With his magic suitcase in hand, Dor Trowel walked towards the giant wall in the desert. Not only was the wall much too tall to climb, but it also spanned horizon to horizon; there was no going around it. Fortunately, that was his destination. He’d come to find the dragon. Cut deep into that wall was a cave, and inside that cave lived a dragon and an old treadle sewing machine.

According to Eta, the dragon would spend all day sewing ‘marvelous’ creations, stitched beasts that could live and breathe. Now, having just traveled from Utah to a fantasy world, Dor didn’t know much about magic and dragons, but he did know he needed to meet that guy. The dragon knew how to find his friends.

He pulled a flask from his pocket and shook it. Only a few drabs remained and he certainly needed to pace himself. Who knew when he’d find another bottle of booze in this desert? More importantly, he needed to ween himself off. Someone once said withdrawls could be deadly, and if he suffered their symptoms in a desert, it’d be deadly in more ways than one.

“You’re gonna go blind, stupid.” Next to him, a white-haired kid held a sharpened bird-feeder stand over his shoulder.

That white-haired kid was Dor’s new god. He’d accepted that kid’s name and that kid accepted him as a bunsack; apparently, that was how fealty worked for that lot. Unfortunately, his friends pledged their name to a different god, a ‘wily’ god as the kid called him. Once again, Dor didn’t know anything about that. He’d only just arrived.

“It’s awfully hot out here,” a black-haired beauty complained.

Although, her hair was quite well hidden right now. As she trudged through the desert, she wrapped herself up tight in a pink Peter Rabbit comforter. On her hands, she wore a pair of thick oven mitts to dull her claws, not that they’d do much good against her mini-razors. Really, the oven mitts were more just to remind her how sharp her claws actually were. Eta was a ditsy monster. Her tail swished happily behind her and she complained about the heat while wrapped in a blanket.

Dor traveled a long way to get to this fantasy world, and judging by his companions, he still had a long way to go to find his friends.

He only hoped the dragon was a more reasonable creature than his god and his monster.

And hopefully, the dragon has booze. Lots and lots of booze. Weening himself off certainly wasn't his idea, either.

Colinbach, Utah.

Two Weeks and One Very Sloshed Memory Ago:

In a seedy Chinese restaurant downtown, Dor microwaved a cup of instant coffee, gave it two creamer packets, and dumped in a heavy splash of Jameson. Uncle Ron once told him Kentucky Gentleman was for slugging with the boys, but the good stuff should always be savored in morning coffee. Taking that advice to heart, Dor always kept a fifth of good whiskey in the car. A McDonald’s coffee, two creams and a splash of the good stuff always used to start his day off right.

Nowadays, anything that burned wet was good for slugging, especially today. That monster upstairs…something’s gotta change. Really, something’s gotta change.

Only Dor and a monster lived here anymore. All his roommates vanished two months ago; that was two months he’d lived without their support, two months he fed that monster upstairs all alone. That thing showed up right after their disappearances; he knew it had to be related, and right now, he’d grasp at any straw, no matter how dangerous if it meant finding his friends. Something’s gotta change. His pores sweat out pure dread. His hands shook way too much to keep holding his coffee. Black puddles splashed on the floor and he clanked his cup back down on the counter to keep from dropping it.

Turned out, the bottle of Jameson fit his shaky hands better. One more. The straight whiskey burned smoother, not even the beginnings of an ulcer could convince him otherwise. He patted the stubby Glock in his jean jacket, struggling to catch his breath. One more. The next shot nauseated his stomach; his head reeled and damned if it didn’t feel better.

I’m ready to make a change. Despite those preparations, he never did manage to catch his breath.

Inside the decommissioned walk-in freezer, rows of rawhide doggy treats stacked across the shelves, the only meal he could get the monster to eat. Fortunately, with all the recent chaos, he’d been able to steal plenty of bags. Can’t let her get hungry. Dor paused for a moment, hoping his breath would come back. It didn’t, but he grabbed a bag of rawhide anyways.

‘She’s gotta eat with her tail. Like her mouth is strictly for breathing, and her tail is for eating. Try and get that through her head.’ That kid’s words rang in Dor’s head. I know, I know. The tail is for eating.

The shit of it was, her tail had teeth, rows and rows of swirling teeth. Luckily, she was hiding.

Doggy treats in hand, Dor trudged up the back stairwell. Used to be, he and his friends all slept upstairs; these days, it was no longer their domain. His friends had vanished and Dor slept locked in his car. Climbing to the top was a monumental task. He took it one step at a time, creaking the old boards with every step. As he rounded the top stair, a narrow length of hallway stretched out in front of him. He cursed Jimmy under his breath. His old friend had a fetish for red light bulbs; said it helped with the eyestrain of computer work. Then why put one in the bathroom?

The hallway lights were off, but the bathroom’s night light was still on. He always shut the hall lights off for that monster; thought she’d be more at ease that way. Hell’s a dark place. At the end of the hall, red light glowed around the bathroom door, Jimmy’s doing. Though, as long as Jimmy had been gone, Dor only had himself to blame for those fucking red light bulbs. The nostalgia of Jimmy’s color scheme stopped him from replacing them. Their disappearance didn’t feel quite as real the less redecorating he did.

Rattle, rattle. Rattle, rattle. Dor shook the bag; his way of alerting the monster to his intentions. He didn’t want her to mistake him for an intruder. Through his mind, he saw an image of her popping out of an empty room, those cold black eyes staring him down as she ripped his throat out. She’s a docile creature, very docile. He reassured himself and walked down the hall, towards the red glow under the bathroom door.

Rattle, rattle. Rattle, rattle. He passed Jimmy and Donny’s old room. Those brother’s clothes heaped across the floor in piles, but he didn’t see the silhouette of a monster inside. Next.

Rattle, rattle. Rattle, rattle. Lulu’s room was spotless. She always kept it clean. Technical books and gaming manuals hung on the shelves, knowing her, likely arranged in alphabetical order. The only bit of personality that room possessed was a pink curtain hanging over the window, the only window Dor couldn’t bring himself to board over. Despite safety concerns, he'd rather be killed in his sleep by a hooligan than lose what little of Lulu’s personality he had left to remember her by. Her disappearance was by far the most difficult to cope with. No monster hiding in here, either.

Rattle, rattle. Rattle, rattle. He moved on and passed by his own room, his old room. Inside was a disaster. Unlike Jimmy and Donny, he crammed his dirty clothes under the bed and into the overflowing drawers. Somehow, that made the clutter even more noticeable, spilling through all the cracks instead of out in the open for all the world to see. It simply felt dirty in there.

Worse yet, in the corner of his room, he kept an industrial-sized kitchen pot. That pot hid his biggest disaster, even more so than the overflowing cracks. But with everybody gone, he didn’t need a secret vomit pot anymore. Lulu wasn’t around to worry after him, and he could throw up in the toilet like a real human being if he had to. Although, morning hangovers hadn’t been a problem for him recently. For these last two months, he hadn’t sobered up even once.

He walked to the end of the hall, to the last bedroom, the only bedroom with a closed door. Rattle, rattle. Rattle, rattle. Rattle, rattle. He shook the bag an extra time. If the monster wasn’t anywhere else, she absolutely dwelt behind this door. Instead of knocking, he reached into his coat pocket and felt around for that stubby Glock. This was his ritual, or better yet, his safety net.

With a loaded pistol in hand, he was ready. Knock, knock. He rapped the butt of his gun against the door, no answer, but that was typical. She’s hiding. Because he wanted the gun at the ready, he turned the knob with the same hand he also held the doggy treats in. The latch clicked and he creaked the door open.

Instant death pressed against his temple. The gun wasn’t for her; it was for him. He had no way of knowing if a bullet would even kill her, but he knew his own brain couldn’t handle it. He might not be able to kill her, but he could definitely kill himself. A quick death would be a merciful escape compared to being eaten alive. She only eats rawhide. She’s a docile creature. Dor reassured himself and walked inside.

Typically, he’d dump the treats on the bed and run away, but today would be different. Something had to change. Loathed as he was to admit it, he needed this monster.

From Claire’s old disco ball, stars twirled around the room. His old roommate’s taste in lighting was even too tacky for Dor, and that was really saying something. Perhaps other than Lulu, everyone who used to live here was something of a lost cause. For that reason, Dor fit right in.

The twirling stars illuminated just enough for Dor to make out a heap on the bed. The monster had wrapped herself up tight in Claire’s Donnie Darko comforter, not a trace of her flesh could be seen. Out of sight, out of mind. What a considerate monster. He knew his fear of her attacking him in the hall was irrational. As long as she’d lived here, not once had she moved from that spot. She’d hid under that comforter for two months, wearing a slouch into the mattress.

Just as he was about to creep over, his throat scratched and he felt a whooping cough coming on. He swallowed and itched and did everything he could to keep from succumbing to it. Damn those cigarettes! Startling the monster could spell his death, either by his hand or hers. The cough faded…for a second.

Ehem. Ehem! He couldn’t keep it contained and hacked up a storm, shattering the silence. That cough was relentless. His eyes watered and he fell to his knees hacking away, struggling to catch his breath. Not once, though, did he take his eyes off the heap under the comforter. It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t notice me. Shit, of course you already did. Then just don’t eat me.

The comforter twitched and a star twirled across a cold black eye peeking out. She was watching him. Dor waved his hand, hacking on his knees. I’m not a wounded animal. Give me a minute; this doesn’t mean I’m opportunistic prey.

Finally, he caught as much of his breath as he could and crawled on one hand and two knees over to the bed, never once taking the gun off his temple. That coughing fit was just a setback; his mission hadn’t faltered. Something had to change because he needed her trust, or maybe he just needed an excuse to end his misery. That being the case, his mission hadn’t faltered because whether it was a success or a failure, he knew he’d find relief either way.

With the gun to his head, he clawed at the mattress while holding the treats, trying to pull himself up top. A gentle snake tickled across his hand and Dor froze. He was still on his knees, frozen at the edge of the bed and the snake tickled his hand. Cold saliva dripped on his fingertips and the snake began slithering up his arm. He hung his head low. He couldn’t see it; he didn’t want to see it, but he couldn’t ignore her touch.

Just like a boa constrictor, it wrapped around his arm, squeezing it just tight enough to get a grip. The tip writhed. Swirling teeth distorted the snake’s outer shell, and that tickled in a different way. Bedsprings creaked as the monster shifted her weight; the pressure on his arm tightened even more, and the snake forcibly pulled him to his feet.

Dad said never point a gun with no intention to use it, and never, never, put a finger on the trigger without the immediate intent to pull it. Right then, Dor put his finger on the trigger. With that small movement, the barrel came alive; that was the best he could explain the sensation. That gun morphed into a true beast, one he absolutely knew meant him harm. No, not harm. It meant to splatter everything he had been and ever would be into oblivion. He imagined the nine-millimeter slug wound back in anticipation, eager for its final adventure. At that moment, Dor realized he truly did not want to die.

Thankfully, he owned a Glock. The pistol fell out of his hand and thumped to the floor, but it didn’t misfire. Glocks didn’t misfire and neither would Dor. He wanted to live and he needed to make friends with a monster in order to survive.

His eyes burned and tears welled up. Pathetic. Completely pathetic. Through the tears, he forced himself to look at the monster on the bed. Stars twirled across her cold black eyes as she studied him, and Dor did all his pathetic self could manage. Rattle, rattle. Rattle, rattle. Despite the snake constricting his arm, Dor managed to pour a pile of doggy treats on the bed; that was the best he could do to save his life. Hopefully, it was just enough to make a new friend.

It didn’t work. The snake continued to slither up his arm; her tail must have been extra hungry today, that or she’d been waiting for this opportunity all along. Rarely had he gotten so close before; typically he’d stretch as close as he dared, just close enough to dump a pile of treats on the bed and run away. Today, he’d actually tried to claw his way onto the mattress and she’d taken full advantage.

At this distance, her tail no longer appeared to be a snake. Not only could he see every joint, he could feel its hard carapace slither up him. The tip was hollow, and those damn teeth swirled around inside, ready to devour food like an external intestine machine. At this distance, it was a hungry centipede, not a coiled snake.

The centipede crawled down his shoulder, twisted around his back, and curled across his stomach. The hand that used to hold the gun reached down and grabbed the hungry centipede curled around his gut. He didn’t try to pry it off; he pet it. His fingertips traced along the segments, caressing every joint, and he prayed she could feel his affection through that hard outer shell. Let’s be friendly. I need your help. I really do.

She pulled him over to the edge of the bed, forcing him to sit there next to the pile of food. Without unwrapping her tail, its teeth found the pile and dug in. It crunched and ground and snapped the morsels down, all while still coiled around him. Dor felt bulges of food cycle around his stomach, sucked up through the length of her tail, and trail off to the monstrous gut buried beneath the blanket.

More than the terrifying, it was bizarre.

She didn’t squeeze tight, just tight enough to keep him secured upright. If anything, she was supporting him. Dor swallowed hard, wishing he’d brought whiskey instead of a gun. The tail swallowed hard too; he only hoped she wasn’t wishing for real meat instead of doggy treats. His fingertips traced along the segmented joints, feeling bulges of partially digested bits slurping through it.

Let’s be friendly…please.

He’d grasp at any straw, no matter how dangerous to find his friends again. At the very least, he needed to find Lulu. Her disappearance was the hardest of all.