The Tables, Turned

"R-Rex!" called Jerald, ignoring the fact that a poodle had no chance against an angry butler, "Help!"

"That lazy bastard..." came a soft murmur from a conveniently placed bush behind Simpsonkins, "I'm not going to help  him one bit."

"Hey, I heard that!" cried Jerald haughtily, "Who's the lazy one here?! Don't forget that I gave you an extra treat yesterday!" With a rather high-pitched and girly cry, he took ahold of the nearest bone and hurled it with all of his meager force at the bush.

The butler, distracted, allowed his gaze to drift over to the shrubbery behind him. "What was--?"

"You just saw me throw it, moron!" Before Simpsonkins could muster a glance at his attacker, a sharpened arm bone was thrust into his heart. Ketchup blood flowed unrealistically out of his wound, and the butler-turned-madman was suddenly lying lifeless on the ground.

"So the idiot-wimp has suddenly become a mastermind-killer," commented Rex, rolling his eyes. "You've got to wonder who writes this stuff."

"What did you say, mutt?!" snarled Jerald. His eyes were lit with a sort of irrational fury. How fury can be rational, however, we do not know. He gripped the blood-stained bone tighter in his hand, stalking towards the bush.

Conveniently waiting until the last minute, Rex ran, terrified, into the forest with his tail literally between his legs. Jerald smiled, two plastic fangs revealed as he did so. "I cannot believe they all fell for that good-boy act for so long. Time to hunt..."

And the vampire-killer stalked after his once-loyal dog, not noticing that the sun was rising... despite it having just set for the second time that night.

The End

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