"Fetch!"

Petre could not push down the bubble of laughter that tickled his lips. The bulbous black pup leapt into the air and caught his pillow in its blackened maw (Or rather let the pillow sink into its gooey head).

With all the pomp of a poodle, the black blob bounced back to Petre's feet in a cartoonish trot and dropped the pillow (It sort of slid out of its gooey black head) at his feet. While the pup dripped ichor with each step, the black sludge did not stain anything it touched. As if drawn back to the black pup like metal and a magnet, what sludge dripped away always slithered back.

"Good boy," Petre said as he knelt down and picked up the pillow. Even though it had been almost fully submerged in the bulbous black pup, it was not wet.

[ Yip, yip! ]

Like the wet pop of a bubble, the pup voiced its pleasure. At least Petre thought it was pleasure (And since it was his hallucination it seemed like his decision to make).

"I have gone completely insane," Petre said as he watched the bulbous black pup wag its stubby black tail.

Insanity was a curious sensation.

He knew that he should visit a doctor. There was medicine for these kinds of hallucinations, and he had always suspected (Sooner rather than later) that he would either be drugged up or locked up. He had actually moved out of his parent's home for fear of the latter.

"Because I am not crazy even though I do talk to myself," Petre said.

[ Yip, yip! ]

He blinked.

"I was not crazy, anyways," Petre said because the alien dog in-front of him represented a seismic shift in his mental health. "Fetch!"

He threw the pillow and watched the black blob bounce after its arch. Where a normal dog (A real dog) would turn around, the bulbous black pup's head merely withdrew and then reappeared on the other side of its tubby torso. While it had four legs, each ended in a rounded stump, which made its stumbling gait an adorable treat to behold.

"Yeah... I do not see any reason to risk incarceration—because they do lock up the crazies nowadays—over this adorable pup."

Petre smiled to himself, and then jumped in surprise as someone started to thump their fist against the front door.

Bang, boom, doom. He knew only one person (It was a kindness to even call them a person) rude enough to harass his home with such violent noise. On any other day and at any other hour, Petre would have ignored the assault.

But with his chest full of confused anticipation, he went to the entranceway and unlatched the door.

"Hey!" Petre exclaimed as the door swung open. The Landlord had not even waited for Petre to turn the nob.

"Place stinks!" the Landlord said as he shoved his way inside.

He was a small man with a large man's weight. Rail thin, the Landlord could push his way through any obstacle and could not be moved aside without a small forklift (Or the smell of money).

"You!" the Landlord said, and he jabbed Petre in the chest. Such a tiny man, but his wizened fingers stabbed with the force of a jackhammer. "Why are you here?"

"Because I live here," Petre said, rubbing the hurt in his chest. "What are- "

"No, no, no!" the Landlord said, and he wagged the same finger in-front of Petre's face. "You read? You do not know your words? Eviction! E, v, e... v... Viction! You are evicted!"

The Landlord waltzed into Petre's home as if he owned the place (Which he did, but still). He shook his head and cursed under his breath.

"The stink! You make such stink, Petre!"

Petre followed after him into the living room. He glanced around for the bulbous black pup, but it seemed his hallucination did not care for company (Or it could have been that even Petre's subconscious was terrified of the Landlord).

The Landlord came to a stop in-front of the windows, his arms akimbo. Without turning around, he said:

"You leave. You are evicted."

"No," Petre said after his tongue struggled for a retort. "No!"

The Landlord turned around, and Petre took a step back. In the three years he had lived in the Bayksu Flats, he had not once seen the Landlord smile (And what stained the old man's face now was one hell of smile).

"You do not read, so you do not know," the Landlord said. He stalked closer and closer, his smile widening with each step. "You do not leave, the polici come. They break your bones. They broke your eyes. I watch. I laugh. Hah, hah. Or I make you leave now because polici say I can."

Petre's back bumped into the wall, and the Landlord's frail body shook with laughter. The man was so small, but Petre could not envision even the crooked mall cops from the morning taking him on in a fight.

"You leave," the Landlord said. His bony fingers wrapped around Petre's arm like a vice.

"N-no," Petre said. It was all he could do to softly mutter the protest. Pathetic.

"I have you sign papers and then you take... whatever you have out," the Landlord said, and he began towards the door.

"No!" Petre said, but no matter how hard he pulled, he could not free his arm from the Landlord's grip. "This is my home!"

The Landlord only laughed harder as he pulled Petre towards the still open door, towards homelessness, towards death and cold on the streets, towards the stares and derision of passersby.

"Nooo!" Petre shouted, and the room shook with a horrible wail. The noise pierced the eardrum and rattled the brain.

Both Petre and the Landlord whirled about to face the living room as the color drained from their faces.

Because the gooey black mass was furious.

Its limbs had been rounded black balls before. What Petre saw now bore little resemblance to the adorable swollen pup he had played fetch with.

Dozens of stubby black tendrils billowed from its body. The tendrils seemed to buzz in constant annoyance.

The monstrous pup's gooey black body pulsed with swollen veins reminiscent of razor wire mesh.

"What is th- " the Landlord began, but one of the black tendrils exploded towards the two of them with violent purpose. The black vine of ichor wrapped itself around the Landlord's arm and started to smoke.

"Eeeeeee!" the Landlord cried out, and he released Petre.

Or at least that was what Petre thought, but then he noticed the stump of the Landlord's severed arm and that the Landlord's severed hand still clutched his wrist.

Petre and the Landlord shouted in unison. There was a black blur, and the monstrous black mass covered the Landlord's head.

"No!" Petre said before he had time to think. A faint steam rose from the Landlord's covered face. "Stop that!"

The black mass pulsed, as though in surprise, and then slid off the Landlord's face.

The old man scrambled out the still open door, tripping over Petre's new bag without so much as a word, and then disappeared from view.

Petre stood stock-still, huffing and puffing, his thoughts a tumbled mess. He could not even begin to sort out what had happened.

"Hey!" he cried as the black mass tickled his wrist.

He caught a puff of steam and then the bulbous black pup from before was back. Gone were its tendrils and razor mesh veins. As was the Landlord's severed hand.

"You..." Petre pointed a shaky hand at the monstrous mass (Monster suddenly seemed more apt a word than alien).

[ Yip, yip... ]

The same wet pop as before, but it almost sounded mournful.

"You... Good? Good dog?"

Petre looked around his apartment, but there was no sign that the Landlord had even been there. There was no blood. There was no severed hand. Had any of that... even happened? He had been so wholly convinced that this thing was a hallucination after all.

Could all of that have been a hallucination, as well?

[ Yip, yip... ]

Petre shook his head wildly and slammed the front door shut. Maybe he should see a doctor.