Snack, snack, snack, snack
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"That's my good boy," Laqueesha said while rubbing the puppy's ears.
He would grow into a big, bright, and brave canine. She just loved the short time a dog spent as a puppy. His ears were already pointing up strongly, and his eyes. Those two brown eyes looked right into your soul. This was going to become one special dog. That was for sure.
"We need to come up with a suitable name. You can't just be my 'Good Boy' forever.
Let's see, and there is that white spot on your chest. How about we call you Spot?
The puppy ignored her mumbling.
"No, Spot just won't due. It's so dull and expected.
Fido? No, that's overused too. I'll keep thinking of a name for you.
You've been a good boy. Want a snack?"
Instantly the puppy's ears twitched. The word snack had stimulated him. His mouth was salivating. Soon he would have tender morsels of some meaty or sweetly flavored treat. He became excited, prancing, jumping, zooming about.
"Snack, snack, snack, snack." He couldn't control himself. He was so excited.
Laqueesha instantly became dizzy. The emotional tizzy the puppy had gotten himself into was contagious. She could feel the puppy's desperate need for a snack. Laqueesha suddenly felt the urge to snack-snack herself. She felt incredibly hungry for hotdogs and cookies. The desire had just enveloped her from out of nowhere. She would have to have hotdogs and macaroons for lunch.
She pulled a meaty treat from her apron and told the puppy to sit. Immediately he jumped up at her legs. The focus and target was the snack in her hand. Laqueesha felt the emotional intensity emanating from the little pup.
"Wait a minute, you little snackler!" She said, followed by
"Oh, Snackler! That's just perfect for you," and the name had taken firm hold and been cemented into the genetically modified French bulldog.
This little pup would grow up to be her Snackler. There had never been a dog like him. Laqueesha felt an incredible bond of love for him. She had that feeling with other dogs, but this one. He was only a puppy, but he seemed to perceive the thoughts in her heart. Snackler was going to be her good boy for a long time.
The cat licked her claws and watched the soldiers file by. These men, boys actually, would all be dead soon. She wouldn't be playing a part in their individual deaths, but time would consume them, and likely, judging by the state of this war, that would be fairly soon.
The blood flecks were gone from her claws, and she moved from her perch. She had lounged on a window sill, but with a hop and a shake, she headed down the alleyway towards the waiting ruby-red doorway that awaited her. It didn't actually wait for her. The red beam would not wait for anyone. It was her ride from this battlefield and back to Ahriman's ship. There was the beam right behind the dumpster. The fat rats underneath the container were lucky. Today was not their day to be Snowbell's dinner. She pounced once, frightening the little morsels for fun, then she made her way into the light.
Her mission had been completed days previously with the death of a young woman. She had been sweet and pure. The cat had nibbled at her, taking several raspy, bloody licks until she was satisfied. She was satisfied both with the death of the young lady and also with her flavor in general. Freshness is always best, and her freshness was at its peak since she was still conscious. As she nibbled at her morning snack, she could feel the girl's consciousness become totally delusional until, finally, her soul broke free. It began the journey towards the heat death that awaited it. Kitty had little faith in any afterlife. When she killed, the consciousness of her victim almost always acknowledged her as it left the body. She felt the dissipation of that soul. Soul was the convenient word, but she did not actually believe that any soul was moving on toward a higher realm. She saw them like steam escaping from a body. They were always leaving in a thick smokey condensate. Then after a short time, dissolving into nothingness.
"Poof, and that's all there is to it." Snowbell thought.
The time it took for the soul's plasma to dissipate varied. Likely it depended on the amount of data that was being erased from existence.
Socrates questioned to educate and sharpen his students' minds. This developed them into great thinkers and leaders.
The good agent questions as well. Unlike Socrates, the good agent questions to sew doubt and confusion. Creating dullards and second guessers, who are useless as leaders. Dullards make good factory workers. Send them to the war. They are useful there. War is good for business. Good agents are hard to find, and Snowbell was one of the best.
"The changes are quickly visible and easily arranged. Deaths don't surprise anyone. You don't need to worry about the misery. We can index it. In fact, we do. It's called the Misery Index. Change, the type of change we work for, is directly related to the Misery Index. The higher the misery level, the more effective our efforts. At the same time, local suffering at any given local time is not our responsibility or obligation to ensure. We can be certain that this suffering improves the energies we put into our missions.
It is important not to be cruel. Cruelty may contribute to suffering, but it tinges on the index with false readings if you feel the need to get your sadistic tendencies fed. This may be the wrong calling for you. I'm sure that Ahriman can arrange another place for you to spend your days.
Our actions will generate substantial suffering. However, you may not see it at work. An act of kindness could be the catalyst to get events moving. We are the change, but we don't always see that change..."
Snowbell closed her eyes, pretending to listen to the dull lecture.
She had an instinctual understanding of the causal sets and hyper-reality that moved local time and space.
The ebony cat stretched her paws, flexing the claws, which unsheathed, sparkled in the bright fluorescent light. The white spot stretching across a third of her head, bleeding into the whiskers on the left side of her head, was the reason for her sickeningly sweet name. Snowbell was not an appropriate name for a killer, but it was her name, and she'd kill anyone that made fun of it.
"Blah blah blah blah." The lecturer finally finished his boring human speech.
The conference room was always bright, and she hated the light of it. Without acknowledging any of the humans in the room, Snowbell leaped to the floor. With her tail like a flag flying tall behind her, she left the conference room and stepped out into the day.