Courage The Cowardly Dog Ramses · Full & Official

Courage looked at the house. Muriel was humming inside, unaware. Eustace was probably napping with his mask on. Neither of them had touched the slab. Neither of them remembered the traveling salesman who’d left it last Tuesday, carved with a curse in a language Courage could read perfectly—because fear, he’d long ago learned, is a universal translator.

He screamed. Ran in a tiny circle. Then, trembling whisker by whisker, he marched past the locusts, past the decaying god, and snatched the slab from the yard. He dragged it toward the road, nails squeaking on stone, while Ramses watched with eyes older than Egypt. courage the cowardly dog ramses

Ramses tilted his head—once, like a bird, but wrong, like a statue remembering how to move—and then crumbled into a pyramid of fine gray ash. The locusts became leaves. The sky turned blue again. Courage looked at the house

“Return the slab,” Ramses repeated. The air curdled. The pumpkins in the garden turned to salt. Neither of them had touched the slab

Courage froze mid-step, his morning bone clattering to the porch. Dust swirled in a wind that didn't exist a second ago. The sky above the middle of nowhere had turned the color of old papyrus.