“Stupid horse. Stupid cat.”

His nose burned. A lot. His back ached. A lot. His knees were sending lightning bolts of pain up and down his legs. A lot. And this gods-forsaken carousel horse was still on his back. And he’d walked a total of five miles in a generally eastward direction.

“Mother beetches.”

He unceremoniously dropped the wooden piece of art (it really was beautiful) onto the sidewalk. He stretched and grinned as about twenty pops resounded from his back. It was one of those nights where you just don’t say that it can’t get any worse, because it will.

“Well, at least it can’t get any worse.”

That’s when the Mack truck hit him. No, seriously. A big, 18-wheeled, Mack truck. Smacked right into him. It surprised him too. He wasn’t as surprised as the driver was when he discovered that Dragon wasn’t meaty chunks on the pavement. The semi rolled to a halt, and Dragon peeled himself off of the grill of the truck.

The driver blinked. He didn’t quite understand what he saw. His rational mind told him that something like this couldn’t exist, and was purely impossible. His instinctive side told him, “Run you stupid fuck!”. He just kind of stood there, torn. That was when the war hammer inverted the left side of his skull.

A hulking thing bellowed into the night, celebrating its kill. Its neck was far too long for it to be human, that and the slightly wedge-shaped head. It stood upright, though, and grasped a war hammer in a five-fingered (although scaled and taloned) hand.

No one credible believed their eyes when they saw the figure flapping lazily through the sky on scaled wings, holding a brightly-painted carousel horse in its feet, heading vaguely eastward.