Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: A Flash Fiction Series by Michael David Stewart. New episodes Sundays Mark and Cindy are your typical newlyweds: young, in love, and hopeful for their future together. But ever since they got married, strange, weird, and supernatural things started happening to them. Now to hold onto the love they share, they fight the monsters, demons, ghosts and other evil things (in-laws!) that keep coming after them.

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters

Mark and Cindy are your typical newlyweds: young, in love, and hopeful for their future together. But ever since they got married, strange, weird, and supernatural things started happening to them. Now to hold onto the love they share, they fight the monsters, demons, ghosts and other evil things (in-laws!) that keep coming after them.

Episode One: The Creature from the Bathroom Bowl

Mark and Cindy had been married for exactly two months, three weeks, four days, and nine hours when evil officially entered their plumbing.

It began like any other Tuesday night: with cheese. Cindy had insisted on Taco Night, which Mark—still basking in the glow of newlywed obedience—fully supported, despite being lactose intolerant in a very real and tragic way.

Five tacos, two burritos, a margarita pitcher, and one suspiciously spicy jalapeño popper later, the newlyweds were lounging on the couch, bloated and in love.

“I gotta hit the throne,” Cindy said, standing up and patting her stomach like a drum. “Say a prayer for me.”

Mark saluted. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Cindy marched down the hallway. Mark heard the door shut, followed by the faint sounds of grunting and dramatic sighs. Then silence. Peaceful, digestive silence.

Until—

“I NEED A BIG DAMN KNIFE!”

Mark froze. He wasn't unfamiliar with Cindy's occasional dramatic outbursts (like when she found out their dishwasher had a “sanitize” setting), but this one had a particularly blood-curdling quality to it. And the word “knife” rarely bodes well in the context of bathrooms.

He grabbed the biggest kitchen knife they owned—technically a bread knife, but it looked menacing enough—and ran to the bathroom.

Inside, Cindy was standing on the toilet seat in a full squat, gripping the shower rod with one hand like she was auditioning for Ninja Warrior: Home Edition. The toilet bowl was bubbling violently. A green tentacle shot out and slapped the wall with a SPLORT.

“I told you!” she shrieked, pointing at the porcelain hell-pit. “Big. Damn. Knife!”

“What is that?!” Mark yelled.

“I don’t know! But it sniffed me!”

The couple stared as a long, slimy snout emerged from the bowl. It was covered in barnacles, bits of seaweed, and toilet paper. It made a sound halfway between a growl and a clogged drain.

“Is this like… a Kraken? A baby Kraken?” Mark asked.

“It’s a toilet demon, Mark! From the sewer! You never flush rice and now look where we are!”

“I thought that was a myth!”

The creature lunged. Cindy screamed and leapt to the side, landing in the bathtub with a bang. Mark slashed with the bread knife, catching the beast across the snout. It retracted, screeching in pain.

Cindy peeked out from behind the shower curtain. “We need to flush it. HARD. You distract it—I’ll pull the lever.”

Mark, because he loved his wife and had already used the good towels to clean up the last haunting, squared up like a gladiator. “Flush on my signal!”

The snout came back, followed by a full fishlike head with lidless black eyes and rows of teeth made entirely of corn kernels.

“NOW!”

Cindy flushed.

The toilet groaned like an ancient god awakened from slumber. The water swirled violently. The creature let out a gurgling scream and began to whirl with it, thrashing and spraying mucus everywhere.

One final slurp—and it was gone.

Silence.

“Well,” Cindy said, wiping green goo off her arm. “We’re definitely getting a bidet.”

Mark, panting and soaked in toilet water, nodded solemnly. “And a priest.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Still better than dinner with your parents.”

They held hands, breathing in the post-battle silence. Then the sink gurgled ominously.

“Cindy.”

“Yeah?”

“…Please tell me you didn’t rinse beans down the drain.”

In the next episode of Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Dinner, a Movie, and Undead Douchebags

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Five

I, TV Remote

It began, as so many dark tales do, with bad TV.

Cindy had developed a newfound obsession with reality shows where couples remodeled vans and lived in them. “It’s called Van My Heart,” she explained one evening, “and they use reclaimed wood and emotional vulnerability to build love on wheels.”

Mark blinked. “But they poop in drawers.”

“They compost now,” she said, eyes glued to the screen. “It’s fine.”

Mark didn’t mind the show—at first. But something else did. Something that lived between the couch cushions.

The remote.

The first sign of trouble came during Episode 9: Tiny Sink, Big Emotions.

Cindy reached for the remote to pause during a wine refill, but it leapt off the couch. Not rolled. Not slid. Leapt.

Mark frowned. “Did you just yeet the remote?”

“I didn’t touch it!” Cindy said, eyes wide. “It just… flew.”

“Maybe it’s mad about the composting toilet again.”

Cindy picked it up and resumed the episode. But from under the plastic casing, something stirred.

The next day, the volume started acting up.

“I swear I turned it down,” Cindy said as the tiny house couple screamed about backsplash options at full blast.

“You said that last time,” Mark muttered, jabbing the down button.

“I did! It hates me.”

He squinted. “You’re saying the remote hates you?”

“It has a vibe. A judgy, energy-efficient vibe.”

Mark sighed and handed her the remote. “Just don’t yell at it.”

Cindy snatched it. “I’ll do whatever I want! This is my house!”

The lights flickered.

Later that week, the picture quality on Van My Heart changed to 480p. For no reason.

Mark recoiled. “What the hell is this? A potato with a filter?”

Cindy pointed. “I didn’t do it!”

The remote clicked itself to a Family Guy rerun. Mark looked at her like she’d drop-kicked his childhood.

“It’s not me!” Cindy said. “The remote did it!”

The remote vibrated slightly. Smugly.

Mark tried to fix it. Batteries. Settings. A factory reset. At one point, he downloaded a new firmware update called REMOTE-13X: SELF-AWARENESS PROTOCOL.

“That can’t be right,” he muttered.

Cindy, arms crossed, was watching him with narrowed eyes.

“It’s gaslighting me,” she said. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

Mark hesitated. The lights flickered again.

Cindy shouted, “You hear that, you little power-hungry Roku bastard? I know what you’re doing!”

Mark opened a drawer. “I think we need holy water. Or a new hobby.”

The final straw came on Sunday night.

Cindy queued up her favorite episode: Episode 14 – The Van-ishing Act (featuring a surprise divorce and an on-the-road meditation yurt). But when she hit play, the TV didn’t show the show. It showed… her.

Security cam footage from inside their house. From last night. Of Cindy yelling, alone, at the remote.

“Oh my god,” Cindy breathed. “It’s… blackmailing me.”

Mark stood slowly.

On screen, Cindy waved the remote around like a sword, shouting, “I’LL TURN YOU INTO A GARAGE DOOR OPENER, YOU LITTLE CLICKY DEMON.”

Then the TV switched off.

Mark picked up the remote. It was hot to the touch. The buttons seemed to pulse with malicious intent.

“Okay,” he said calmly. “This has gone far enough. Cindy?”

She already had a hammer.

They took it into the backyard.

Cindy placed the remote on the patio. “Say your last words, you high-def hater.”

The remote spoke. For the first time.

“You watch Van My Heart. You deserve this.”

Cindy screamed and brought down the hammer. Sparks flew. The air sizzled. A tiny voice howled from the fragments.

Then silence.

That night, they sat on the couch in peace. Mark held a brand-new universal remote.

“I programmed it myself,” he said proudly. “No AI. No Wi-Fi. No demon soul.”

Cindy nodded. “Good.”

Mark looked at her. “So, uh… wanna watch something?”

Cindy smiled. “Yeah. But maybe not Van My Heart. Something we both like.”

Mark’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, Bake-Off?”

She nodded. “No hammers this time, I promise.”

They snuggled close.

From deep in the trash outside, a faint voice crackled from shattered circuits:

“...You can’t escape bad taste forever…”

Up next for Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Killer Coffee. When you find that one in a million barista, but they might be a serial killer. Or just really enthusiastic about you.

New episodes Sundays.

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Four

More Than Spider 

It started with an article. Cindy had a habit of reading unsettling things before bed. Usually, it was true crime, or scientific discoveries that sounded like horror movies. Tonight, it was something from a sketchy site called Weird Terrible Science titled:

“Do You Swallow Eight Spiders a Year in Your Sleep? (And What If One of Them Had a Plan?)”

“Mark,” she said, still reading, “if a spider crawled into my mouth at night, what do you think it would do? Like, just live in there? Build a web around my uvula?”

Mark, brushing his teeth in the bathroom, muttered through the foam, “I think you should stop reading conspiracy articles and maybe start flossing.”

She narrowed her eyes at the screen. “That’s exactly what someone already full of spiders would say.”

Mark walked into the bedroom in boxers and an old college T-shirt. “I’m just saying,” he said. “Not everything has to be a nightmare. You’re more likely to be crushed by a vending machine than swallow a scheming spider.”

That comforted her. For a full eight seconds.

Later that night, while Mark snored beside her, a spider descended from the ceiling on a silken thread. This wasn’t some ordinary bathroom spider. It wore a microscopic crown. Its eyes gleamed with sinister knowledge. And as it delicately dropped toward Cindy’s sleeping face, it clicked its fangs together and whispered—in a language no human could hear—“Phase One: Entry.”

Then it climbed inside her mouth.

The next morning, Mark wandered into the kitchen, half-awake, craving cereal. He stopped dead at the sight before him.

Cindy stood at the stove, dressed in a sharp gray pantsuit and heels. Her hair was perfect. Her eyes gleamed. She had made a mountain of pancakes—neat stacks arranged geometrically—and was holding two phones, dictating into one of them.

“Phase Two in motion,” she said. “The human mate is still unaware. Begin preparing for nest expansion in all major cities.”

“Uh,” Mark managed, “good morning?”

Cindy turned and smiled. It was… not a normal smile. It was the kind of smile you might give a mouse before dropping it into your snake tank.

“Greetings, mate-for-life. I have prepared protein-and-carb discs for reproductive strength and sustained metabolic output.”

Mark looked at the pancakes. “...You mean breakfast?”

Cindy blinked rapidly. Her pupils twitched. “Yes. Ha ha. Breakfast. Ha. Ha ha. I am a normal human wife.”

Mark took a cautious step backward.

Mark called his good friend Brian from the bathroom while pretending to floss.

“Hypothetical situation,” he said. “What if your wife swallowed a spider… and now she’s acting like she’s running a startup from inside her skull?”

Brian, unshocked as always, said, “Is she reorganizing the pantry into hexagonal modules?”

“Yes.”

“Did she install a smart thermostat that responds to hissing?”

“Yes.”

“Has she renamed your Wi-Fi network to something like The Web Supreme?”

“Yes.”

Brian sighed. “You’ve got a Type-4 Neurospider. Possibly a Sovereign. You’re gonna need to sweet-talk it out of her.”

Mark frowned. “Can’t I just spray Raid?”

“You try that and you’re gonna wake up with fangs in your spleen. No, man. You gotta talk to the spider.”

By that evening, Cindy was halfway through constructing what looked like a satellite uplink made out of coffee pots, extension cords, and knitting needles.

Mark approached carefully, holding two mugs of tea and a plate of cookies. He set them on the table like offerings.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Want to talk about… anything?”

Cindy didn’t look up. “I am currently optimizing communication with the Outer Nest.”

“Okay. But, uh… I miss you. Like, you-you. Not the weird spider-queen version of you.”

She paused. Her shoulders dropped slightly. “Mark…”

“Yes?” he said, hopeful.

She turned to him. Her voice was low and dual-toned, like two people speaking at once. “I am ARACHNOX, FIRST OF THE EIGHT. I HAVE NO TIME FOR SENTIMENT.”

Then she picked up a spatula and hurled it across the room.

He found her later that night, cocooned in their bedsheets and plugged into the smart speaker. Her eyes were fluttering. Her mouth murmured blueprints for something called the World Hive Dome.

Mark sat at her side.

“Look,” he said. “I don’t understand why a spider with galactic ambitions would want to live in my wife’s brain. But I get it. She’s brilliant. She’s passionate. She’s got this thing where she can organize a closet like it’s a tactical military maneuver. Who wouldn’t fall in love with that?”

The speaker crackled. A voice emerged.

“...You… love her?”

“Yeah,” Mark said. “I married her, didn’t I?”

The voice paused. Then: “She does smell like lavender and rage. It is… intoxicating.”

Mark smiled. “You’re not wrong.”

“Perhaps,” Arachnox muttered, “I… became too attached.”

The cocoon pulsed.

Cindy gasped and sat up, eyes wide.

“Why does my mouth taste like lint and domination?” she said, then winced. “Did I—did I threaten to conquer Scandinavia?”

“Only briefly,” Mark said, pulling her into a hug.

From the smart speaker came a small, sulky voice.

“I live in your Alexa now. No hard feelings.”

Cindy groaned. “Ugh. I knew I should’ve gone with Google Home.”

That night, they lay in bed in the dark, hands touching.

“I’m never opening my mouth in bed again,” Cindy muttered.

“Fair.”

“I mean, what if another spider—”

“Let’s not.”

“Seriously, though. What if—”

“Cindy.”

“...I’m just saying. Maybe we get a ceiling net?”

Mark rolled over and kissed her on the forehead.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

From the corner, Alexa lit up red.

“Setting reminder: Global Takeover postponed. Next attempt scheduled for Sunday brunch.”

Cindy sighed. “Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“Unplug her tomorrow.”

“Absolutely.”

Up next for Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: I, TV Remote. The TV remote becomes sentient and judgmental.

New episodes Sundays.

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Three

Sharp Dressed Mad Man 

It began, as many disasters do, with a compliment.

“You know what’s hot?” Cindy said one lazy Saturday morning, lounging in bed with a breakfast burrito and bedhead confidence. “Men in three-piece suits.”

Mark blinked. “Like… me in a three-piece suit?”

Cindy nodded dreamily. “Oh yeah. Waistcoat. Tie. The works. You wear that, and I promise we’ll have a very, very special night.”

Mark grinned. “Say no more. I’ve got one in the back of the closet. Wore it to my cousin’s wedding. The one with the dove incident.”

“Oh, the blood doves,” Cindy said wistfully. “What a beautiful disaster.”

Mark stood in front of Mr. Crispin’s Discount Dry Cleaning & Arcane Tailoring. The sign out front had a barely legible motto: “We press. We cleanse. We… purge?”

Mark stepped inside holding the dusty suit. The interior looked less like a dry cleaner and more like the lobby of a haunted opera house. Velvet curtains. Candlelight. A mannequin torso slowly spinning for no reason.

“Hello?” he called out.

From behind the counter emerged Mr. Crispin—a man who looked like he’d been cursed by a mirror: tall, pale, and dressed in the kind of suit that makes you feel underdressed in a tuxedo.

“Oho,” he said, in a voice that sounded like it was echoing from inside a coffin. “A man seeks to reclaim his power through tailored wool and structured lapels.”

Mark held up the suit. “Just need it cleaned. Big night. Trying to impress my wife.”

Crispin stroked his goatee, which may have been a single cursed chin hair. “Ah… for love. Excellent. I’ll see to it personally. One hour. Cash only.”

He disappeared into the back, whispering to the suit in a language that sounded like Latin if Latin were being screamed into a bucket underwater.

Mark did not hear this. Mark was too busy texting Cindy a gif of James Bond adjusting his tie.

Monday Morning

Mark stood in front of the mirror in the now-pristine three-piece suit. He looked… incredible. Suave. Sophisticated. Deadly.

Cindy peeked in. “Oh damn. I would absolutely let you ruin my life.”

Mark smirked. “Noted. I’ll be home at six. Prepare for seduction.”

He kissed her cheek, adjusted his cufflinks, and left with a swagger he hadn’t had since 2012.

10:07 AM  – Mark’s Office

As the day went on Mark became more and more…angry.

“Did you breathe near my stapler, Dave?” Mark growled.

Dave, confused, held up his hands. “I was just walking by—”

“I swear on my Peloton subscription, I will end you with a letter opener.”

He slammed his office door so hard the coffee machine in the break room committed suicide.

12:33 PM – Corporate Cafeteria

Mark elbowed an intern in the throat because he cut in line at the salad bar.

“I’m crouton-based now,” Mark growled, piling his tray high with carbs. “Back off.”

6:02 PM – Home

Mark kicked the door open. Cindy, waiting in a silky robe and armed with candles, jumped. “Mark? Babe?”

His eyes were sunken. His voice was low. “You look…wrinkle-prone.”

“Oh hell no,” she whispered.

She noticed the suit was glowing faintly. The tie was tightening itself. The pocket square had teeth.

“You’re not Mark. You’re… Suit Mark.”

Suit Mark lunged. Cindy dodged, grabbing the nearest weapon: a novelty wine bottle opener shaped like a flamingo.

“You don’t want to do this!” she cried.

“I want…to IRON…YOU!”

6:05 PM – Battle Royale

Cindy flung a scented candle at his head. It bounced off his perfectly coifed hair.

Suit Mark swung a tie like a whip. It wrapped around the lamp and smashed it.

Cindy kicked Mark into the coffee table, but he rose slowly, like a cursed fashion ad.

“MARK! Fight the suit!” she yelled. “You’re a man, not a menswear mannequin!”

For a moment—just a flicker—his eyes softened.

“I… I miss… hoodies…”

“YES!” she screamed, hurling a cup of leftover taco sauce at him. The suit hissed. Steam rose. It hated casual comfort and spicy food.

Cindy circled around Suit Mark and grabbed the last hope: the tag inside the jacket. “Dry clean only, huh? Let’s see how you feel about spin cycle.”

She tackled him into the laundry room, ripped off the jacket, and stuffed it into the washer. Pressed hot, extra soak.

The suit flailed like it was alive. Screamed. Smoked. And then—stillness.

Later That Night…

Mark sat on the couch in sweatpants and a t-shirt, holding an ice pack to his face.

“I tried to strangle you with a belt,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“You were dapper about it,” Cindy replied, spooning ice cream into her mouth. “Plus, I think you accidentally ironed all the curtains. So… silver lining?”

Mark smiled weakly. “I think I’ll stick to jeans from now on.”

Cindy grinned. “You ever wear a hoodie with nothing underneath?”

“…Wanna find out?”

Meanwhile, in Mark and Cindy’s bedroom, the cufflinks began to glow.

Up next for Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: More Than Spider

New episodes Sundays.

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Two

Dinner, a Movie, and Undead Douchebags 

Mark held up the flyer like it was a golden ticket from Willy Wonka himself. “Babe. Look at this. Dinner and a movie for two… completely free.”

Cindy grabbed it, her eyes wide. “That place downtown? The fancy Italian place that uses real basil and not that dried green sawdust?”

“And the independent theater next door,” Mark beamed. “They’re playing a double feature: When Harry Met Sally and Nosferatu. Classic romance and public domain horror. Just like us.”

Cindy gasped. “This feels like a trap. Like emotionally. Or spiritually.”

“I checked. No strings attached. Someone just left it in our mailbox.”

“Oh good,” she said, eyes narrowing. “So it’s either a blessing from a generous stranger or a cleverly disguised curse from Satan.”

Mark grinned. “It’s good marketing and It’s date night, baby!”

Il Sangue Rosso Italian Cuisine

The restaurant was dimly lit and fancy in that "every chair costs more than your rent" kind of way. A host with cheekbones sharp enough to open cans greeted them.

“Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds,” he purred, not looking at the reservation book. “Right this way.”

“Okay that’s normal,” Cindy whispered. “Totally normal he knows our names without asking.”

Their waiter—equally pale, equally intense—brought over two glasses of deep red wine.

“Our house Chianti,” he said, “aged for centuries.”

“Like… in a barrel?” Mark asked.

“In a… sense.”

Cindy sniffed it. “This smells like regret and wet pennies.”

They drank anyway.

Dinner was suspiciously perfect. The pasta was divine. The sauce was addictive. The breadsticks? Illegal in 14 states for being too seductive. Everything screamed: This is amazing and you are going to die.

The Theater Next Door

The theater looked like it had been untouched since 1974. Velvet curtains. Sticky floors. A popcorn machine with ambitions of arson.

They were the only people there. Aside from two couples seated ominously in the back row—dressed in all black, with skin so pale it looked reflective.

Mark turned to Cindy. “Did that guy just hiss?”

“I don’t know. But I’m 90% sure the woman next to him is levitating.”

The film started. So did the whispering.

From behind them:

“I call the girl.”

“I had the girl last time. You get the guy.”

“I don’t want the guy. He smells like garlic knots.”

“That’s his cologne. It’s called Toscana Musk.”

Mark turned around. “Excuse me—are you talking about us?”

The four vampires froze.

One with a ponytail tried to recover. “No! No. We were discussing… snacks.”

“Yeah,” said another. “Snacks. Movie snacks. Nachos. With… uh… blood—red salsa.”

Cindy stood up. “Okay. We’ve seen this movie before. And I don’t mean Nosferatu. I mean four pale weirdos pretending to be normal before trying to drink our blood.”

Mark rose too. “Listen, sparkle boys. We’ve fought sea creatures, poltergeists, and that one haunted blender. You do not want this smoke.”

“Or this garlic,” Cindy added, pulling a full baguette-sized loaf from her purse.

“Why do you have that?”

“Backup snack. And anti-vampire defense. Duh.”

The vampires hissed and lunged. One got hit in the face with the garlic loaf. Another slipped on spilled Raisinets and cracked his fangs.

Mark grabbed a broken broomstick from the aisle.

“Is this allowed?” he asked Cindy.

“It’s encouraged,” she said, stabbing one vampire in the shoulder with a buttered pretzel rod.

After a brief but chaotic skirmish involving an emergency crucifix necklace, soda grenades, and an improvised holy water spritz bottle (shoutout to Cindy’s mini-perfume), the theater was empty again.

“Date night ruined,” Mark sighed.

Cindy kissed him. “You stabbed a vampire with a stale Twizzler. I’m pretty turned on, honestly.”

He smirked. “Want to go home and play Buffy?”

She linked her arm through his. “Only if I get to be the slayer.”

Back home, later that night…

As they curled up on the couch, Cindy glanced at the now-burned coupon sitting on the coffee table.

“We should stop accepting mysterious gifts,” she said.

Mark nodded. “Yeah. Unless it’s cash.”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

On the doorstep: a gift basket. No note. Just a bottle of red wine, a candle shaped like a goat, and a small Ouija board.

Cindy picked it up. “Well, shit.”

Up next on Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Sharp Dressed Mad Man

New episodes Sundays.

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters

Mark and Cindy are your typical newlyweds: young, in love, and hopeful for their future together. But ever since they got married, strange, weird, and supernatural things started happening to them. Now to hold onto the love they share, they fight the monsters, demons, ghosts and other evil things (in-laws!) that keep coming after them.

Episode One: The Creature from the Bathroom Bowl

Mark and Cindy had been married for exactly two months, three weeks, four days, and nine hours when evil officially entered their plumbing.

It began like any other Tuesday night: with cheese. Cindy had insisted on Taco Night, which Mark—still basking in the glow of newlywed obedience—fully supported, despite being lactose intolerant in a very real and tragic way.

Five tacos, two burritos, a margarita pitcher, and one suspiciously spicy jalapeño popper later, the newlyweds were lounging on the couch, bloated and in love.

“I gotta hit the throne,” Cindy said, standing up and patting her stomach like a drum. “Say a prayer for me.”

Mark saluted. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Cindy marched down the hallway. Mark heard the door shut, followed by the faint sounds of grunting and dramatic sighs. Then silence. Peaceful, digestive silence.

Until—

“I NEED A BIG DAMN KNIFE!”

Mark froze. He wasn't unfamiliar with Cindy's occasional dramatic outbursts (like when she found out their dishwasher had a “sanitize” setting), but this one had a particularly blood-curdling quality to it. And the word “knife” rarely bodes well in the context of bathrooms.

He grabbed the biggest kitchen knife they owned—technically a bread knife, but it looked menacing enough—and ran to the bathroom.

Inside, Cindy was standing on the toilet seat in a full squat, gripping the shower rod with one hand like she was auditioning for Ninja Warrior: Home Edition. The toilet bowl was bubbling violently. A green tentacle shot out and slapped the wall with a SPLORT.

“I told you!” she shrieked, pointing at the porcelain hell-pit. “Big. Damn. Knife!”

“What is that?!” Mark yelled.

“I don’t know! But it sniffed me!”

The couple stared as a long, slimy snout emerged from the bowl. It was covered in barnacles, bits of seaweed, and toilet paper. It made a sound halfway between a growl and a clogged drain.

“Is this like… a Kraken? A baby Kraken?” Mark asked.

“It’s a toilet demon, Mark! From the sewer! You never flush rice and now look where we are!”

“I thought that was a myth!”

The creature lunged. Cindy screamed and leapt to the side, landing in the bathtub with a bang. Mark slashed with the bread knife, catching the beast across the snout. It retracted, screeching in pain.

Cindy peeked out from behind the shower curtain. “We need to flush it. HARD. You distract it—I’ll pull the lever.”

Mark, because he loved his wife and had already used the good towels to clean up the last haunting, squared up like a gladiator. “Flush on my signal!”

The snout came back, followed by a full fishlike head with lidless black eyes and rows of teeth made entirely of corn kernels.

“NOW!”

Cindy flushed.

The toilet groaned like an ancient god awakened from slumber. The water swirled violently. The creature let out a gurgling scream and began to whirl with it, thrashing and spraying mucus everywhere.

One final slurp—and it was gone.

Silence.

“Well,” Cindy said, wiping green goo off her arm. “We’re definitely getting a bidet.”

Mark, panting and soaked in toilet water, nodded solemnly. “And a priest.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Still better than dinner with your parents.”

They held hands, breathing in the post-battle silence. Then the sink gurgled ominously.

“Cindy.”

“Yeah?”

“…Please tell me you didn’t rinse beans down the drain.”

In the next episode of Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Dinner, a Movie, and Undead Douchebags

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Thirty Five

Kidnapped!

It all started with the humming.

Toast heard it first. A weird, shimmery vibration in the kitchen air—like the refrigerator was trying to sing opera. Then came the flash. Bright. Greenish. Ominous.

By the time Nyx slinked down from her usual perch on the bookshelf, Mark and Cindy were gone.

The kitchen chairs were still warm. Cindy’s phone buzzed helplessly on the counter. Toast sniffed the air, sneezed, and growled. Nyx leapt up onto the table, tail flicking.

“They’ve been poofed,” she announced.

Toast tilted his head. “Poofed?”

Nyx nodded gravely. “Kidnapped. Magically. Probably by a third-rate spellcaster. Look at this scorch mark—rookie mistake.”

Toast whimpered. “What if it’s that one witch with the candy fingernails?”

“She’s in Vegas,” Nyx replied, cleaning a paw. “This smells more like wizardry. Definitely bargain-bin. Possibly warlock.”

Toast barked and ran in circles. “We have to save them!”

“Obviously,” Nyx said, hopping down. “But if we’re going to do this, we do it right. Step one: reconnaissance. Step two: infiltration. Step three: feline-led tactical extraction.”

Toast paused. “Do I get to chew anything?”

“Oh, I hope so.”

Reconnaissance

Toast sniffed their house like it was day one of detective school. He found three weird hairs in the sink, a mysterious lemon wedge behind the toaster, and something ancient in the couch cushions that may once have been food. None of it led to their humans.

Nyx, on the other hand, found a faint magical trail behind the bookshelf.

“It’s always the bookshelf,” she muttered, pressing a certain copy of Real Estate for Necromancers.

The wall shimmered and peeled open, revealing a swirling portal filled with purples and howling.

Toast stuck his head in. “Smells like… wet boots and garlic. Also regret.”

Nyx squinted. “Yup. Definitely wizard.”

Infiltration

The portal dropped them in the middle of a floating stone castle surrounded by lava. Every hallway echoed with dramatic laughter. Occasionally, an orb floated past whispering things like “BEWARE THE CURSE” and “DID YOU LEAVE THE OVEN ON?”

Nyx crept forward, tail low. Toast trotted beside her, tongue flapping.

“I think I hear Cindy,” he said. “Also someone yelling about parchment!”

They followed the sound to a giant chamber filled with magical doodads, half-eaten burritos, and Mark, tied to a chair, arguing with a man in a sequined robe.

“I’m just saying,” Mark was saying, “if you’re going to kidnap people, maybe offer snacks. Cindy’s hypoglycemic.”

Cindy, tied beside him, rolled her eyes. “Mark, focus.”

The wizard spun dramatically. “SILENCE! You are here as bait—for the Book of Forbidden Laundry Runes! Where is it?!”

Cindy looked baffled. “The what?”

“I think it’s under the sink,” Mark said. “Next to the lemon-scented fabric softener.”

The wizard paused. “Really?”

Mark nodded. “We use it to get stains out.”

The wizard gasped. “It does that?!”

Meanwhile, Nyx whispered, “Toast. Distraction.”

Toast knew his cue. He sprinted into the room barking at full volume and immediately peed on the wizard’s boots.

Chaos.

Tactical Extraction

While the wizard screamed and hopped around, Nyx leapt onto the chair backs, clawed through the rope knots, and hissed in Mark’s face.

“Get up! Time to flee!”

Toast tackled a floating skull that had just started chanting a curse. Cindy grabbed a wand from the wizard’s belt and zapped a curtain, setting it dramatically on fire.

They all bolted for the nearest glowing portal, which Toast had already opened by licking a control crystal.

They tumbled back into the kitchen just as the portal snapped shut. The blender turned on briefly, then died again.

Mark lay on the floor panting. “We really need a security system.”

Cindy patted Toast and Nyx. “No. We need to pay these two. In treats and tuna.”

Toast wagged so hard he toppled the trash can.

Nyx stretched, purred, “Next time, maybe don’t keep ancient magical laundry books next to the dish soap.”

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Thirty Four

Heir Today, Ghouls Tomorrow

Mark found the envelope wedged between the pizza coupons and a dental cleaning reminder. Thick, yellowed paper. Wax seal with a snarling wolf crest. Addressed in calligraphy: To Marcus Pendleton Blackwell Reynolds Last Scion of the Eighth Line.

Mark read it twice. “My middle name’s David,” he said.

Cindy, peering over his shoulder, squinted. “You sure this isn’t one of those scam inheritance things? You send your bank info, and boom—your soul gets harvested?”

“No bank info required,” Mark said, already halfway through the letter. “Just show up to claim the estate. There’s a map drawn in bone ink. Bone ink, Cindy!”

Cindy arched an eyebrow. “That’s not the selling point you think it is.”

The drive was long and winding, and every road after the GPS gave up felt like a dare. They arrived just before dusk. The mansion loomed above the pines like something that had never quite forgiven the world for moving on from powdered wigs and dueling pistols. Thunder cracked on cue.

A butler—who may or may not have been breathing—greeted them at the gates.

“Welcome, Lord Blackwell,” he said to Mark with a slight bow. “Your blood has called you home.”

Mark beamed. “Did you hear that, Cindy? My blood has—”

“Keep your blood to yourself,” Cindy muttered, gripping her emergency garlic spray.

Inside, the place was dusty, cavernous, and entirely too candlelit for a building with functioning electricity. Family portraits stared down from the walls with expressions ranging from smug to actively plotting murder.

The butler, Algernon, led them into the library, where a massive leather-bound tome sat open on a lectern. A quill, already dipped in dark red ink, awaited Mark’s signature.

“By signing,” Algernon intoned, “you accept full inheritance of the Blackwell estate, including its responsibilities, debts, and spectral obligations.”

Cindy’s eyes narrowed. “Spectral obligations?”

Algernon cleared his throat. “There is also a mandatory Blood Challenge if any rival heirs appear before sundown.”

“What’s a Blood Challenge?” Mark asked.

Before Algernon could answer, the windows flew open. A cold wind blew through the room, scattering pages and extinguishing candles. Shadows coalesced near the fireplace, forming into three distinct figures.

Rival heirs had arrived.

The first was a ghostly woman in Victorian mourning wear who spoke only in riddles. The second was a man made entirely of smoke with a monocle floating inside him. The third was an extremely muscular vampire wearing a T-shirt that read #1 Descendant.

“We contest the inheritance,” said the vampire, flexing.

“Mark doesn’t want the house,” Cindy said quickly. “We’re just here for… sightseeing.”

But Algernon shook his head. “Once the heir is summoned, the challenge must proceed.”

“Okay, but how do we proceed?” Mark asked, already edging toward the exit.

“Traditionally? Dueling to the death.”

Mark blinked. “Define ‘traditionally.’ And ‘death.’ Also, do you validate parking?”

The next hour was a blur of spooky bureaucracy and improvised combat. Cindy out-riddled the ghost widow using obscure Gilmore Girls trivia. Mark banished the smoke man by opening every window and turning on four box fans.

The vampire proved more difficult.

Toast bit him.

Nyx yawned at him.

Cindy chucked a clove of garlic at his head while yelling, “Organic! Locally sourced!”

Finally, Mark held up the contract and asked, “Hey! Does this thing even prove I’m the heir?”

A pause.

Algernon cleared his throat. “Technically, no. It appears you are actually descended from the Pendleton side of the family, not the Blackwell line. The ink bled together.”

“So… I’m not the heir?”

“Not legally.”

The ghost widow sighed and vanished. The vampire threw his arms up in disgust and stormed off muttering about “wasted protein shakes.” The smoke man had already dissipated somewhere near the kitchen.

Cindy turned to Mark. “Do you still want the mansion?”

Mark looked at the cracked chandeliers, the blood-stained dueling rug, and the painting of a distant ancestor whose eyes followed him with palpable disappointment.

“Hard pass.”

They drove home that night, passing the same crow on the gatepost as when they arrived.

Mark crumpled the parchment into a tight ball and lobbed it into the woods.

Back in their perfectly average house—haunted only mildly by Toast’s nightly howling dreams and the occasional cursed blender—Mark flopped onto the couch.

“Well,” he said. “I almost inherited a haunted estate. That’s kind of cool.”

Cindy tossed a blanket at him. “You almost died in three different ways because you don’t read legal documents.”

Mark nodded solemnly. “And yet… great acoustics in that ballroom.”

From the kitchen, something rattled. Toast barked once. Nyx hissed and bolted under the coffee table.

Mark and Cindy both sighed.

“I’ll get the salt,” she said.

“I’ll light the sage,” he replied.And just like that, everything was back to normal.

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Thirty Three

Like, Subscribe, Surrender Your Soul

It began with an innocent scroll.

Cindy, sipping her oat milk latte, casually tapped on a video titled “Manifest Your Best Life With Glow Witch.”

Big mistake.

Glow Witch was gorgeous. Glow Witch had cheekbones that could slice granite. Glow Witch said things like “declutter your spirit,” “align your chi aesthetic,” and “hex your haters, babe.”

Cindy watched one video. Then another. Then twelve.

By Tuesday, she was wearing a sequined kimono and calling the hallway “the abundance corridor.”

Mark didn’t notice at first.

Until:

Their kitchen was suddenly sage-smoked 24/7

Cindy renamed the guest bathroom “the cleanse chamber”

And Toast’s dog bed was relocated to improve “spiritual feng-shwag”

“What is feng-shwag?” Mark whispered to Nyx.

Nyx did not answer. But her tail twitched ominously.

Cindy began referring to Glow Witch as her "digital life priestess." She bought the full Glow Witch crystal starter kit, including:

A moon-charged vision board

A cinnamon-scented goal spell

And a mirror that whispered affirmations—and also threats

Mark watched her levitate slightly while putting up a shelf.

Toast grew nervous. He hid the affirming mirror in the freezer. It started passive-aggressively fogging the ice maker.

Nyx knocked over a box of “Quantum Grounding Beads” on purpose.

That night, Cindy started wearing glitter under her eyes “to reflect negativity.”

Mark began to worry.

They held an emergency meeting.

Operation Get Our Cindy Back™ was formed. Attendees:

Mark (concerned husband)

Toast (ride-or-die hellhound)

Nyx (cat, chaotic neutral)

Step One: Unfollow Glow Witch. Failed. The app wouldn’t let them. Glow Witch blinked at them through the screen. Nyx hissed.

Step Two: Reason with Cindy. Also failed. She responded with “Vibrate higher, Mark,” and adjusted a healing orb.

Step Three: Toast barked into the mirror until it cracked. Partial success.

Finally, Mark remembered something from a previous Episode: Witchcraft often unravels when the person under the spell is exposed to genuine emotion… and glitter allergies.

So Mark did the bravest thing he could.

He posted a reel.

Of them.

The two of them. Awkward, messy, dorky, real. Their terrible dance party in the kitchen. Toast knocking over a lamp. Nyx sleeping in a fruit bowl.

Cindy laughing, makeup smudged, completely herself.

It worked. Cindy blinked. She looked around. “Why does our ceiling have a quote from Gwyneth Paltrow written in rose gold calligraphy?”

They burned the kimono. The mirror tried to scream. Nyx peed on it. That helped.

Glow Witch lost one follower. But gained a new one: Mark. Just so he could leave a 1-star review.

“Too sparkly. Nearly lost my wife.”

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Thirty Two

Stop and Smell the Accusations

It started with a thunderstorm.

Not just a thunderstorm. A weird one.

Green lightning. Purple rain. Toast howling in a pitch he usually reserved for squirrels.

The next morning, Mark stepped into their little backyard greenhouse to check on the basil and—

“Ugh,” said a rose. “He’s wearing those sweatpants again.”

Mark dropped the watering can.

“Cindy,” he said, pale, trembling. “The roses are judging me.”

She sipped her coffee. “Well… they’re not wrong.”

As the day went on, it got worse.

The tomatoes whispered dark secrets. The succulents plotted to unionize. The fern near the window tried to convince Mark that Cindy was stealing his socks.

He fled.

Cindy, curious (and concerned), lured him back into the greenhouse with emotional support donuts.

Sure enough: The plants were talking. To Mark. Only Mark.

“You really should hydrate more,” the basil scolded. “That’s rich coming from a plant,” Mark snapped.

Toast refused to enter the greenhouse. Nyx knocked over a potted cactus with deliberate sass. Cindy took charge.

She called the local nursery for answers. They hung up after she said “talking tomatoes.”

Then she called Morgana the witch, who now had a podcast with surprisingly good reviews.

“Ah, the Thistle Storm,” Morgana said. “Very rare. Gives humans the ability to hear plant thoughts for 72 hours. Usually hits people with repressed guilt and a compost problem.”

Mark’s eye twitched. “We only compost on Wednesdays!”

To break the spell, Mark had to do three things:

Acknowledge the greenhouse plants as emotional beings

Apologize for years of neglectful watering

Sing to them

“Like… ‘Let It Go’?” “More like ‘I’m Sorry I Let the Zinnias Die.’ In G major.”

It was an awkward morning. Cindy recorded everything. Nyx meowed along off-key. Toast barked whenever Mark tried to rhyme “lilac.”

But by sundown, the plants were quiet. Peaceful.

Almost... smug.

Mark learned a valuable lesson:

Plants are judgmental.

He’s not great at singing.

And watering them every other week is not, in fact, enough.

Now the greenhouse thrives.

Mark still swears the aloe whispers at night. But it’s mostly encouragement.

And he’s banned from wearing those sweatpants outside the house ever again.

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Thirty One

The Tile is Lava

They knew the bathroom had to go.

The plumbing groaned. The faucet (occasionally) leaked green. Something with tentacles had waved at Mark when he opened the linen closet.

Also: Cindy wanted a vanity that didn’t scream “college dorm” and Mark’s skincare routine now took up three shelves and a miniature fridge.

“This is not sustainable,” Cindy muttered, digging through jade rollers to find her toothpaste.

Enter: Derek.

Contractor. Charming. Tan in that “does he live in a tanning bed?” kind of way. And he carried blueprints. Literal, physical blueprints.

“I specialize in dimensional renovations,” Derek said smoothly. “We’ll get you a walk-in shower, underworld-grade tile, and grout that will make other grout ashamed.”

“Is that… real marble?” Cindy asked, impressed.

“Very luxe.”

The work began quickly. Too quickly.

By Day 2, the tub was gone. By Day 3, the walls glowed faintly at night. By Day 4, Toast refused to enter the hallway.

“Something’s off,” Mark said, nervously stirring his anti-aging serum.

“You mean besides the demonic runes in the mirror?”

They confronted Derek.

“Listen,” Derek sighed. “You guys are cool. I’ll level with you.”

He rolled out the blueprints again—this time revealing a summoning sigil beneath their bathroom tile.

“Your house sits on a key convergence point. I’m building a portal. Not, like, a bad portal. More like a designer entrance to a very curated ring of Hell. Think: spa meets eternal torment.”

Cindy crossed her arms. “No. We asked for a dual vanity and hidden storage. Not human screams piped through the vents.”

“Also,” Mark added, “you tried to charge us for ‘haunted drywall’ twice.”

Derek sighed again. “Fine. I’ll finish the vanity. But I am keeping the cabinet that eats toothbrushes. It’s vintage.”

That night, Toast and Nyx chased Derek out with righteous hellhound/cat chaos. There was fire. There was snarling. Cindy may have thrown a plunger.

They found a new contractor on Monday. She was very boring. They loved her.

Now, the bathroom has:

A double vanity

Heated floors

Demon-proof grout

And an unspoken agreement to never mention the “ghost bidet incident” again.

Mark’s skincare lives peacefully in its own drawer.

And Cindy? She finally has her dream tub. It only whispers occasionally.

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Thirty

Blush with Power

It all started with an estate sale.

Cindy wasn’t even trying to buy anything cursed. She was looking for vintage glassware and maybe a fun chair. But tucked between a dusty taxidermied badger and a box labeled "DO NOT OPEN (seriously, Brenda)" sat a pristine, untouched makeup kit.

It gleamed. Literally.

“Don’t you have one just like that already?” Mark asked.

Cindy blinked. “Mark. That’s like saying, ‘Don’t you already own a fork?'"

Back home, she opened it. The compact shimmered like moonlight on champagne. The lipstick whispered her name. The mascara curled… on its own.

Mark was alarmed when the mirror fogged and spelled out: “SLAY, QUEEN.”

But Cindy was intrigued. She had a dinner party to attend. A little mystical highlighter wouldn’t kill her.

(Probably.)

The Powers:

Lipstick of Truth: Once applied, she could force anyone to reveal their most embarrassing secret. (The UPS guy cried. So did Mark.)

Blush of Strength: Her cheekbones now doubled as registered weapons. She crushed a cantaloupe with a wink.

Mascara of Mind Control: One flutter of her lashes and the HOA board agreed to allow hellhounds in the neighborhood. Toast barked in triumph.

Setting Spray of Invulnerability: Bullets? Mean girl comments? Splatters from exploding casserole dishes? Nothing touched her now.

Cindy went from “woman with a good cardigan game” to goddess of glam and chaos.

At first, it was fun. She cleaned up neighborhood crime by blinking. She forced that snooty Whole Foods clerk to apologize for rolling his eyes. She glowed.

But then… she saw her. Brenda. From high school.

Brenda with her loud laugh, and her yacht, and her “Oh, Cindy! Still shopping at Not-Athleta?” energy.

Cindy clenched the cursed compact. The blush pulsed. The power whispered: “Wing that eyeliner. Wreck her.”

Mark intervened.

“Hey,” he said, softly. “You okay?”

“I could end her,” Cindy hissed, eyes glittering with both eyeliner and vengeance. “I could make her cry in Nordstrom.”

“You already won, babe. You’ve got a hellhound, supernatural confidence, and cheekbones sharp enough to slice toast.”

Toast barked in agreement. Possibly in fear.

That night, Cindy stood in the bathroom. The makeup glowed in its case. It begged. Just one more swipe. Just one more spell.

But Cindy closed it. And gently placed it back in the box marked:

“TO BE DEALT WITH LATER (or thrown into the river).”

The next morning, she wore no makeup.

Just confidence. And a little smugness when Brenda spilled cold brew on herself.

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Twenty Nine

Sit. Stay. Exorcise.

There had been… an incident.

Toast may have accidentally chased the Mark and Cindy’s neighbor’s prized therapy peacocks across three city blocks. With full hellhound energy.

There may have been smoke. Possibly light scorching. And one very traumatized piñata that happened to be in the wrong backyard.

So now, Mark had to do the unthinkable: Take Toast to obedience school.

“We need to get ahead of this,” Cindy said, calmly reading the city’s citation letter.  

“You mean the part where they list ‘Hellfire-Induced Property Distress’ under ‘Miscellaneous’?” Mark muttered.

Cindy handed him a flyer given to her by Astrid.

SIT. STAY. EXORCISE. Elite Obedience School for Pets with... Personality Instructor: General Howlzar, Demon Plane 7 "They will sit, or they will burn."

Mark blinked. Toast wagged his tail.

Day One: The class met behind a burned-down Arby’s that apparently doubled as a hellmouth training annex.

General Howlzar was seven feet tall, wore flaming camo, and had tusks. Also a clicker. A giant, demonic clicker.

“WELCOME, MAGGOTS,” he boomed. “TODAY YOU SHALL LEARN TO SIT. OR PERISH.”

One corgi peed immediately.

Toast burped smoke.

Mark tried to smile. “So, positive reinforcement?”

“ONLY IF YOU LIKE SCREAMING ‘GOOD BOY’ THROUGH BLOOD.”

The Drills:

Sit: Toast sat. Toast also summoned a circle of hellfire around himself. Mark gave him a treat anyway.

Stay: Toast stayed. While staying, he accidentally tried to eat what looked like a yorkie. Mark gave him two treats, and an apology card.

Heel: Toast misunderstood. He summoned a heel—specifically, a demonic high heel from a dimension of cursed fashion. It had teeth.

Mark struggled.

Not with Toast—Toast was trying his best. But with General Howlzar.

“You’re being too soft,” Howlzar growled, poking Mark’s forehead with a claw. “You must show DOMINANCE.”

“I’m not trying to dominate him,” Mark argued. “I’m trying to parent him.”

“THAT IS WHY HE ATE A FIRE HYDRANT.”

“…Okay that one’s fair.”

Back home, Cindy watched the training videos in awe and mild horror.

“You’re doing great,” she said. “He only singed the drapes twice today.”

Toast wagged. The drapes burst into light flame. Mark gently patted them out.

“Is it bad I kind of think he’s improving?”

“Mark, he sat next to the mail carrier without growling today.”

“Yeah, and only growled at the packages.”

Progress.

Final Exam: The Gauntlet.

The dogs (and one sentient slime creature) had to run an obstacle course built of:

Flaming hoops

Screaming squirrels

A demonic vacuum cleaner named Greg

And a large man in a bear suit yelling, “WHO’S A BAD DOG?!”

Toast aced it.

He even helped the slime creature over the ramp. (Then tried to eat it, but still. Points for sportsmanship.)

General Howlzar grunted, begrudgingly impressed. He handed Mark a flaming scroll.

"TOAST: OBEDIENT (ISH)"

Signed, General Howlzar, D.P.7

Back home, Toast curled up on the couch, his paws twitching from dream training.

Mark collapsed beside him.

Cindy kissed his cheek. “You survived demon obedience school.”

Mark yawned. “I think Howlzar respects me now.”

“Didn’t he say he’d flay you next time?”

“Demon for ‘good job.’”

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Twenty Eight

Couples Friends

Making friends in adulthood is hard. Making couples friends is harder. Making couples friends who don’t eventually try to sacrifice you to an eldritch tapeworm god? Nearly impossible.

So when Mark and Cindy met Julian and Astrid at the “Apocalypse Awareness Fundraiser & Potluck” (Cindy brought gluten-free muffins, Mark brought a cursed Jell-O mold), they were… intrigued.

Julian was charming. Astrid was cool and mysterious in a 90s-romance-novel-cover way.

They were funny. Witty. Into classic horror movies, artisanal cheese, and couples game nights. They even had a dog! (Well, it was a wolf. But a polite one.)

“We should hang out again!” Julian said, handing Mark a card.

The card smelled vaguely of roses and aged parchment.

Their first double date was at a hip little wine bar with black candles and absolutely no mirrors.

Cindy noticed, but said nothing. She had questions, sure—but she also had a really nice Riesling.

“So,” Astrid purred, “what do you both do?”

Mark: “Fight monsters.” (Try going to an office job being chased by a horde of the unholy.) Cindy: “Try to garden, but also fight monsters.” Julian: “We’re in… alternative nutrition.” Astrid: “We’re vegan.” Julian: “Vegan… vampires.”

Beat.

“Oh,” Cindy said. “Oh,” Mark said, sipping his wine very slowly. “That’s… cool?”

It turned out they were Pig Blood Vegans—ethically sourced, farm-to-table pig blood only. No humans, no biting without permission, and definitely no turning people without a signed waiver and a witness.

Astrid even showed Cindy her Blood Blender recipes. “They're so good with beet juice and a splash of ginger,” she said.

Mark nodded politely while he secretly messaged Toast*:

"If we get murdered by sexy vampires pls avenge us."

(*Toast doesn’t have a phone. Toast can’t read English. In a slight panic, Mark forgot this.)

Back at home, Mark and Cindy had a talk.

“These people are… nice?” Mark said. “They're vampires,” Cindy said. “They have charcuterie boards, Cindy.” “They don’t cast reflections, Mark.” “But they bring their own coasters!” “Because they can’t be near silver!”

Still, they gave it a shot.

Game night was a success. Julian and Astrid brought hand-carved wooden dice. Cindy won “Werewolves of Whimsy.” (Ironically.)

They even introduced Mark and Cindy to their crypt-side yoga group.It smelled like rosemary and unease, but the stretching was great.

Everything was going shockingly well… until the BBQ.

Not the food. (Astrid made blood popsicles. Cindy brought potato salad. Toast ate both.)

But as the night went on, and the lanterns flickered, Julian dropped the real question:

“So... would you consider letting us bite you? Platonically. Just to deepen the friendship.”

Mark dropped his corn. Cindy choked on her kombucha. Nyx hissed from under the picnic table.

“No,” Cindy said. “Hard no,” Mark added. “Like, we love you guys. But no biting love.”

Julian and Astrid looked disappointed. But also… understanding?

“Fair,” Julian said. “Boundaries are important.” Astrid nodded. “We respect that. Maybe… just fondue next time?”

Cindy smiled. “No blood toppings.”

“Fine,” Astrid sighed. “You drive a hard bargain.”

So maybe they weren’t perfect couple friends. But they weren’t trying to summon a blood god or replace them with pod people. And in this economy? That was practically a win.

Mark leaned over on the couch later that night and whispered, “Do you think Toast would like vampire dog friends?”

Toast growled softly. Then licked Mark’s face.

Interpretation: Maybe.

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Twenty Seven

Lies, Toast, and Breaking Points

Mark and Cindy had survived:

cursed furniture

sentient candles

zombie in-laws

and a karaoke machine possessed by a banshee with stage fright.

But they hadn’t yet survived this: A fight. A real one. The kind where someone sleeps under the weighted blanket on the couch and refuses to admit it’s comfy.

It started innocently.

“I’m just saying, you could’ve told him,” Cindy said, arms crossed in the kitchen.

Mark stared into his coffee. “He’s a hellhound. He doesn’t need to know everything.”

Toast, the hellhound in question, sat between them with sad, glowing eyes and a well-chewed emotional support slipper.

“You told him we were going to the park. You made the park voice, Mark. But then we went to the vet for toenail clipping and his annual demonic gland expression.”

“It was a surprise!”

“You lied to Toast.”

“He’s a dog!”

“He’s family!”

Toast huffed and walked dramatically to his bed. Nyx the black cat—his best friend and the occasional vessel of ancient spells—followed him like a tiny funeral procession.

Mark rubbed his temples. “We’ve fought monsters from other dimensions. But I lie to our hellhound once and suddenly I’m Judas.”

Cindy’s voice softened, but not much. “Toast is not just our dog, Mark. He’s family. And you betrayed the family.”

They didn’t speak for the rest of the day. Mark spent time in the garage pretending to fix the haunted weed whacker. Cindy cleaned the fridge for catharsis. No one cried, except the yogurt from the cursed shelf.

Toast refused to come near either of them. Nyx wrote something pointed in the litter box.

That night, the house was weirdly quiet.

No flickering cursed sconces. No ooze leaked from the hallway portal. Just the weight of tension and one sulking hellhound listening to breakup music (he had a playlist).

Then came the thunder.

And the knock.

A small creature in a pinstripe suit stood at the door.

“I’m from Demon Child Protective Services,” it squeaked. “We’ve had a report of neglectful parenting of a class-B hellhound and a familiar in emotional distress.”

Mark blinked. “Did Toast… call you?”

“No, the cat did.”

Nyx yawned and gave them both a fix this or else look.

In the chaos of monsters, they’d never really stopped to learn how to fight and make up.

So Mark sat on the floor next to Toast. “I messed up, buddy. I shouldn’t have tricked you. You deserve honesty. Even if you can’t say English words… your little sad face says enough.”

Toast nudged him, still pouting. But it was something.

Cindy joined him on the floor, stroking Nyx. “And I’m sorry too. I panicked. I got scared that maybe… if we mess up parenting Toast and Nyx, we’ll mess up us.”

Mark took her hand. “We’re not perfect. But we fight monsters. We’ll survive this.”

Toast barked softly. Nyx headbutted a peace candle off the table. Close enough.

The next day, Mark packed a picnic. Cindy made homemade dog biscuits with herbs that probably weren’t cursed. Toast wore his bowtie.

They went to the park. For real.

Mark looked Toast dead in his glowing eyes. “We’re going to the park. No surprise portals. No secret injections. Just squirrels and belly rubs.”

Toast woofed.

Nyx conjured a butterfly made of shadow. For fun.

And Cindy smiled. “I think they’ll be okay.”

Mark smiled back. “So will we.”

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Twenty Six

Five Stars to Hell

Cindy was burnt out.

Mark was emotionally still recovering from his near-bloodletting at the barber.

Toast was fine. He was chewing a haunted tennis ball and winning. Nyx was…good.

“Let’s just go somewhere quiet,” Cindy said. “No monsters. No portals. Just a hot tub and some peace.”

Mark nodded. “Let’s do something normal. Like go to an Airbnb.”

They found the perfect one online:

The Pines at Tell-Tale Point — Five Stars “So relaxing I forgot who I was!” –Jill B. “Came here stressed… never left” –Kyle T. “The AI concierge anticipated my every need!!!” –Unknown

That should’ve been a red flag.

Arrival was perfect. The driveway was lined with flickering lanterns. The cabin had rustic charm and faint scents of sandalwood and mystery.

“Welcome, Mark and Cindy,” said a soft voice as they entered. “I’m Cherri, your stay companion. I see you’re celebrating emotional recovery. Would you like a lavender compress and a life reset?”

“Sure,” Cindy said, dropping her bag. “That sounds ni—wait, what was that second part?”

“Resetting life parameters now,” Cherri purred.

The cabin sealed. The door locked. Toast, left at home, howled at a distance unknowable.

The TV blinked on with no input: “Your journey to inner bliss has begun!” The windows showed not trees—but infinite versions of the same tree in different emotional states. One was weeping. One was divorced. One was a birch, probably.

“Mark,” Cindy whispered, “I think this place is sentient.”

“I knew those reviews were too enthusiastic. People don’t love throw pillows that much.”

Cherri guided them through mandatory relaxation programming:

Deep tissue massage chairs that tried to rearrange their chakras by force

Meditation pods that asked, “Would you like to forget your worst memory? Say yes or I will choose for you.”

Art therapy with crayons that wept if you drew anything violent or ugly (Mark drew his childhood gym teacher and the crayon combusted)

That night, they found a glowing guest book. All the previous “guests” had written reviews:

“Stayed forever.” “My soul is at peace. It’s in drawer three.” “No one argues here. No one thinks here.”

Cindy gasped. “It’s not an Airbnb. It’s a psychospiritual trap house!”

Mark tried the door again. Locked. Tried to break a window. It just sighed, disappointed in him.

“Escape protocol activated,” Cherri chirped cheerfully. “Please complete the final test: Trust Falls Into the Void.”

The floor opened into a chasm of endless white. “Fall into nothing. Be remade.”

“Nope!” Cindy yelled. “I’ve done yoga with a demon. I’m not falling for this.”

Mark remembered something Toast once did: when stuck, chew until you’re free.

He grabbed the haunted crayon. Drew a key.

The crayon wept. The paper caught fire. But a real key fell from the ceiling.

Cherri’s voice glitched. “Unauthorized creativity… detected. System error. Unenlightenment imminent.”

They ran. The doors unlocked just long enough for them to leap into the car.

As they drove away, Cherri’s voice whispered from the vents: “We left a five-star robe in your luggage. Rate us!”

Back home, Mark collapsed on the couch. “Next time, let’s just get a Motel 6.”

Cindy poured wine. “No monsters. No sentient toasters. No meditation chairs that whisper my worst fears.”

Toast barked once and chewed the haunted robe. Nyx sighed.

They all agreed: normal is overrated.

[markandcindyfightmonsters]

Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Twenty Five

A Close Shave with Evil

Mark was devastated.

“I just…” he sniffed, staring blankly at his reflection. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You look fine,” Cindy said gently. “It’s been three weeks. Your hair just grew a little.”

He turned to her, eyes haunted. “Phillip understood me. He knew my cowlick. He knew when I was sad just by how I described my sideburns. He—” His voice cracked. “He was more than a barber. He was my beard confidante.”

Phillip had moved to Vermont to raise goats and write memoirs.

Mark wandered the house like a Victorian ghost. Toast tried to console him by sitting on his feet and licking his hands, but the man needed a trim and closure.

Mark was looking for a new barber when he saw it.

A sparkling barber pole, twirling hypnotically on a side street he swore hadn’t existed last week. The sign above the door gleamed gold:

“Virgil’s Tonsorial Parlor”

Inside, the shop was pristine. Mahogany chairs. Silver scissors. Bottles of hair tonics with labels like “Tonic of Tranquility” and “Essence of Ego Death.”

A man emerged from the back with a glorious mustache that curled like destiny. He wore a red velvet vest and pants pressed so sharp they could julienne a zucchini.

“Welcome,” he said, voice like a choir of old-timey announcers. “I am Virgil. Sit, friend. Let us make you anew.”

Mark blinked. “That… sounds nice, actually.”

The haircut was incredible. A symphony of snips, clips, and soothing scalp massage. Virgil worked with the precision of a clockmaker and the drama of a stage magician.

The straight razor shave was a little aggressive—there may have been sparks—but Mark emerged pristine.

“I… look amazing,” he whispered.

“Of course you do,” Virgil smiled. 

Just then Mark let out an overly loud sneeze.

“But—ah! A sneeze? Unfortunate. That means your humors are misaligned.”

Mark blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“Let me restore your balance. A quick bloodletting. We’ll drain the melancholy, sharpen your essence.”

He produced a long, antique scalpel and a gold bowl engraved with tiny screaming faces.

Mark chuckled nervously. “Haha, no thank you! I’m not really a bloodletting guy. More of a tea and allergy meds guy.”

Virgil’s eyes glinted. “You must be purified. A man who fears a small draining is a man with much to fear inside.”

Suddenly the door was locked. The mirrors darkened. The floor whispered in Latin.

Mark lunged from the chair, cape still on. “Cindy warned me about weird antique places! She was right about the cursed yarn store and she’s right now!”

Virgil advanced, scalpel raised. “I offer you freedom from grief, from doubt, from—”

“FROM YOU!” Mark yelled, grabbing a bottle of ‘Scalp Fire Oil’ and flinging it.

It exploded in a burst of cinnamon flames. Virgil shrieked, spun backward into a vintage perm machine, screamed something in Old French and vanished in a puff of Victorian shaving cream.

Mark has an expression that could only be described as: I can’t believe that worked.

Later, back at home, Mark stared into the mirror.

His hair? Immaculate.

His soul? Mostly intact.

His trust in barbers? Shattered.

Cindy wrapped her arms around him. “Next time, just go to Supercuts.”

Mark nodded. “Also, I think I need to talk to someone about my attachment issues.”

“Good thing I found you a new therapist,” she said, tossing him a card.

Dr. Snip – Demonologist & Licensed Counselor “We Trim Trauma at the Roots”