CHAPTER NINE

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!
You want to throw up. You don't know how long you've been staring at this blank page, or when you regained "consciousness."
You've got the slipps, you've got the slipps bad.
Jeffy is shaking you. "Sophie, Christ! Get a fucking grip!" He's shaking you so hard that you're pony tail has come undone and your black hair seems to crystallise in a million intricate sculptures as you pull yourself back into the crazy fucking daydream that is your reality.
The slips were a newly descovered in the last ten or so years, though they likely existed as early as 2012. Ever since technology started altering the human world rapidly enough that people couldn't keep their daydreams in check by crossreferencing them with the basic rules of reality.
There was a time that seeing a flying zombie robot ment you were daydreaming or crazy, and then you could wake up. Now-a-days that might just mean that somebody designed a zombie robot that flies. Pretty much nothing is impossible, which means the only thing to seporate dream from reality is continuity. It can happen to anybody (especially a writer) but it's still embarassing as all hell.
You've calmed down some--at least you're breathing steadily.
"You weren't picking up your cell," said Jeffy. "I let myself in. You were slipping pretty bad huh?"
"What?" All your taxadermied animals are gone. "Oh, no. Not bad," you say. "Sometimes when I'm really into a story."
Jeffy looks at your blank screen. "You look real deep in there." There's a toothpick lolling inbetween Jeffys lips. "Do you slipp like this a lot?"
"Nah," you say a little two quickly. "What's with you fucking pols anyway? Why do you ask so many fucking questions? What are you doing here?"
Jeffy lifts his hands smiling a bit at your tuff-girl act. "I'm just here to check the mutts for bio-tags before you incinerate em'."
You're still dizzy and watching him think you're cute makes you want to spit. "They're in the Bell Jar."
Jeffy smirks and swaggers off, letting his but twitch in those spandex pants--gun, flashlight, and mace hanging from his hips.
You shut off your screen and keyboard, and rub your face.
"Sophie?" calls Jeffy.
"Duchebag?" you call back.
"There aint no muts in here sweety."
You graon and march over and peer into the Bell Jar. He's right. The thing is empty. You turn toward jeffy and jump despite yourself.
It's Doc. He's doubled in size, and you instantly realize what happend to the other dogs. Jeff looks over toward Doc. "Oh, here's one."
Doc sticks out his toungh, sniffing--weighing his options.
"Letts pop this guy in the tank, gas em', and do that autopsy."
You shake my head. "I don't think it's that simple."
"What do you mean?"
Right now you're afraid for Jeffy's life. You also don't want to talk about this stuff in front of Doc for some reason. You hear youself say, "Let's talk someplace else," even though you don't really want to, but you're choices are limited.
Jeffy perkes up emeadately. "How about your place."
You shake your head.
"Why not? Scared somethings going to happen?"
You shake your head. "Racoons."