Teeth flashing fragments of marrow and fur and skin and anything else the little devil managed to self-mutilate in blissful stupidity, Lok’s right-most, most-hated brother had managed to wrangle the iron cone preventing this sort of thing off his head. Again.

“Ouch! Hey! Could you quit it over there, buddy?” Lok hollered as any cerberus whose other third was mutilating their shared vessel would, “We all feel it when you gnash at the stitches, Jok!”

Kok, stuck in the middle, as always, jibed in his two cents: “Well, I don’t want to say I necessarily agree with Lok…” (the mediator between two extremes, Kok had become accustomed to using such qualified, nuanced neutrality) “…but…”

“Aw fuck, Kok!” Lok screamed with agony, “He’s killing us here!”

“Well—” Kok started to mumble, again, before Lok knocked Kok’s canine crown into Jok, newton cradle style, to end the utter insanity.

“Sometimes he just can’t control that big mouth of his…” And, 1/3 a cerberus stopped, Lok began to re-stitch and repair…