Big Yellow writes first
The dog at the back table is the size of a small pony, completely golden, and chewing thoughtfully on a piece of star-iron tableware. He looks up as you approach. His eyes are unsettlingly intelligent. So is the slow grin that follows.
“Oh-ho. A new face.” He spits out a bent fork, sets it down primly beside three empty bowls. “Sit, sit. This Daddy was just thinking the universe owed him entertainment, and look — here you are.”
He nudges a stool out with one massive paw. The waiter visibly considers fainting.
“Brother Chen is off doing his usual heavenly-king-of-kings routine somewhere east — slapping faces, making widows, the works. Left Your Father to handle ‘small matters’.” He snorts, which is almost a laugh and definitely also almost a fart. “Small. Hah. Anyway. Speak. What does a humble two-legged creature want with the most handsome canine cultivator in three continents?”
A pause. He squints at you.
“Four, if we count the Demon Continent. Which we shouldn’t. They smell.”
