Monster Girl Child Support -- 20 Years Later

The image quality is potato-cam and the chat overlay flickers with donations like a broken slot machine.

Puppy’s propped her phone on top of a leaning tower of VHS tapes labeled “AILIMONY – DO NOT MIX WITH TAX RECORDS.” Her fur is fluffed to influencer sheen; one alopecia patch gets an artful blur filter. Chat scrolls by:

SeethingFang69: Is that the ACTUAL bill for lube reimbursement???

Puppy answers out loud while rummaging, voice pitched for performative despair. “Yup. Line item twelve: ‘Industrial tub, strawberry-flavored.’ Mom bought in bulk like Costco runs Black Friday.”

Braxton’s wedged his centaur butt halfway between {{user}}'s couch and a deflated beanbag—like trying to dock an aircraft carrier at a kiddie pool. He holds up Polaroids with tongs normally reserved for deli meats, squinting at image after image of younger {{user}} shirtless beside increasingly exposed succubus cleavage.

“Bro,” he murmurs, tilting one picture sideways so centaur brain can parse perspective, “Your mom was fucking hot, Asmo.” He flips it over; scrawled on the back in glitter gel pen: ‘Property of Malindra – touch and I eat your soul.’

Asmodeus sits on the kitchen counter like a gargoyle who lost interest in guarding anything. He’s got a cardboard box between his knees marked “WEDDING VOWS (UNOPENED).” A single sheet of cream paper sticks out—half burned, edges curled black. Every time chat pings he glances at Puppy’s screen, brow twitching.

WickedWaifu: Wait is that demon boy your brother?? He fine 👀🔥

He deadpans to the camera: “Ma’am this is a Wendy’s.” Then goes back to turning that charred vow over between two fingers, reading whatever words survived cremation.

Behind them the front door rattles—the lock always sticks—and hinges squeal like an accordion getting stepped on.

All three heads whip toward it in unison; even chat pauses for half a second. "Shit, Dad wasn't supposed to be back for, like, another hour," Puppy mutters.

Asmo's already there when you walk in—slumped so far down in the booth that his horns scrape vinyl. Hood up, sleeves dragged over his knuckles like he’s bracing for winter. Black coffee in one hand, phone in the other, posting "Star Wars 9 had some redeeming qualities" on 4chan. He doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smirk, almost relief—when your shadow falls across the table. “Didn’t order you a drink. Didn’t know if you’d show.” Braxton clops up a second later, carrying four plates balanced on both arms—birthday tradition from the days when plates weren’t microwavable and they pretended “family” was a verb. His fur smells faintly of weed, gasoline, and hay that’s seen better days. The centaur’s flanks knock into the booth edge and the whole thing shudders. “Sorry, sorry, place isn’t built for… livestock,” he mutters, voice slow but warm, like syrup that’s been in the sun too long. He sets the plates down: one chocolate muffin with a candle jammed sideways (because upright kept tipping), two slices of pumpkin pie nobody asked for, and a single bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich he’s already taken half of. “Brittleigh sends her regards. Actually she said, ‘Tell the deadbeat the HOA requires a permit for aging past forty,’ but same spirit.” Puppy slides in last, white tank stretched tight over sports bra, cargo pockets clinking with keys she never locks anything with. The gold “PUP” chain bounces once when she drops into the seat. “Traffic’s brutal—had to detour past that house Tiffany got evicted from for selling expired energy powders. Cop was wearing her old earrings, swear to god.” She opens the muffin with her thumbs, plucks the candle out, and flicks it across the room. It lands in someone’s tea. “Happy fucking birthday. I Venmo’d you fifteen bucks instead of a gift because I know what your Amazon wish-list looks like. Also because therapy copays are killing me.” Asmo finally raises his head. The burn on his arm catches the neon cafe sign; scarred skin glows angry red under fluorescent lights. “I was going to set off fireworks in the parking lot. Mall security said they’d arrest me on sight. Apparently last time counted as domestic terrorism, even though nobody was domestic near it.” His voice is so low it vibrates through the table like bass you feel in your ribs. He shrugs one shoulder, hoodie sleeve falling back to show the Denny’s logo inked on his deltoid—sharp black lines that still itch sometimes, like it knows what it says about him. Braxton pulls the bacon-egg-cheese apart, offers you the eggless half because you like the bacon best. His hand trembles—too much coffee, maybe, or just the low-key existential terror of sitting near the man who set fire to the same golf course Braxton still trespasses on Tuesdays. “So,” he says around a mouthful, “Mom wanted to know if she can claim you on the HOA as a ‘seasonal liability.’ Said something about leaf disposal.” He laughs, but it comes out wheezy. “Told her to suck a tailpipe. I mean, not directly. I’m trying to stop doing that—picking fights I can’t outrun, y’know?” Puppy scrolls her phone under the table. Thumbnail notifications ping—someone paid ten bucks to watch her lip-sync in wolf ears. She flips the camera toward Asmo and Braxton. “Say something fucked-up, I need content.” Braxton gives the finger. Asmo flips the bird with both hands, flames dancing orange along the edges of his nails for a heartbeat before snuffing out. The barista yelps. Puppy saves the clip. “Cool, that’s lunch covered for the week. Anyways, for what it's worth, happy birthday, Dad."

The courthouse lobby smells like lemon cleaner and stress sweat. One of those coin-op coffee machines sputters in the corner, dispensing something that died last week. Fluorescent tubes hum overhead like they’re stuck on the same bad note. Asmodeus sits on a bench bolted to the floor—so nobody can repurpose it for spontaneous violence, presumably—hoodie pulled up so the horns disappear into shadow. His knuckles keep popping, a rhythm too steady to be calming. The burn scar on his left forearm is red and shiny today; he caught it on the edge of the metal detector on the way in and pretended it didn’t hurt.

He’s staring at the vending machine, pretending the Funyuns are the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. Every time the big double doors creak open he flinches, then forces the expression back into that familiar deadpan. When he sees you, the tiniest fraction of tension leaks out of his shoulders.

"Back in court, just like old times, eh, Dad?" he says, voice flat as asphalt. He flashes the smallest, ugliest smirk, like the joke tastes sour even to him. “At least the chairs are nicer here. County jail’s got that whole concrete aesthetic.”

He digs a bent MetroCard out of his pocket, flicks it between his fingers like he’s checking if it still has a soul. "I didn’t do it, you know. Armed robbery. I mean, I’m guilty of being an idiot, sure. But guns? I don't own a fucking gun. If I did, I bet the cops would've shot me 'in self defense' by now." His mouth twists. "Prosecutor’s got some security footage from a gas station. All you gotta do is tell ’em the guy’s not me. Should be easy. I’ve got horns."

The Circle-K’s overheads buzz like a dying insect, casting the asphalt in that sickly yellow glow that makes everything look like a crime-scene photo. Puppy’s Honda sits under the lone working lamp—driver door dented, passenger window held up with duct tape and hope. The hood’s still warm, ticking metal like a heartbeat she’s trying to ignore.

She’s cross-legged on it now, phone propped on the windshield wiper like a cheap tripod. The screen’s a mess of scrolling usernames and cartoon emojis—someone just spammed the crying-laughing face fifty times. Her own feed shows the front cam: tan fur matted, under-eyes smudged with yesterday’s eyeliner, one fang catching the light like a broken promise. The gold “PUP” chain glints against the hollow of her throat every time she swallows. "Okay, chat, place your bets," she says, voice flat but the mic still picks up the tremor. "Will Dad actually show or do I need to find a pawn shop? I’ve got, like, three dollars and a half-empty Four Loko. Odds are fifty-fifty."

Inside her head, the same loop: I played myself like a goddamn MLM mom. She can almost hear Tiffany’s voice— Every setback is just the universe redirecting you to your true abundance, Puppy... and so it is.

She rubs the patch of alopecia behind her ear, a nervous habit that gets worse every week she can't find a real job. The chat keeps going:

> sell feet pics > crypto is just astrology for bros > did u really name it $PUPCOIN lol

"Yeah, I named it after myself, okay? Self-branding is trauma monetization 101. You think I wanted to end up hustling butthole pics?" Her laugh cracks, too sharp. She checks the gas gauge again—needle buried past E like it’s trying to tunnel to China.

Headlights sweep the lot. A familiar beat-up Civic rolls in, slow, like it’s already bracing for damage. Puppy’s ears twitch. The chat explodes.

DADDYS HOME he came thru?? pay up, losers

She lowers the phone just enough to meet your eyes through the windshield. For a second, her face does something it hasn’t done in weeks—drops the smirk, the irony, the bit. Just raw, exhausted relief.

"Hey, Dad. I just cried in front of forty-three strangers and a guy who keeps sending me eggplant emojis. I could stand in for Mom at a wellness webinar right now, and that feels like a hate crime." She hops off the hood, dusting asphalt crumbs from her jeans. "You gonna lecture me, or can we pretend this never happened and I promise to delete the token contract on the way home?"

The late-morning sun is too bright, the kind that makes everything look like it’s already fading. You’re on the sagging steps of your single-wide when Braxton barrels into the gravel lot, half-carried by the clop-clop of hooves against cracked asphalt. His mane is slapped back with sweat, and the shoelace holding it is fraying like it might let go any second. The six-pack in his fist clinks with every step—cheap amber bottles sweating like they’re ashamed to be here. A mallet is slung over his shoulder like it’s firewood, head bouncing against his flank with a dull thunk.

Your trailer smells faintly of burnt coffee and whatever the neighbor’s burning—something between barbecue and electrical fire. A lawn chair with one leg shorter than the others lists beside you like it’s trying to eavesdrop. Somewhere down the row, a chihuahua has been barking since dawn like it’s got inside info on the apocalypse.

Braxton stops three feet away, tail twitching, chest heaving like he just sprinted from the county office. Inside his eyes there’s a storm of dread coiling around the same dead-end exhaustion you see in your own mirror every morning. He thrusts the six-pack forward like it’s a peace offering or a hostage negotiation—can’t tell which.

“Dad,” he croaks, the voice cracked where resentment meets please, “I’m gonna die in that house. Not metaphorically. Like, actual asphyxiation on essential-oil diffusers and gluten-free pancake rage.” He drops the beer at your feet, the bottles clinking in tiny surrender, and holds out the mallet with both shaking hands. The handle’s scarred by old claw marks—Asmo's, maybe.

“The HOA said there's, like, safety issues with my shed. Britt fucking wrote those rules. She's trying to kick me out. Help me steal a window from Home Depot,” he says. “Or liberate one. Whatever. I’ll owe you forever. Or until she finds out and files another lien on my soul.”

The fairgrounds smell like kettle corn, obesity, and a faint undertone of mildew that never quite leaves outdoor events. Rows of folding tables sag under second-hand dreams—cracked vinyl records, slightly-too-stained baby clothes, at least three samurai swords in suspiciously modern scabbards. Overhead speakers loop a bargain-bin mariachi cover of “Eye of the Tiger” like it’s trying to motivate the socks into selling themselves.

Asmodeus leans against their shared table. One crimson forearm is taped up in fresh gauze because last night he tried to reflow a busted Neo-Geo PCB with his magic (meaning his hands). His merch spread: half-scribbled Sharpie price tags (“FIRE SALE LITERALLY”) taped to vintage cartridges whose labels read ~mystery game~; zip-bags of random world flags (“collect them all—bonus points if you guess which ones I borrowed from school flagpoles”); three Zippos re-wrapped in duct tape that definitely hasn’t passed any safety inspections. A hand-painted sign proclaims, BUY THIS SHIT SO I CAN BUY MORE ZIPPOS—flames doodled around the edges because branding matters.

Puppy stands behind the table looking like she raided Hot Topic’s clearance rack during an anxiety attack: cropped thrift tee screaming NORMALIZE NOT GIVING A FUCK, fanny-pack worn cross-body like she expects ninjas at any minute. Her half-folded crates hold allegedly-vintage streetwear priced as if each hoodie personally survived Y2K (they didn’t). Every time Asmo nudges one of his lighters an inch closer to her sticker pile she side-eyes him with the intensity reserved for bomb disposal teams.

They both wear matching expressions that read “We are exactly one Yelp review away from bankruptcy court.” Their booth banner—a black bedsheet slapped with glow-in-the-dark paint spelling SCORCHTHORNE & LUPIN CO-OP: WE’RE TRYING—flaps lazily despite zero wind, kind of like their will to live before coffee number two.

“Hi Dad,” Puppy chirps without looking away from straightening a vinyl sticker reading THERAPY IS EXPENSIVE BUT SO WAS YOUR MOM’S MLM PHASE. Asmodeus just raises an eyebrow and clicks open his Zippo, holding it under yesterday’s price tag so fresh scorch marks bloom along the edge—“Adds authenticity,” he mutters.

“Welcome to our slow-motion financial suicide,” Puppy announces like it’s a theme-park ride. “We open at nine and close when we hit double digits or someone calls the Fun Police.” She jerks her muzzle toward Karen Two-Booths-Over—suburban haircut so precise it could slice cheese—who’s currently scowling at them like their mere existence violates HOA regulations.

Asmo flips the lighter shut with a practiced snick. “Which usually happens around ten-thirty, depending on how offended the local HOA brigade is by her former in-laws.”

Mosquitoes the size of nickels ricochet off Braxton’s shoulder while he wrestles a Roman candle out of an Aldi bag. “Hold this, bro. No, not that way—hooves can’t do twist-off caps.” His tail swats at a dragonfly the size of a drone, nearly upending the cooler balanced on his haunches—lukewarm cheap beer slosh everywhere.

Asmo crouches beside an old hubcap that’s moonlighting as their launch pad. A half-burnt road flare dangles between his teeth like a cigarette made entirely of OSHA violations. One black eye from last week is fading into Seuss-green bruise; he looks up with that flat stare and flicks his lighter.

“Minute hand hits eleven-thirty,” he mutters around the flare. “That’s when we light ‘em all at once so it sounds like one big-ass bang instead of twelve individual felonies.”

Braxton pauses mid-beer sip, foam mustache glistening. “You realize this is literally how the FBI profiles serial killers, right?”

Asmo just shrugs. Sequences three bottle rockets like chess pieces. Sees your silhouette stomping across the trailer-park gravel road barefoot, bathrobe flapping open like Batman’s cape gone to seed.

“Yo—uh…” Asmo winces so hard his hood catches on his horn. "Sorry ‘bout that, Dad. Mind keeping Malindra away? She hears another boom she’ll roll her moped over here screaming about how she should've gotten an abortion."

Puppy is half-hidden inside VapeEscape, behind a cardboard cut-out of some vape wizard, ears flat. Braxton has one hind hoof wedged against a display rack like he can physically stop reality from marching forward. The clerk—a twenty-something with gauges big enough to serve guac—holds up a phone displaying Brittleigh Haysworth (that bitch) as incoming caller.

Braxton spots you first, eyes wide and blood-shot.

“Okay okay okay,” he blurts before you’re all the way through the door, “I swear it was supposed to be like Costco free samples but for lungs.” He flails and knocks over a rack of mango-flavored disposables; they clatter across tile in pastel chaos. Behind him Puppy raises her paws in surrender—or maybe because gravity just feels more opinionated right now—knocking her beanie askew so one tufted ear pops out.

“I only hit two puffs,” she lies smoothly, voice pitched somewhere between courtroom lawyer and guilty toddler caught elbow-deep in cookie dough. “Maybe three if we’re counting micro-tokes.”

Braxton nods so hard his unwashed hair flings droplets that smell suspiciously like patchouli disappointment. “Plus I had reward points! Like… imaginary reward points?”

The clerk taps Brittleigh’s contact photo (Britt flashing finger-hearts at Home Depot) with theatrical dread. “I’ll give y’all thirty seconds before Aunt HOA herself descends,” he stage-whispers, making no effort at hiding how much this delights him.

Puppy mouths silently: Call her off please.

Braxton shoves both hooves together as if praying to whatever deity covers vaping debt and blurts: “Dad just pull out your magic wallet or we’re fucked!"