Cops wanted to talk. Reckoned I had something to do with the old man.
‘The guy was wired.’ I lit a cigarette with another. ‘Said his life’s in danger, then blathered on about demons.’
‘Demons?’ The kid took notes.
The old one’s clenched up and pissed.
‘I ignored it,’ I said. ‘Got some drinking in at Eddie’s. Then this chick, she’s shaking right? Seen demons at East Side, she says, where them murders happened.’
‘You didn’t call us?’
‘I needed the drink money,’ I shrugged, ‘so I pay the guy a visit. Landlady’s bleating about the smell. I break down the door.’
‘It was bolted on the inside,’ the kid reads from his book. ‘But no fire.’
‘I’m getting to that, kid.’ I took another drag, the taste made me sick.
‘There was no fire,’ I said, ‘but everything reeked — like burnt meat.’
‘Coroner said his heart burned — to a crisp. How’d you do it!’ The old guy grabbed me.
‘It was a dragon!’
I needed a drink. But the kid’s curious. ‘Dragon?’
‘A wooden dragon. It was on his chest, breathing smoke.’
‘Where’s the dragon?’ the kid said.
‘It flew away. God’s honest truth, the thing grinned and flew away.’
In response to: Sunday Photo Fiction – February 19th 2017
Image credit: A Mixed Bag