If one hypothetically wanted to read your Eldritch Abomination Garfield fic, how would one go about finding it as directly searching for 'garfield' hypothetically does not include the fic?
“They bought it?” Lyman asked as Jon hung up the phone.
“I got the contract,” Jon confirmed, dazed. “I’m — I’m syndicated.”
“You did it, man!” Lyman said, clapping him on the back. Odie barked.
“They’re already thinking about merchandising deals,” Jon continued, staring into space.
“I told you things were going to turn around for you,” Lyman said with a nod. Odie continued barking, making it clear that he was not just trying to be supportive. “Hey, look, I’ve gotta take the dog for a walk. If the alarm goes off while I’m gone, can you take dinner out of the oven?”
“Yeah,” Jon said, with no real conception of what he was agreeing to. He still had not yet finished processing that phone call, the idea that he was going to be paid, consistently, that he was a working cartoonist, that his comics would be in papers. Merchandising deals. Merchandising.
It was not until he heard the door that Jon realized he was alone in the apartment.
From the corner, it growled.
Jon’s heart spasmed; he hadn’t realized it was in the same room. “H—hey,” he said. It would have been a dumb thing to say if it was a normal cat. It was a dumber thing to say under the circumstances. Its eyes glowed red in the shadows. “How are you?” he asked, then winced as the cat growled again. “Heard the good news?” he asked weakly.
MY END OF THE CONTRACT HAS BEEN FULFILLED
It rumbled through his brain like an earthquake, words without words. He covered his ears even though it wouldn’t help. “Yeah, thanks for—”
Jon’s heart spasmed again, overwhelmed with the sense of a hunger not his own. “Right, about that—”
YOU WILL FEED ME it said, words written in blood, thick and hot.
“—yes, I got that, I’m just not really sure what I’m supposed to—”
MEAT and the word throbbed, tore.
UNACCEPTABLE it said in broken bone and jellied marrow.
“I don’t want to stereotype you by assuming you want to eat my roommate—”
YES GIVE ME HIS HEART it said, pulsing, torn flesh.
“—but you can’t eat Lyman.”
I͇̤͜ ̭̩W̨͕̪̠͙I̧̫͍͕̤̥̥̥L̜̜̭͔̪͢L̡͉͍͍͓̣ ͇F̤̜E̤̱̼̩͙̺͢E̥̳̫D̯͚̰ͅ
The glowing eyes moved from the shadows, grew larger, taller. Hellfire, if fire could cast dark instead of light, orange and red, fire and blood. The indistinct shape that might have been a cat became an indistinct shape that might have been a man, large, always large. Jon shrank back as it stretched to fill the room, tried not to look directly at it. Hot breath and sharp teeth against his skin, even though it couldn’t have been, because he was still wearing his jacket.
There was a chiming sound.
“Uh.” Jon swallowed, hard. “Dinner?”
“Yes,” Jon said, “but I don’t know if you can eat people food…”
Garfield sat in the middle of the floor, wide as it was tall. Its gaze was baleful.
“Right. You can eat whatever you want.” Slowly Jon inched around the cat to head toward the kitchen. “I don’t really know what it is, though. It might be… vegan.”
Garfield hissed, the sound of pain, and Jon fled toward the oven.
Jon stopped himself from telling the cat get off the counter. “I think it’s a casserole,” he said, removing the dish to set it on the stove. He gingerly removed the lid, his hands safely wrapped in oven mitts. “Oh. It’s lasagna.”
“It has to cool,” Jon said. Garfield hissed again, and the sound turned Jon’s blood to fiberglass. He backed away, and the cat leapt bodily and entirely into the baked pasta. It did not seem bothered by the fact that the pasta sauce was still bubbling, and Jon tried not to look at the void of its mouth. A black hole rimmed with fangs, an absence of all light, drawing in all that it touched to disappear within.
WHAT IS THIS it asked, and a hellfire paw batted at a stretchy piece of mozzarella.
The cat-shaped thing nodded, still sitting in the dish of lasagna.
“You don’t have cheese in hell?”
“I guess that’s what makes it hell.” If Garfield appreciated this observation, it did not show it. It cracked open its maw again, more lasagna disappearing, and Jon looked away. “That lasagna was supposed to feed us for a week,” he sighed. “How much longer do I need to do this?” he asked.
YOU MUST FEED ME TO SATISFY YOUR HUNGER
Realization dawned. “Wait, but — I thought this was a one-time thing.”
“If you leave, I get fired?”
“So I might still be able to make it on my own.”
DO YOU BELIEVE YOUR SKILL IS ENOUGH TO BRING YOU ALL THAT YOU DESIRE
Jon thought of the portfolio sitting in his room, and sagged. “… no.”
It grew, limbs stretching, claws turning to fingers and then claws again. It sat on the counter like a solid mirage, licking red from its hands.
YOU WILL HAVE RICHES BEYOND YOUR WILDEST DREAMS it said in truffle oil and fur and gold. SO LONG AS I AM FED YOU WILL NEVER KNOW HUNGER
Syndication and merchandising deals and maybe someday a cartoon on television. His signature in every newspaper in every house in the country. In the world, even. He raked his fingers through his curls and tried not to look at its claws.
“I guess I’m stuck with you, then,” Jon said.
It didn’t slide off the counter the way a man would, shifted off like drifting smoke or licking flames, stood and was no shorter. Tall and broad and solid, a weight to its presence as it moved closer. Jon shrank back again as it loomed, and this show of submission seemed to please it. Hot breath and sharp teeth against his skin again, and he shivered.
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