The air outside the cannibal shanty chilled him refreshingly after all the time spent with rotting corpses in a stuffy basement. The sun shone brightly, making Isaac blink as he opened the rear doors on the cannibal family van. He’d heard Momma say something about “the new meat” and here it lay—a body under a tarp. He pushed back the plastic slightly, just enough to find a wrist with no pulse.

“That’s a shame,” said Jughead from under his arm. “Poor thing probably died completely sober. What a tragedy. You should have a drink in his or her honor. Maybe even a few, considering he or she or they, or whatever, was so, so innocent.”

Isaac had known it was coming. Just not the verbal encouragement to drink but the weird, mental shove he suddenly felt to comply. “So that’s your game,” he said to the jug.

“Hmm? What’s that?” Jughead played dumb. “Did you say you wanted a shot?”

“You create and feed addiction and then make life-threatening suggestions. That’s the only reason you were so pissed at the totem. It overrode your scheme to make the family into self-destructive alcoholics. It had a stronger ability to dominate minds. So, you ended up getting pushed aside.” For the first time since they met Jughead didn’t respond. When it fell silent it became easy to forget the flagon was cognizant and not just pottery. “You may as well fess up Jughead because this subtle psychic power you wield isn’t going to work on me.”

“Fine. Fine. Yes. That’s my game. Don’t pat yourself on the back too much for figuring it out. It’s not like I’m low-key about it. Yes, I take people of low will and dull demeanor and make them dependent on my fine libations. Then eventually, through no real fault of my own, they overdo it and die from various drunken tomfoolery. For example, one time I convinced a bunch of drunken skateboarders to try surfing. In Lake Erie. In December. In the nude. But I was starting to catch on that you may be resistant to my tricks. You like to drink but I can’t seem to magnify your desire for it.”

“No, you can’t. It took me a little while to figure out your angle, but that’s only because the cannibals distracted me.”

“I assumed as much. Well, sadly it appears that our relationship really can’t progress past this point. Your immunity to my domination power kind of negates the very point of my existence. You get what you want, which is free liquor. I don’t get what I want, which is to see you go rocketing through a windshield at high speed after convincing you that seatbelts are a violation of your constitutional rights. This partnership really isn’t equitable. Sooooo, this is kind of like an awkward breakup I know, but you can just leave me here. Eventually some new suckers, I mean companions, will come along and find me. Maybe the police. They’re usually big drinkers.”

“And then you’ll eventually kill them.”

“I don’t kill anyone. I’m a bodiless head. I can’t even blink. But yes, they usually end up dead. Or maimed. Or in jail. But they’ll be happy drunken clams until then.”

Isaac shook his head. “No, leaving you here would be as wasteful as much as it would be irresponsible. I think you need to go with me.”

“What? Why? If I can’t influence you to skip, cartwheel, or moonwalk down the alcoholic road to ruin, then what’s the point?” Jughead asked. Then Isaac’s apparent plan pierced the jug’s narcissism. “Wait a minute. Oh, I get it. You’re going to abuse your immunity to my power and just use me for free booze. That kind of arrangement could go on indefinitely. No, no, no. You dirty son of a bitch. You leave me here. It’s not fair. I may not be able to make you dead, but I can make you miserable. I can be an around-the-clock-asshole. I don’t even sleep. I’ll talk shit twenty-four seven. I’ll ruin every sip you ever take with my horrible personality.”

“I’ve drunk with worse company. Besides, I’m just going to put you in my Everbag. I won’t hear you say a thing. You can scream your jug out in there. I’ll pull you out every so often, fill up my flask or a few glasses and then drop you back in until I need you again.”

“You...how...is there no bottom to the diabolical depths you’d sink to? You’ll just leave me floating in some etheric pocket with the rest of your junk? That’s just a terrible thing to do to someone. In fact, it may be the worst punishment I’ve ever been threatened with, aside from having my soul put in a jug. I mean, hard to compete with that one. But this easily makes you at least the second biggest asshole I’ve ever met.” The disembodied voice lowered to almost a growl. “And I specialize in hanging out with assholes.”

Disregarding the odd threat, Isaac picked it up, pulled the cork with a pop, and proceeded to pour in the last bit of bourbon from his flask. It wasn’t the highest-end stuff, but he could rectify that later. For now, he just wanted to get rid of the domestic beer. “Oooo, much better,” Jughead cooed, in a disturbingly sexual tone. “That’s like a colonic cleansing.” Ignoring that, Isaac swished the jug around and then refilled his flask. Identical bourbon poured out and it flowed until his flask overfilled. Jughead was truly bottomless.

“Look Jug, you’re going in the bag, but I’m willing to work with you on positive reinforcement. If you behave, I’ll let you out more often and for longer periods. You act up, I’ll leave you in there.”

Silence for a minute as it considered the offer, then, “Fuck you! You think you can break me? Bring it on. I just spent six months in a Kentucky cannibal cellar, staring at a pile of pickled toes, and getting the cold shoulder from a goddamn crockpot. I’ve been trapped in this jug for centuries for crimes that I probably committed. I can float around in your purse for decades, no problem. We’ll see who wins this battle of wills.” Isaac opened the bag. “Wait, isn’t the totem in there? I’ll be in there with that turd? Does the bag have little subdivisions? Will I have my own pocket? Or am I going to roommates with a madness-causing totem? Wait. Let’s talk. We can come to some kind of...” Isaac stuffed Jughead in and watched him magically absorb in the lining of the satchel. Then the bag was empty again. And even better, it was quiet.

Isaac sat on the bumper of the van and sipped his flask. The sun shone brightly in the blue sky. Birds chirped in the trees. Conversely, the house before him held a basement of horrors. The van he sat on contained a dead person. An artifact that would drive people to madness floated in his bag.

Moments like these rankled him—the incongruousness of the foul existing within the serene. The world just ticked on, beautifully uncaring, shining its warmth on all the miscreants as well as the innocents.

He tucked the victim’s hand back under the tarp and shut the van doors to keep the wildlife out. He debated doing a sweep of the property and collecting more odds and ends that may prove valuable as spell components but ultimately chose to skip it. The meager value of anything he could hope to find didn’t seem worth subjecting himself to that shithole again.

He headed towards his makeshift campsite and had trudged halfway across the yard when he saw the dogs. The pair appeared at the tree line, made their way through a gap in the barbwire, and plodded languidly towards him. First instinct had him open his satchel, ready to pull Wilma to defend himself. But as the dogs drew nearer, he noted a lack of enthusiasm from them, considering they were violent man-eaters and he stood in the open like free lunch. No growling. No snarling. They never even acknowledged his presence. As they passed him, with lolled, panting tongues, he saw multiple, deep scratches on their muzzles and ears. Whatever trouble Testiculies had led them into, they had clearly had enough of it.

The cat was lying next to the fading heat of Isaac’s briquette fire when he got back. Looking none the worse for wear, he regarded Isaac with his one silver eye and standard annoyance. Isaac felt a measure of gratitude and reached to scratch Testiculies between the ears. The cat responded just as he should have expected—an energetic hiss and a swift paw to his outstretched hand. He sighed with disappointment, but then realized no blood flowed from any of his fingers. “You hit me with retracted claws. That’s a start. We’ll be best buddies any day now. I’m making great, new friends all the time now it seems.”

Maloc’s truck was parked several miles away on a country road. “You coming?” he asked the cat, who replied with another low hiss. He shrugged and started walking.

The cat would catch up. He always did.