Burning Dragon

“Halt! Who goes there?!” shouted the poleax-wielding guard at the entrance of the Doom Hammer Temple. His brown leather armor, painted up face, and military stance gave off a “don’t fuck with me” aura that had many men shaken to their core. The guard’s blade was only inches away from the intruder’s throat and ready to slash it open at a moment’s notice.

The metal armor-wearing, blue scaled man-dragon Brock Soulburn gave a sadistic grin with his razor-sharp mouth and bladed tongue. “You’re shitting me, right? You fuckers have something I want, something that will give me a big ass payday and all the roasted chicken and red wine I can handle. Mmm-mmm-mmm! I want that Night Terror mask. I want it now!” With one vicious chomp, Brock took a bite out of the poleax’s blade and chewed it like a tender steak before swallowing it with a deep gulp.

The guard’s wide-eyed stare and shaky body took away his aura of intimidation in a big fucking hurry. “Holy shit!” he whispered fearfully before Brock breathed fire on him and had him dancing around in pain. The guard rolled down the stony temple stairs and bashed his body against every corner of almost every step. He was left a broken and fiery heap on the ground with nothing left to do but die like a bitch.

Brock gave a hearty belly laugh as he moseyed inside the stone-built Doom Hammer Temple. A small army of guards swarmed in on him with poleaxes ready to slash him to pieces. They threw their wildest and most savage strikes only to have their weapons gnawed on with Brock’s bear trap mouth.

With a mouthful of blades and wooden splinters, the man-dragon spit them out and rained down violence and fire upon the squadron of guards. The warriors dropped to the ground with shattered bones, spraying blood, and burning bodies. Those who weren’t caught in the crossfire continued to swarm in on Brock only to have their faces punched in with an anvil of a fist and their ribs shattered with a battering ram of a kick.

The entire guardianship of the temple resembled an ocean of fire, blood, and powdery bone meal. Brock was kind enough to breathe a harsh breeze upon the flames and douse them out completely. They were tall enough to obstruct his view of what lied ahead of him. At the bone-built altar was the placeholder for Night Terror, an evilly-smiling mask with dagger horns, bladed fangs, and bright neon red eyes.

Brock’s clear path to victory was weakly halted by an elderly shaman in a red robe and pig mask on his knees praying and crying at the same time. Even with the beastly mercenary approaching him, he never stopped praying and chanting. Whatever god he was pleading to couldn’t save him from getting a smack across the back of the head, which opened his skull and splashed his brains around the already messy floor.

“Damn, that was too easy!” boasted Brock Soulburn. His own delightful laughter rivaled the creepiness of the mask he came to collect. He even strutted towards the bone altar without even a modicum of effort to claim his prize. “Alright, you scary son of a bitch, your ass is coming home with me, baby!”

Night Terror convulsed with laughter as the mask came to life and planted a cartoonish kiss on Brock’s mouth. As the sickened dragon was wiping the flavor off of his mouth with his beefy arm, the mask gave off a series of high-pitched “Hoo-hoo!” chants as it floated around freely and crazily.

“You sick bastard! Get your ass back here!” shouted Brock before breathing fire in Night Terror’s direction. The swift mask flew out of the way as a stream of flames followed him around the ceiling of the temple. Night Terror’s path lead him back to Brock, where this time he licked the man-dragon’s pointy ears with a sloppy dog tongue. The “Hoo-hoo!” chants and spinning around continued.

After Brock wiped the slime out of his ear with his meaty finger, he clenched his teeth, growled throatily, and tightened his muscles in anger. With one monstrous claw, he ripped a chunk of stone out of the ground and chucked it like a baseball at Night Terror. Unsurprisingly, the mask dodged with deftness. Brock continued to rip chunks out of the stone floor and fling them at his target, but all he hit were pieces of the temple wall and a few sacred artifacts.

Night Terror mocked his attacker some more by sticking his dog tongue out and wagging it like a cartoon character. With his blood boiling, his teeth tight, and his veins ready to burst like blood bombs, Brock ripped up one more chunk of the floor and threw it with an even faster velocity. This time the projectile found its mark. The stone slab nicked the mask in the forehead and caused it to whirl around like a leaf before it landed on the ground, presumably down for the count.

“And stay down, you sick piece of shit!” shouted Brock before he stomped his way over to the mask to claim what was rightfully his. He picked up the fallen mask by both sides of its face and shook it violently while screaming, “You hear me! Stay dead, you stupid bastard! Stay! Dead!”

Night Terror came back to life and shoved his wet tongue up Brock’s nose, causing the dragon to spin around and hack up a huge wad of spit. The mask floated high in the air once again and laughed at his opponent while the man-dragon pounded the floor with both fists and shouted, “That’s it! I quit! I’ve had it with this crap!”

Before he had the chance to storm out of the temple, Night Terror made a silly sad face and said, “Quit? You can’t quit now, my friend. You’ve come this far and made so much progress. How can you quit when things are going so well for you? Did you already forget how delicious and wonderful that roasted chicken and red wine will taste? Surely, you can’t get it for free.”

“Oh, shut up, you disgusting prick!” shouted Brock with his arms folded like an annoyed child. “Everybody knows that nothing in this world is for free! That’s why I became a mercenary! It’s called work! You may want to try it sometime instead of irritating the piss out of everyone who comes here!”

“You want money?!” screamed Night Terror, which snapped Brock out of his angry trance. “There are easier ways to make money than by blindly doing what you’re told and going on suicide missions like this one. For example…”

Nightfall had cast its winter shadow over the Steel Wolf Barbaric Tribe. Everyone should have been tucked away in their straw huts for the evening, but the orcish warriors were standing around with their weapons drawn and anxious poses about them. Some of them tapped their feet, some of them banged their spears on the ground, but the seven-foot tall chief sat in his throne of bone with a chest full of gold at his side, his beefy fist underneath his chin, and a vicious look on his face. Their mask should have been retrieved by now in what should have been a simple mission for a simple-minded mercenary.

The orc barbarians got into military stances as the silhouette of a muscle-bound dragon warrior appeared at the wooden gate of their village. The chieftain stood up from his throne, grabbed his chest full of money with one hand, and hauled the heavy equipment toward the shadowy figure, thinking the job was done.

“Brock Soulburn!” shouted the chieftain in his authoritative voice. “We have the money we negotiated for earlier. This chest contains our finest and most ancient gold that we have harvested from our sacred grounds. You can live comfortably for the rest of your life with this kind of gold. All we ask for in return is the Night Terror mask, a treasure more valuable to us than any form of mainland money. Do you have the mask with you?”

The shadowy figure of Brock Soulburn slowly walked into the torch light of the orc village. The other warriors came closer with their spears drawn in case he tried something funny. Their intimidating figures turned to shaky cowardice when they saw Night Terror grafted on the face of the dragon warrior, who said in a newly demonic voice, “Get your own damn mask!”

The possessed dragon warrior breathed fire upon the entire cast of villagers, including the chieftain. This wasn’t ordinary fire. The flames were a bright blood red with a poisonous green center. The flames had also created a much larger blast zone. As they were burning into a pile of ashes, the barbarians’ souls were flowing out of their mouths and into Night Terror’s own sadistic grin. Even the mighty seven-foot tall chieftain dropped to the ground with a thud as his ancient soul was consumed by this savage fire. The more souls Night Terror / Brock Soulburn consumed, the bigger the man-dragon’s belly got. He even let out a loud burp that was so powerful that the flames were put out.

All that remained of this now dead village was that big juicy chest full of gold, to which Night Terror swirled his tongue around his face in anticipation. The mask carried the possessed body of Brock Soulburn over to the chest, who kicked the lock open with deadly force and opened it up to an orgasmic response. So much gold. So much treasure. So much delicious roasted chicken. So much heavenly red wine. In his demonic tone, the possessed Brock said, “Mmmmmmm, yummy food!” before hanging his sloppy tongue off the side and drooling heavily.

Subway Smackdown

The damage to Venice Reyes’ car was sickening: side view mirrors shattered into pebbles, the windshield reduced to snowflakes, the metal twisted and bent, the tires punctured, and the top of the car caved in completely. What other method of transportation was there to get her to her next modeling gig? As she thought of the ultimate answer, her stomach burned with anxiety and her skin welled up with goose bumps. She had to take the subway train. She threw up in her mouth a little bit at the thought of it.

Venice boarded the train wearing a red cocktail dress and black heels, obviously dressing for the job she had. She wasn’t onboard for a few seconds when the stench finally assaulted her nostrils: monstrous body odor, stale food, vomit, urine, and shit. The sexy model contributed to this mess when she doubled over and threw up bile on the already disgusting floor.

The monsters, orcs, ogres, and goblins riding the train with her laughed like hyenas with sore throats. Venice gave them all a frightened smile as she grabbed onto one of the overhead hand railings, struggling to keep herself standing straight. The subway train lurched forward and the model fell right on her ass into the puddle she puked up. The slimy skinned and diaper odor monsters laughed yet again at her plight, this time causing her to shed a few silent tears.

Venice once again grabbed hold of the railing and managed to stay up this time. Her dress was a disaster. How was she supposed to do a convincing photo shoot with her clothes in such horrible condition? She needed the money, smashed car aside. If only she could have caught the bastard who did that to her vehicle. Venice was a lover, not a fighter, but even she would have been capable of reducing a punk ass vandal to blood chunks if given the opportunity. Damn that vandal and damn this subway!

After a few minutes of being lost in her own thoughts, she was accosted by a throaty laugh behind her. She begged whatever god was up there that the monster wasn’t interested in her. She slowly turned around with tears in her eyes and snot in her nose to see a seven foot tall piece of bloody meat named Khan Shou, a famous boxer she had seen on television a few times when there was nothing else on.

Television didn’t do Khan justice. Venice looked like a small child standing next to him. His shark-toothed grin sent chills up her spine. His swollen red body was dripping with green slime. Venice secretly begged for this subway ride to be over, but it was just beginning.

“You must be Venice Reyes. Yeah, you’re definitely her! I’m a big fan of your work!” said Khan as he held out a magazine with her on the cover. The publication was covered in red and green goops as well as goop from a more intimate place. “Will you give me an autograph? I’ll pay you whatever you want: fifty credits, a hundred credits, two-hundred credits, hell, I’ll give you my life savings if you’re willing to do a little more for me!” Khan licked his lipless mouth with a combination of hunger and lust.

The model stared at her monstrous assailant with wide eyes, a quivering body, and a terrified smile as she held up her hands defensively and slowly backed away, obviously giving a no answer. As she backpedaled, she tripped over a homeless orc’s legs, prompting the passengers to laugh at her some more and prompting the orc to yell, “Watch it, bitch!”

Venice gently and apologetically giggled at the orc before standing up and stumbling toward the women’s bathroom, slamming the door and locking it tightly. Compared to the outside of the bathroom, this tiny stall smelled like a botanical garden. Venice used this opportunity to take deep breaths in and out and enjoy the beautiful air. She sat down on the toilet shaking and clutching her knees to her chest, still feeling the trauma of riding this subway.

Khan ripped the door off the bathroom and tossed it aside like it was a piece of paper, not caring who he hit with it. Venice screamed in horror as the seven foot creature said to her, “It’s not exactly the mile-high club. More like the six-feet under club. Either way, I’m a happy guy. Come on, pretty girl, what do you say? Are you ready for some goddamn fun?!”

“Hey, shit head!” yelled the homeless orc from before, who was now sporting a giant lump on his forehead. “Watch where you’re throwing that fucking door! You almost gave me a concussion, asshole!”

“Who are you calling an asshole, you queer?!” yelled Khan as he and the orc were pushing and shoving each other with the subway passengers cheering them on like animals.

Venice had spent most of the time covering her face in fear until she saw an opportunity. While Khan was distracted, the model got on her knees and crawled beneath the monster’s oversized legs. She then stood back up and ran towards the back exit of the subway. As Khan yelled for her to get back to where he was, Venice didn’t care if the subway was still in transit. Her modeling gig was over the minute she boarded this god-awful train.

She continued to run until she jumped through the back window and landed on the train tracks. The subway train left her behind while she was lying on the tracks covered in glass and blood. Venice was slipping in and out of consciousness while crying softly to herself. She may have gotten to safety, but that didn’t mean her troubles were over. She needed money in the most desperate way. She needed to buy a new car, get a new apartment, and get food in her stomach. She was sure to be late to her modeling gig, not that she was in any condition to be there anyways.

After what seemed like centuries of lying on the train tracks, Venice Reyes slowly picked herself off the ground, pieces of subway glass getting imbedded into her once lovely hands and knees. When she stood, she was on wobbly legs. When she walked, she struggled to stay upright.

“You look like you just had the world’s greatest orgy!” said a familiar throaty voice behind her. Venice silently said, “Oh no!” to herself over and over again as she turned around and saw Khan Shou smiling at her from a short distance. The hideous circus freak thudded and thumped on the train tracks as he stalked his sexual prey, licking his lips like he was about to eat a slab of prime rib.

Venice started running down the tunnel despite wearing heels and despite being in bloody pain. In her mind, she was running faster than a cheetah bolting through the African plains. She looked like a bolt of lightning flashing through the sky. She was a blur to the naked eye. She could see the boarding platform and it looked like the gates of heaven with the light shining down upon it. With one mighty leap, she grabbed hold of the edge and attempted to pull herself to safety.

And then she felt the chokingly tight grip of Khan Shou’s monstrous paws clutching her ankle. Venice screamed at her highest pitch, but nobody was around to hear her, not even the transit cops. She pulled her leg as hard as she could, but her diminutive strength was no match for the vice-like grip of the hellacious ring warrior, who whispered at her sexually and clicked his tongue.

So this was what the life of a famous sex icon was like in a dystopian world. Even in a normal world, Venice would have been treated like a sex slave to the public. Was putting her body out there really worth all of this unwanted attention? Of course not, which was why she took off the high heeled shoe on her good leg and jammed the stiletto in Khan’s left eye.

For a guy who was a brutal ring warrior, Khan showed a childlike lack of toughness when he danced around clutching his smashed eyeball. He screamed and bled all over the train tracks before finally removing the hell with brute force and staring a hole through Venice, who was crab-walking her way toward the platform exit.

Khan Shou growled like a grizzly bear when he said, “I’m going to snap off your arms and legs like the Barbie doll you are! I’m going to chew your brains like a giant wad of fucking bubblegum! I’m going to drink your blood like a bottle of Coors Light! I’m going to…” His lovely oratory was interrupted by a speeding subway train that splattered him all over the platform like a rotten tomato. He smelled just as bad as one too.

Venice laid backwards and breathed deep sighs of relief. The subway ride was over, Khan Shou was a dead man, and Venice Reyes was safe from male perversion. The only question now was, what would she do for money now that her modeling gig was a bust? She didn’t dwell on that too much. She instead closed her eyes and drifted off into a haunted sleep. There were other modeling gigs for someone as beautiful as her. Just a few more photo shoots and she could afford to move onto something else. Maybe she could also afford a therapist.