Joke is on you.
Faster, the man ran down the alley. He quickly dove into an open dumpster container, and slammed the lid shut. Inside, he checked his state issue glock-45. It still had all 25 bullets in it. He wouldn’t need that many, he hoped. He peaked out of the lid, and slid the gun muzzle out. He followed at cat with it.
“Stupid cat,” he muttered. “Phew!” he pretended to pull the trigger. Then he saw it. It leapt out of the shadows. The man didn’t have time to scream. The dumpster lid closed with both them inside, and the gun went off, halting the screams and grunts coming from within. Now something just breathed. It let out a sigh, and pushed open the top of the dumpster lid and climbed out. It was a monstrous figure, gastly in the pale lamplight, standing half hunched over. It held the dumpster then slid off down the alley with the cat that followed it.
24 hours later. Peak Los LA Rush hour.
A million cars lit the highway. Plumes of noxious smoke drifted up over the highlights of the city. A lady in a broad fedora watched the trains of cars pass by her with aghast disbelief. She pursed her lips and shook her head and pointed a white glove at her companion–A white and red chester cat sitting quietly beside her in the passenger seat. It sighed and looked out the window.
“I can’t believe it’s raining again.” The cat meowed and scratched at its collar. “That makes it three days in a row. The evidence is going to impossible to disseminate when we get there.”
The lady simply nodded, and then she screamed. The cat looked over at her. It nodded.
The office where thirty or forty officers stood was only designed for three at once. A rather portly officer threw down some donuts on a desk, for which was covered with bullet casings, portraits of criminals, and dossiers as thick as French Accents, for which a stern looking gentleman of about 30 years of age peered back from one of the photos. The police chief looked up in disgust at the fat cop.
“Whose are these?”
The cop raised his eyebrows in injustice.
“You’re promoted to stage three operational chief, got that?”
No one wanted to be promoted to stage three operational chief, not in the middle of an ongoing criminal investigation concerning the quadruple homicides occurring within the last 24 hours.
“All had taken place at night.,” said district deputy Stevens.
“All had been chased down, and…”
Suddenly, there was a stir and all the officers in the room turned to see a pretty young redhead with green stunning eyes, that traced over every officer in the room like a presetting robotic transferring data interface. The eyes glistened suddenly then found their target. He sat in the back his hand on the desk, drooling slightly.
“Sloth, as it were, captain, is a retaining principle I see fits the molds of certain interoperational status pertaining to invalid justice, is it not?”
It was a question. The man just nodded. “Yeah, so? We got all the problems of a major corporation, and, all the politics of a religion spoiled by its own status.”
“Which is why you are here.”
“24 hours ago, we were hit with a string of random murders all centered around the center of town. We thought it was just a rogue clown from the invading circus affiliates, but…” he cantored, “we’ve narrowed it down to a climate stevens, or, “ he lowered his voice, “A bacteria folder.”
Meew…” said the unmistakable voice of a cat. The cat hopped up on the desk, and flit his asshole at the man in the suti, who snarled.
Cat! CAt! Cat! The officers began chanting. As if under some remote control from a cvoiless entity under radar of suspension of disbelief.
The cat stood up and morphed into a man. He held out his hand at the cop. “Hello, I am Davis, your chief inspectional operations commander.”
Several of the officers in the tiny room attempted to kneel.
Davis turned to the stunned police chief.
“We need radar, surveillance, and most importantly…” he just smiled. “I’ll just text you.”
Davis and the woman in the fedora impatiently left the room, followed by a barrage of yells and counter yells from the officers in the room.
Several of the men started to shudder, their friends holding onto their shoulders. “It’s okay, just relax. There Bob.”
The building trembled. It wasn’t everyday that the ubercomplex of the National Interest sent it’s preeminent visionaries into the midst of the squadron of men.
Shape shifters. These people defied laws of logic. No one could shape shift, not anymore. Hushed conversation at the the bars sent men scurrying into the night, drifting down the lanes of moral ineptitude, and into the arms of mother fury.
A high garden wall made out of beer cans jostled, and a man with a hammer opened the door. Come in, he said, and closed the gate. It began to rain again, and some music came on somewhere, and the buildings that were held up by ropes and sheets of plastic and paper began to tinge with the onslaught of more water.
A woman sat in the dirt on the ground mending a long rope with a long snake’s head attached to it. She began to whisper.
“Avaroosh deshnelicon. Averiginal westligodligodlida!!!! zimbaloonay !1!!!!!!!
She slapped the snake head and its jaws slowly opened and it hissed.
Several of the woman stepped back. It was a warning. The investigators were in town. And the kneeling sad sop of a man who’d been at the bar drinking with his cop friends sniveled and got up and looked at the snake woman.
“What will it do to them?”
The woman smiled, liquidated. “Drink their blood, of course.”
The man heaved. The woman laughed. And the snake hissed. A burst of black cloud came forth from its jaws. Tiny ants seeped from the clouds and trailed out over the dirts towards the man’s foot.
“AAA hahaha !”
“AAAHHH you bitch!” The man kicked the dirt and ran for the door. His through was caught, however in the outstretched hand of a dragon god.