhere with any of this. Each and every one of them knows what a hound is and they know that they are, definitinonally, going to lose the fight; but they are Americans, and they are policemen, so deep in their hearts they desire death—and at any rate they would prefer death to life among the LGBT, so death is what they've come here seeking. In their hearts they nurse a desperate, nihilistic idea that they'll be memorialized somehow for this; that they'll be recalled by some future generation of nazi rebels as the heroic officers who took a brave final stand against the onset of extradimensional queer hippies. So they post up in lines holding their rifles at the front door drawing a bead on the two hounds; and Passionflame, grinning, kisses Dante's snout.

"Let's go for a walk, doggy."

Passionflame is an artist; maybe even an artist's artist. She does it for fun, and for the love of the game: "It" here being the wholesale removal of policemen from reality. Everything she does is a form of transformation: sometimes into a big titted furry, sometimes into a smear across the asphalt. It depends on how she feels at that moment—and the way she feels right now, facing a wall of blues with irons drawn, is ravenous. She dives through torrential lead and the deafening seiche of gunfire sound, and goes at the men with her own claws and teeth—she swallows them whole, she rips them in half, she is a beyblade with a chainsaw rim.

All of this is game to her: there's no umming and erring over tactics, no need to mind her step. Each man is a doll and she is princess of the playroom. On the other side of the street, her doggy is playing with the dollies too, the same way a dog plays with anything. Even with a hole in his head, Dante is a quick learner: every bullet bites shallower than the one before it. Now they are barely breaching his meat, now they do not clear his fur—and now he is effulgent on the tarmac, bullets melting down into tepid drops of lead. Anyone within six feet of him is dropping to their knees as the air burns right out of their lungs, choking into blissful unconsciousness in the moments before they catch light; while those further away are breathing and thinking, able to feel horror and pain, as the devil-dog's angerflame catches their skin. The guns are too hot to hold, their armor plates as bacon weights against their sizzling flesh; and as they cook to perfection, the hungry hellhound rips on the fattest, juiciest one, bites deep into his skull, and sucks the meat right up out of his neckstump like he were suckin down a crawdad.

When the cutting's done, the hellhounds stand alone among the artfully slain, and meet in the center. In the throes of their wrath and passion their fire has caught three, four, going-on-five different buildings, all named after dead fascists. The fire stops there, at the edge of the place where the wicked is done—for now—as the cosmic beasts once again circle each other. The hole in Dante's head, that was the size of a baseball, is now the size of a quarter.

"What were you saying, before we got interrupted?"

"Me no word good." Dante says, drooling incandescent magma into the street. Passion's heart skipps a beat: he is exactly stupid enough to be adorably fuckable. He’s putting honest, gear-grinding effort into these words; his face was all screwed up in thought. "But...you stinky."

"You charmer."

He is a slave to his nose now, as only a half-dumb hound can be: without a seconds' reservation he presses his snout against her sheath, and his flicking tongue teases her erection halfway to attention; but then he is passed that, up her hips and belly, until he comes to eagerly press his snout against her shaggy armpits and breathe in deep—her pitmusk is that of cthonic fire, as burns in the core of distant worlds. He, the consummate sensate, is moved shamelessly by the scent of her: now he is braced on all fours, humping the air while she holds her arm up high; with every thrust he more tightly tents his pants—now he's got a bulge the size of a saucer, tip of a cosmicanine shaft and sheath poking over his waistband while his sweaty, hairy balls test the inseam of his pants legs. His precious outfit is running up against the demands of his shameless, growing lust—and she really doesn't know which one is going to win.

But she knows what she's rooting for. So she brings her arm down around his muzzle, trapping his snout in her pit, as she caresses his chin, and now Dante's kicking one hindleg in the air while his tail whips up into a firestorm. Soon he tugs away, itchy paws crying out for motion—and she scruffs him, keeping him stuck huffing her scent like a stimming mutt until he keens and digs in his feet and starts protesting in more familiar cadence.

"Let—lemme go, woman, I can't breathe." The hole in his head is down to pinhole sized—now it's closed up and Dante is back in his right mind; though he was so cute she halfway considers cutting another chunk out of him. But only halfway, because the second he straightens himself up he's the picture of suave again—all the more for the basketball bulge testing the front of his pants, which is a change he can't fail to notice. He runs his hands around the balls, twists his shaggy grey thumb around the lip of his foreskin.

"We-he-hell. Ain't that a pleasant surprise. Almost worth the gunshot."

"But do you know how to use it?" Passionflame's meaning is simple, her movement express: she is facing away from him, with her legs spread and her tail up, so that he may behold her ass in its full glory: rippling round cheeks framing a velvety puckered donut that could crush coal into diamonds. He didn't know whether he wanted put his snout or his cock in there more, but she for sure knew which one she wanted: her desire had matured; she had restrained herself for whole entire minutes. Now she was famished. "C'mon puppy dog, mount me!"

He growls, hungrily—sounds like a chainsaw playing the sax, as he shoves his snout up under her tail and huffs it hungrily, desperately, as though he might never get another breath, while his footlong tongue flops out of his mouth and leaps up into her dripping snatch—it spans her lips, wiry and soft and wet, and tests the vestibule. She screams, stomping her foot, but then he is already on from that: an erolinguist wild hunt, he slaps the tongue around her balls, until it rises icarian to brush her glans; and then it is away from her, slithered back inside his mouth, as he rises to mount her from behind.

He throws himself on her as a climber on a great high peak, straddling her planetary rump and grabbing her shaggy shoulders—then, with the certainty of a master setting his chisel, he braces his engorged canine shaft against her pucker, and presses a whole meter of veiny meat inside her. She takes him with the ease of one who has had many prodigious lovers, grunting as he tests her ring. Anchored on her shoulders, he rams himself into her until his hips slap against hers, and machine-gun humps her until the wall cracks, and the burning building starts to crash down around them in climactic falls of masonry; but here he is at his limit, for his cock is only a cock—while Passionflame's insides hold a galaxy of hunger. This little puppy has a long way to go before he can satisfy her; she thinks maybe a little teasing.

"Hey, puppy." She croons, raising her voice over the crackling flame—the whining steal and the roar of low-flying news choppers. "I can hardly feel ya back there."

"You feel this?"

Howling, Dante open-paw spanks her—her rolling cheeks set off the Richter scale and and the shockwave stretches across the street, powdering he digs his claws into the ground, toes curling as the first load of molten cum pours out of him, and his knot begins to swell—he doesn't even dream of pulling out, and she gives him points for that: it makes her fire rise and her heart beat faster, but he's no closer to filling her: he doesn't want it bad enough—even after all this, he's just a puppy, and her ambition is cosmic. What he needs is a passionate occasion: something to take his man's libido and fashion it into the wild, desperate, reverberantly loving lust of stars.

"Tell ya what, puppy. Let's play a game. Every time you bust, but I don't, I change...one thing about your world." She points a finger up towards the deep green night sky; and then she tightens her pucker, milking him like an inside joke. He stomps his feet and screams as he cums another bucketload into her: now his knot is wide enough to catch against her muscles, resist him when he tries to tug out. The only way out is through—and, incidentally, as of right now, anyone born on a Friday has both sets of sex organs.

A hellhound's orgasm is a terrible, splendorous thing: even a matchstick puppy like dante spews buckets, and he's never felt anything like it. His cock twitches and convulses, lightning strikes running down its length, pleasure slurring his thoughts; he is sunk into the softness and warmth and most of all into the prodigious smell of her—she fills up his senses, pulls his attention away from the world as he knew it. He could ask "What things"; he could say "wait, don't do anything crazy"; and he really does consider it, in the space between his second and third orgasms, out of lingering fidelity to the world that birthed him—but when he blows his next load, Passionflame turns all small business owners into cockthirsty bimbo furries, and clear from here to Africa the petite-bourgeoisies are sucking their employees dry in a whole new and exciting way; and Dante, in the throes of his ecstasy, realizes that he frankly does not give a shit.

"You know what—you know what I think?"

He gasps, every breath a labor, eyes hazed with ecstasy. And of course she knows what he thinks, because it's clear as day, in his manic thrusting and in his lolling tongue, in the flames that twine high through the crumbling edifice and arc in vibrant showers through the night up and down wall street—it's as clear as the spice-cabinet musk that rolls off their throbbing dog cocks; and it's clear in the subtler scent of a second bitch, which wafts playful from the shaggy tufts between his legs. But she wants to hear him say it; more than he wants to hear him say her name or feel her cock in his pussy he wants to hear him say it. But not enough to merely let him say it: she will never let him do anything ever again.

"I think—urg...uuuuggoooohgod."

Another load—a pond of it, that could drown a man, but still she milks him, tight lips closed around his swollen knot, and as his pleasure swells his appetite swells with it: the more he cums the more he wants, and the less patience he has for clumsy, simple words: his feelings are massive, radiant things, made for the language of roars and reality-rending bites. The feeling too big to speak comes out of him as a great and terrible bellow that echoes down the street—glass and stone crumble down into powder, as his teeth rake the surface of this dimension's integrity; and as the sound rattles his throat he arches his back, bracing his forepaws on her shoulders, claws tangling up in her fur. He is in touch with runaway desire now—the fire of stars is inside his engine, and he wants more than anything to give this bitch the best dick of her life. She has about half a second to realize that the little hellhound knotted inside her feels a lot bigger all of a sudden—like, way bigger than she was expecting, and she doesn't actually know what's about to happen, and she's about to say "Eyo hold up"—and then he drops a cosmic piledriver of cockmeat on her.

The dick hits like a sledgehammer taped to an atom bomb. It is growing, explosively, out of his lust and love and hate and passion and fear—everything that ever made him bleed red is bleeding into the world, his body becoming a mirror of his emotions, mountains of muscle with a megaton of dogmeat. She feels it in her ribs that were once shadowed oceans, boiling away the cold in her deep places—all while he is cumming climax over climax, and she is rending away the laws of his world in continental sheets: now cars run on corn; now there is a new, worse kind of bowl cut; now food doesn't expire, but college degrees do; and he hasn't one word of thought for any of it, because he is still thrusting, still growing, deepening the bliss the of daisy-chained orgasm. Inside her he is as long as a pillar of heaven and his movements are galactically vast: he trails sonic booms and blazing comets of cum across her yawning emptiness, and she is panting and yapping underneath him, her pleasure quickening with every moment—her thoughts are lightning storms inside her scalp, sparking up out of her into a worldwind even she can't predict: she gasps and they teleport out into the street—she rakes her hindclaw over the earth and the dirt she kicks up turns into a flock of crows.

"Oh fuck—" She stomps her feet so hard that the concrete cracks in Beijing. "Oh fuck—" And in all seven seas the waters are pitching and tossing, great waves of gelatin lifting up freighters and pitching them at an angle, catching the bodies thrown overboard so that they stick out of the surface like lawndarts. Then she tightens and he howls and they knot up spacetime around them, so that when it smooths out again they're back in Times Square, where the whole thing started, where the lights and the sounds and the tourists are beating down on them like a hundred ringing hollow hammers—and in the heat of their passion they shred the world beneath them like two chainsaws fucking on a beanbag. She contracts and the titantrons become portals to strange, pale-shaded places; he thrusts and the late night crowd around him succumbs to his lust—it is a bigger feeling than any they've ever known, and it pulls their minds in its gravity as sure as passionflame's own. Now their bodies are changing with their minds—when he blows his next load the world changes in their image.

The people erupt into splendid shapes, animalistic in as many ways as there are beasts of the earth. The people of timesquare perceive each other anew, with long ears and whipping tails and engorged stanky genitals; and now they are groping each other, sniffing each other, tasting each other's sacred places. In another moment the crossroads of the world becomes a world-historic orgy, where strangers are lifting their tails to each other and kissing each other like lovers and for the first time in as long as anyone can remember nobody's even the least bit scared of anyone else they can see. A cow moos in ecstasy as dogs suckle her sensitive teats; a hyena laughs and laughs as a line of people take turns licking her paws—and in all of it Passionflame is whooping in glee as her loverboy sticks it so far up in her that the dick hits the spot that makes you cum so hard you turn stupid.

"The what?" Passionflame re-reads the narration, only to realize that she's become illiterate. Then her big stinky doggy daddy hooks his arms around her chest and hilts in her so hard that it craters the ground and sends a shockwave rippling down the street and a few dozen people bust their nuts just looking at it, and he bites down on the back of her neck with a dimension-pinching vice grip that could rip through tanks but can't even break her skin, and she's collapsed face-first onto the pavement drooling in blissful satisfaction as he fucks her so hard she feels it in the sparking starfire of her hear and brain, the first dick she's had in at least twelve hours that was actually worth taking: giggling, humping the ground and wagging her tail, the puppy passionflame cries out in orgasm, her cunt clutched tight around him as her cock blows a whole river of candy-pink essence: it spills out in a high-pressure flood, thousands of gallons a second rushing out onto broadway, sweeping up cars and signs and sticky ecstatic furries; and as it quickens to white water she tosses back her head and howls, a krakatoa-call of ecstasy unbound, that signals to each and every living thing: the old world is dead, and the good times are here to stay—let's fuck!

When Passion gets back to the doggy house, her doggy daddy takes her to the stupid puppy containment zone—a sidereal micro-plane where everything is a little softer and all the corners are rounded. Now she's lying splayed out on a squishy bed with about thirty of her favorite stuffies (most of them were never people) watching some easy cartoons: a broadcast of Sonic, from the dimension where Joleel White is a sex icon. She giggles at every joke, alternating hits off her bone-shaped vape and her pacifier-shaped vape. Also the other doggy is still knotted in her and he hasn't quite deflated—but now that his lust is spent, he's just a little puppy again, getting dragged along behind a real hound. He's sulking at the foot of her bed, buried up to his neck in stuffies, taking drags off of her hindpaws and trying to come up with a new name.

His old name didn't survive the universal translation. It was strong enough to hold him for a time but now he is a hound in full: who goes where he will in any guise he likes, and can't be pinned down by the name his parents gave him. He's a series of ideas walking around calling itself a person—same as anyone else—and any ideology needs its own name: you can't call Karate Pacifism, and you can't call this hellhound Dante.

But—he thinks, in between fevered but fruitless attempts to get his knot out of his new daughter's galaxy-crushing snatch—same as the strongest part of the man survived Passionflame's gravity, the strongest part of the name can echo through the new one. He turns it over in his imagination; and from out of the darkness an ultraviolet moniker emerges, neon lights seared across his soul. Infurno. As soon as he thinks it, the name becomes his: Passionflame knows it, as sure as he knows hers. His tail wags back and forth across her drooly snout, while she bats at it with her bappy paws.

" You alright back there, baby girl?" He asks, for like the third time. She gives a hazy-headed thumbs up.

"You know what I think? I think that was a pretty fragile world order, if all it took was a coupla nasty dogs to fuck the whole thing up. So I think that maybe that world can go'head'n fuck itself."

"Uh huuuh." Answers Passionflame, in between licking one of Infurno's ticklish hindpaws like a lollipop; and maybe once he would have tried to muzzle the laughter but now he lets it pour forth in bassoonish vibratto bellows, that roll around the bedroom like a friendly thunder.

"Hey—hey, take it easy back there!"

"Nuh-uh." And he knew that was the only answer he'd get, so he sighed and let it happen. He thought about time—how just a few ugly hours ago he was another random man, and now...well, he supposed nothing had really changed there; he was an old dog who'd learned a few tricks and nothing more. He still had the same angry rebel heart, the same casual swagger, the same dark leather jacket and flatcap stretched over his enormous canine muscles.

Passionflame's senses come back to her a couple hundred relative-years later, which is about how long it ordinarily takes a really good knot to come lose. In all that time the two of them have mostly been watching the tube and snuggling the stuffy collection; but now that they've finally disentangled they both could go for a drink.

"You got a fridge around here, or something?" Infurno kicks a couple centuries' stiffness out of his legs and rolls his shoulders: the bedroom looks humble right now, with high pillows and low lights like you do in his head he was picturing a six-pack of light beer but Passionflame's idea of a drink starts with the stuff that comes in the skull bottles.

"Sure do!" She says, jumping up out of bed and wiping the slobber off her maw. And Passionflame's idea of a fridge is much the same way as her idea of a drink. "It's right over here!" She says, opening a portal to the elemental plane of ice. Howling tempest winds twist into their cozy hotel room, ripping the sheets off the bed and pinning it against the wall as frost forms on the poor plushies' little snouts. Infurno sticks his head through the portal and the snow rushes across his eyes in white rivers while the cold turns his slobber into ice, but he finds just what he's looking for at the end of it: he leans back into the doghouse with a crisp, refreshing bottle of the local brew: HORNY DOGS' BALLSWEAT. The bottle kicks him in the snout when he opens it, but he's gotten familiar enough with the taste over the last few centuries he knows there's barely any ballsweat in there.

"Damn, got a little kick there." He's tasting the Mindkiller Peppers; they give it this tangy aftertaste that people like. "So...Whaddo we do now?"

"You any good at gambling?" From her place by the wardrobe, Passionflame considers getting dressed: bondage leathers, princess dresses, "husband dead under mysterious circumstances" gowns—she can't decide. Maybe she'll just stay naked for the next little while, that's always fun.

He shrugs. "Not really?"

And Passionflame grins wide, her teeth catching the firelight's gleam like a second dawn- she looks at the puppy with a playful hunger, and imagines how good his dogmeat would look between her legs—and how he'd look full of cum. "Oh, perfect. I'll teach you."