Jihye swooped down and grabbed the scissors, but Mokong was faster. He grabbed the doll with his teeth and ran around the corner into the living room.

Jihye and Jihyo exchanged intense glances.

!

Jihyo envisioned Jongkook writhing in his hospital bed, nursing a cut, a burn, a concussion, having just felt the release of sharp pressure against his willy, only for it to be replaced by the sensation of sharp teeth, various bodily excretions, and a tiny but insistent Chihuahua nudging its way into any orifice. How could she have made such a monumental mistake? Why the hell had she insisted on using voodoo?

“You go to the left. I’ll round him up from the right,” Jihye said. Thank God she was a problem solver; Jongkook’s life was at stake.

Both women rounded their respective corner, with Mokong in the middle. The doll flopped, spread eagle, out of both ends of his petite but ferocious mouth. His teeth were like razor wire; Jihyo had been bitten by this little rodent frequently and bore many scars from his attacks. Jongkook had no hope. For Mokong, there was no way out; Jihyo and Jihye had come for the doll he now considered to be his. It was like a confrontation in a spaghetti western, and Jihyo could tell from the malevolent look on that little bastard’s face that he wasn’t going to admit defeat until the doll was nothing but scraps of red felt entwined in black wool; he’d go down in a blaze of voodoo glory before he’d surrender.

“Shhhh, don’t freak him out,” Jihye whispered, crouching down and smiling at the little er.

Jihyo followed suit. “Sweet little Mokong,” she purred.

The doll's midsection was bit by Mokong's teeth as he roared and hissed. Jihyo pictured Jongkook hunched over in agony, with medics scrambling to identify the cause but failing to do so before it was too late.

Her head was being crushed inside of her own skull by a developing migraine. Although her muscles were tenser than rock, she set her chin forth; Jongkook was not going to die today. No damn way.

Mokong glanced at both women, spun around, and hid behind the cream leather couch, which was inaccessible. Mokong dropped the doll to the floor as Jihye and Jihyo sprinted to each side of the couch. He turned his head to face them. They cast downward glances at him. The situation was tense.

“Pull the couch forward,” Jihye muttered. “Slowly.”

Inch by inch, the couch was moved forward. Mokong retreated behind the doll and stamped his paws on its shoulders, pinning it to the ground by its rear end.

Jihye's eyes expanded and formed a perfect O. Jihyo was aware that her expression mirrored that of her sister; their simultaneous gasp broke the silence. Mokong squinted, bit the back of the doll's shoulders, and his hips back and forth into the doll's rear end with such ual fervor that John C. Holmes would have been pleased. He worked the doll properly, grunting and wheezing like an emphysema-ridden Neanderthal, the head of the doll flailing in time with each violent .

Jihye’s hand covered . Jihyo was unable to talk, and without warning, launched herself on Mokong, wrapping her fingers over his shoulders. He was not going to get away this time. Mokong barked at her and attacked her fingers. She endured every single snap, rip, and nip he had to give, but she was not letting go. On the other hand, Mokong continued to hump like thunder till Jihyo got to her knees and Jihye was able to extricate the doll from his mouth. Jihyo dropped Mokong, who fled away, and concentrated her attention on the doll.

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