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“Later, if you’re a good boy.”
He growled, but before he could respond, the door flew open.
Mrs. H stood in the doorway, fully decked out in Scottish garb—a plaid skirt, knee-high socks, some kind of elaborate vest that looked like it belonged in a museum, and, of course, a massive apron already covered in flour and something green.
She squinted at us. “Finally!”
Mike opened his mouth, but she pointed a wooden spoon.
“No sass,” she barked. “Inside. Now.”
I chuckled, grabbing Mike’s arm and pulling him inside before she could escalate to more violent means.
The music that slammed into us as we entered the house was almost as chaotic as its owner. The song we entered to was a rousing, borderline incomprehensible Scottish ballad about some poor bastard named McGregor who fought the English and lost both his cattle and wife in the process. The moment that ended, Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now”blared, with Mrs. H singing along—off-key—throwing in random “AYE”s and “LADDIE”s that Freddie Mercury definitely never intended. The bagpipe-heavy funeral dirge that came next sounded like someone had left a wailing cat on top of an accordion.
Mrs. H headbanged along while stirring something that definitely looked suspiciously alive. Mike, watching all of this, leaned over to me and muttered, “This is a fever dream.”
I took a sip of beer she’d shoved into my hand the moment we entered the kitchen, exhaled, and nodded.
Mike sniffed the air, then hesitated. “Uh . . . what exactly are we eating tonight?”
Mrs. H swatted at him with a dish towel. “A proper meal, you ungrateful little shite.”
“That means she won’t tell us until it’s too late.” I leaned in, whispering, “She might not even know what it is herself.”
Mike groaned.
Mrs. H turned back to her disaster of a kitchen, muttering to herself as she stirred something that definitely shouldn’t have been whatever color it was. No food should ever bethatshade of green.
I took a step forward, peering into one of the pots. “Is that meat . . . moving?”
Mrs. H smacked my arm without looking. “Out!”
I raised my hands. “All right, all right.”
At that moment, Homer barreled into the room, a whirlwind of energy, paws skidding across the floor.
Mike immediately stiffened. “No, no, no—”
Too late.
Homer launched at me, front paws hooking around my leg, his eyes burning with a singular purpose.
“HOMER, NO!” Mike shouted.
But the demon dog was already in full hump mode.
Mrs. H cackled.
I sighed. “I hate this dog.”
Mike pried him off, glaring. “This is why you don’t get treats.”
“He’d think they were mating offerings. We’d have to get married or something.”
Homer just panted happily, utterly unrepentant.
Before the situation could get worse, the front door squealed again.