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DISCLAIMER: The following story is silly.
In the L&L Hotel there’s this elevator operated by a dragon. The elevator’s set for two destinations: the lobby and hundredth floor. It’d save some the exercise of climbing two-hundred sets of stairs if they’d simply take it. But some are afraid to. You could say some are uneasy riding in compact places with colossal reptiles. This “some’s” paranoia’s got the dragon awful lonesome, because some is everyone. He stands within an open car as a generic jingle plays from a playlist on rotation each day, watching passerby guests, who keep fair distance from the car, shuffle by up the stairway. He’ll shout, “Hey!”, or “Need a ride?”—sometimes “This way’s quicker, you know.” They’ll pretend not to hear.
Here comes Johnny Bo Jacob down the lobby hall, whistling the car’s current jingle. He and the dragon lock eyes. Before the dragon can shout, Johnny steps in the car. Gasp! The dragon cries internally. Johnny rattles his hips to the beat as he hits the hundredth floor button, paying the dragon no mind. Well,
“S-sir, I’m real,” the dragon protests!
Johnny stops whistling. Faces the dragon. “I’m well aware of that.”
“Y-y-you’re gonna ride with me?”
“Yeppers.”
“Really?”
“Mmhm.”
The dragon can’t keep from shivering. Now the car rattles like the bucking bronco ride at the carnival gone haywire. A rider, he keeps saying in the back of his mind. How exciting!
People present in the lobby freeze. They exchange glances. A commotion stirs, and they murmur into one another’s ear: “That man’s taking the elevator.”; “I know. What is he thinking?”; “Has anyone else ever taken the elevator?”; “Why, never! Have you, Annie?”; “I’d never.”; “Do you want to?”
Annie and Sheraine hesitate a second. They nod in sync. They start for the car—feeling inspired. Brave. Soon enough George Juppers pssts into Kirt McCaleb’s ear, gossiping with a finger aimed at “those two girls”; the group of Ibby and Pratcher and Latisha fuss, but lean finally toward “taking it”; and lone Timothy says to himself in silence, “I am brave.” They file into the car till it clutters.
The car quakes the dragon shakes so much. “Y-you all want to ride with—with me?”
Some say, “mm.” Nod subtly.
He zips his lips. “O-okay.”
The car doors rattle shut. It whirs to life its gears then springs up; climbing toward the top, they’re off! Above the doors the red floor number progresses, from “2” to “3” to “4” to “5”. . . . Amid a stiffness and silence the car hums, as a new generic jingle plays. The dragon wails internally. He sweats rivers. You’ll be okay, he tells himself. Elevator dragons like pressure. They like crowds of people. He shivers so much the car creaks.
“Could you stop shak’n so gosh-dern much?” George Juppers says.
“Excuse me, s-sir?” says the dragon. His face turns red. It looks like he has to use the bathroom really bad.
Latisha does a sassy hand-wave. Also, a finger-snap. “Boy, you need to chill out. I’m ‘bot to go dumb in here. I’m ‘bot to—I’m ‘bot to—”
“You’re about to what, ma’am?” the dragon asks.
Quiet returns. He relaxes a forced smile. Keep it together, he thinks, watching the red floor number progress: “24”, “25”, “26”. . . . You’re gonna get through this. The fingers of his paws interlock so tight the paws go numb as he fiddles with thumbs. Mini Niagaras trickle down his forehead by a bulging vein. With eyes closed he masterminds future responses to rude-otherwise-“racist”-things the riders may say then retreats to his happy place (swamp lair, comfy bed, intrusive knights, etc.). . . .
“Dragons are so gauche,” Sheraine murmurs. Her and Annie tee-hee-hee.
Ignore it, the dragon thinks. He bites his lip. Stares to the ceiling.
“Not so loud,” Annie murmurs. “He’ll take offense.”
“As if. Dragons are the dumbest of creatures. This one operates an elevator because he’s incapable of front desk, incapable of room service, incapable of vacuuming, cleaning, laundry . . .”
“S’true,” says Johnny Bo. “They’re dumber’n rock. Only difference is rock can talk weller.”
The dragon gasps!
Johnny Bo adds: “He didn’t even hit the hundredth floor button neither. I did it m’self. Can’t do his job right, I add.”
“I reck’n it’s so,” says George Jupper. “Flip a nickel off a der’g’n’s nose and he won’t fe’ll’ a thing, the thing’s so gosh-dern stupid.”
“Aye,” chimes Kirt McCaleb.
“Hello,” the dragon says.
“Ah-ha-ha-ha. You guys are funny,” says Ibby.
“Man,” Pratcher says, “you guys are bad. Ha-ha.”
Latisha rolls her eyes. “Oh. My. God. There’s so much drama in here. I can’t—I can’t even—I even can’t. I’m really ‘bot to call the manager on this elevator dragon, brah.” She pulls out her cell. Starts to dial a number.
Murmurs brew. Gossip elevates.
The dragon exclaims! He and Timothy exchange a gaze briefly. Timothy squeaks! He retreats to a car corner on his hands and knees. Hmm, thinks the dragon. A curious flame sparks in the dragon’s eyes then. He stomps toward Latisha. Bows his head to her. Smoke and flame flash in her face. She coughs. Gags. Opens an eye.
“I think you should hit ‘end’, ma’am,” the dragon says.
“Excuse me?”
“End the call. Now.”
“Who do you think you are? You need to get o’tta my face brah, or Imma—Imma—’cause I’m ‘bot to—”
A paw lifts her upside-down by a foot in the air to the front of the scrunched snarling face of the dragon. His gaze penetrates her soul; she flinches. The car riders burst a-panic. Annie faints, releases a dramatic moan, trembling to her knees saying, “Dear heaven, help us . . .”, as Sheraine tries to catch her but fumbles due to butterfingers; Ibby backs into a wall of the car beside Sheraine, repeating, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god . . .”; Johnny Bo shakes his head; George Juppers unsheathes a switch-blade, murmuring, “Knew these dern suckers curn’t be trusted.”; and Timothy takes a fetal position below Pratcher, who takes out his phone to take video, shouting internally, Worldstar!
The dragon shakes Latisha silly. Her cell flies and falls and shatters into millions of cheap scrap on the floor.
“Tell me what you were about to do again,” the dragon says. “Tell me.”
“Ohh . . . I—I was—”
George takes a jab at the dragon’s rear. Sparks fly. Dragon scales chip the end off the switch-blade. What’s left is a stump. The dragon cocks his head back at George and growls. George examines his stump. Gulps. Drops the switch-stump. The next time George blinks, the dragon’s tail is squeezing his ribs. It lifts him to the ceiling. Re-addressing Latisha, the dragon says:
“The same thing your friend was gonna do with his switch-blade, huh? Plotting a dragon’s downfall?”
“No—he’s not my—let’s just—” Latisha rasps.
The claw tosses her into the air. His jaw drops. His tongue lolls out. Snap! With one jerk of the head and a gulp she’s gone. The bulge she makes descends the dragon’s throat, thrashing. Screeching. He grins and picks his teeth with a claw and pokes his belly which squirms from within with vigor. Of course now Sheraine faints on top of Annie; Pratcher zooms in on the belly of the dragon via an instagram video he’ll later caption “on the elevator wtf omg”. Everyone else keeps their distance. The tail swooshes to the dragon’s front to feed the dragon George Juppers. George kicks. Claws. George’s fists pummel the snout. This aggravates the dragon. He scoops George up sideways in his jaws then bites down with a fang. Not enough to draw blood, just enough to George say “Ohhhhhh!” before becoming limp. Xs for eyes.
Gulp, goes the dragon. “Mmmmm.”
The riders don’t speak. Jaws are agape. They watch the dragon flick his tongue and moisten his lips. His stomach gurgles while he proceeds to rub it. His eyes relax. Shut. Kirt McCaleb raises a finger and begins to protest but is cut off at the first syllable “I” by a low growl.
“How rude of me,” the dragon snarls. “You were saying?”
“Nothing,” Kirt whimpers.
* * *
Time passes. The floor level reads, “55”, “56”, “57”. . . . Everyone seems to get along well now. No one insults, doubts, or looks the dragon the wrong way now. Ibby learns to crouch in “the fetal” next to Timothy by the time they reach floor “60”; Johnny Bo stands quietly; Annie, Sheraine, Kirt, and Pratcher do things too, but there’s too many damn characters in the scene to keep track of their doings and they’re mostly all stationary anyway, so let this serve simply as a reminder to the author of who still remains and how many: seven.
“A third sacrifice will be made,” the dragon exclaims.
“Not me,” Kirt says.
“Please not me! I don’t hate dragons!” Timothy squeaks.
“Oh shit,” Pratcher whispers sticking his head in the instagram video briefly. “Worldstar bitch.”
“Why don’t you decide amongst yourselves? You have thirty seconds.”
Annie and Sheraine don’t pipe up or protest much in this matter, being unconscious; it’s only natural Kirt, Pratcher, Johnny, Ibby and Timothy settle on sacrificing “that dark-haired one” first.
“She was talking all that smack,” says Pratcher.
“Aye,” says Kirt.
“Okay, whatever. I just can’t believe this is happening, right now, like O.M.G. . . .” Ibby mutters.
The dragon’s head whips toward Ibby. He rumbles. He snatches her up in a paw, then says in a low voice: “And a fourth and a fifth and a sixth and a seventh sacrifice. You first.”
Her hair stands frizzy on-end. Her arms spasm in quick bursts. Her legs peddle an invisible bicycle. All the while the dragon whisks his tongue out to taste the human toe-to-head. When he feels Pratcher’s got a “good shot”, he scarfs her up with the tongue rolled round her chest pulling her in. Jaws snap shut. Cheeks bulge a while. The tongue plays with her a while for fun, plus Pratcher’s off with another round of shout-outs. The dragon then swallows. Before Ibby reaches his gut he takes up Kirt and Annie in his front claws. They gasp beneath the pressure on their lungs. Annie wakes. The two struggle together, as the dragon’s tail steals itself a Sheraine. Screaming, shouting, roundabout flailing occurs, till throats and limbs are tired and acts performed become tiresome, till the three are all fed down the dragon’s throat at once. One hefty gulp sends them down. The dragon gasps!; even he struggles to keep his prey down descending the esophagus. He forces paws over the ridiculous bulge caught there. Thrusts. Gulp, gulps. The airways clear. His gut’s got a rounded shape to it, now, gurgling. Groaning. He admires it only a second before plucking Johnny Bo off the elevator.
They stare at each other. They come to an abstract understanding it seems. But one cannot be sure. The high “80”s tick into the “90”s for the red floor number: Johnny spectates that, before being prodded by a dragon claw to the cheek. His gaze returns to the dragon’s.
“Well eat me, you overgo’rn fucking lizart,” mumbles Johnny Bo Jacob.
“You could’ve gotten off safe and sound,” the dragon says.
“It ain’t true. Spit in m’face before you eat me is all you want to do.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yepper.”
“So I can’t do front desk, I can’t do room service, clean, do laundry . . .”
“I never said them things.”
“You didn’t need to.”
Without further adieu, the dragon delivers the coup de grâce with one quick snap of his jaws.
* * *
“98” . . . “99” . . . Ding! The car halts at “100”.
In the center of the elevator lays the dragon with a rounded belly. Eyes shut. Smile wide. Tail pendulating lazily. Pratcher puts his phone away, after having sent an instagram video to “Facebook” and “Worldstar”, and also having little tumblr gifs of it made by his loyal fanbase, too. Timothy stands up shakily. Nightmares of hotels and winged lizard creatures will haunt him from this day forth alas.
The car doors open.
Pratcher and Timothy are obliged to go.
The dragon says, “Goodbye guys. Have a nice day.”
But Timothy is first obliged to ask, “Why us?”
The dragon ponders long and hard then says to Timothy, “Pratcher lives because he is the messenger. He will show the world that racism lives on. He will expose the preconceived notions of dragons and their capabilities. Godspeed, Pratcher. Your Instagram video contains a soft, gentler portrayal of us. Also, hit me up on Instagram later?”
And thus the dragon gave Pratcher a piece of paper containing his beloved Instagram username.
“Timothy, you live because you don’t hate dragons, but you’re afraid of them. We just want more of your type to reproduce.”
“Okay.”
FIN
In the L&L Hotel there’s this elevator operated by a dragon. The elevator’s set for two destinations: the lobby and hundredth floor. It’d save some the exercise of climbing two-hundred sets of stairs if they’d simply take it. But some are afraid to. You could say some are uneasy riding in compact places with colossal reptiles. This “some’s” paranoia’s got the dragon awful lonesome, because some is everyone. He stands within an open car as a generic jingle plays from a playlist on rotation each day, watching passerby guests, who keep fair distance from the car, shuffle by up the stairway. He’ll shout, “Hey!”, or “Need a ride?”—sometimes “This way’s quicker, you know.” They’ll pretend not to hear.
Here comes Johnny Bo Jacob down the lobby hall, whistling the car’s current jingle. He and the dragon lock eyes. Before the dragon can shout, Johnny steps in the car. Gasp! The dragon cries internally. Johnny rattles his hips to the beat as he hits the hundredth floor button, paying the dragon no mind. Well,
“S-sir, I’m real,” the dragon protests!
Johnny stops whistling. Faces the dragon. “I’m well aware of that.”
“Y-y-you’re gonna ride with me?”
“Yeppers.”
“Really?”
“Mmhm.”
The dragon can’t keep from shivering. Now the car rattles like the bucking bronco ride at the carnival gone haywire. A rider, he keeps saying in the back of his mind. How exciting!
People present in the lobby freeze. They exchange glances. A commotion stirs, and they murmur into one another’s ear: “That man’s taking the elevator.”; “I know. What is he thinking?”; “Has anyone else ever taken the elevator?”; “Why, never! Have you, Annie?”; “I’d never.”; “Do you want to?”
Annie and Sheraine hesitate a second. They nod in sync. They start for the car—feeling inspired. Brave. Soon enough George Juppers pssts into Kirt McCaleb’s ear, gossiping with a finger aimed at “those two girls”; the group of Ibby and Pratcher and Latisha fuss, but lean finally toward “taking it”; and lone Timothy says to himself in silence, “I am brave.” They file into the car till it clutters.
The car quakes the dragon shakes so much. “Y-you all want to ride with—with me?”
Some say, “mm.” Nod subtly.
He zips his lips. “O-okay.”
The car doors rattle shut. It whirs to life its gears then springs up; climbing toward the top, they’re off! Above the doors the red floor number progresses, from “2” to “3” to “4” to “5”. . . . Amid a stiffness and silence the car hums, as a new generic jingle plays. The dragon wails internally. He sweats rivers. You’ll be okay, he tells himself. Elevator dragons like pressure. They like crowds of people. He shivers so much the car creaks.
“Could you stop shak’n so gosh-dern much?” George Juppers says.
“Excuse me, s-sir?” says the dragon. His face turns red. It looks like he has to use the bathroom really bad.
Latisha does a sassy hand-wave. Also, a finger-snap. “Boy, you need to chill out. I’m ‘bot to go dumb in here. I’m ‘bot to—I’m ‘bot to—”
“You’re about to what, ma’am?” the dragon asks.
Quiet returns. He relaxes a forced smile. Keep it together, he thinks, watching the red floor number progress: “24”, “25”, “26”. . . . You’re gonna get through this. The fingers of his paws interlock so tight the paws go numb as he fiddles with thumbs. Mini Niagaras trickle down his forehead by a bulging vein. With eyes closed he masterminds future responses to rude-otherwise-“racist”-things the riders may say then retreats to his happy place (swamp lair, comfy bed, intrusive knights, etc.). . . .
“Dragons are so gauche,” Sheraine murmurs. Her and Annie tee-hee-hee.
Ignore it, the dragon thinks. He bites his lip. Stares to the ceiling.
“Not so loud,” Annie murmurs. “He’ll take offense.”
“As if. Dragons are the dumbest of creatures. This one operates an elevator because he’s incapable of front desk, incapable of room service, incapable of vacuuming, cleaning, laundry . . .”
“S’true,” says Johnny Bo. “They’re dumber’n rock. Only difference is rock can talk weller.”
The dragon gasps!
Johnny Bo adds: “He didn’t even hit the hundredth floor button neither. I did it m’self. Can’t do his job right, I add.”
“I reck’n it’s so,” says George Jupper. “Flip a nickel off a der’g’n’s nose and he won’t fe’ll’ a thing, the thing’s so gosh-dern stupid.”
“Aye,” chimes Kirt McCaleb.
“Hello,” the dragon says.
“Ah-ha-ha-ha. You guys are funny,” says Ibby.
“Man,” Pratcher says, “you guys are bad. Ha-ha.”
Latisha rolls her eyes. “Oh. My. God. There’s so much drama in here. I can’t—I can’t even—I even can’t. I’m really ‘bot to call the manager on this elevator dragon, brah.” She pulls out her cell. Starts to dial a number.
Murmurs brew. Gossip elevates.
The dragon exclaims! He and Timothy exchange a gaze briefly. Timothy squeaks! He retreats to a car corner on his hands and knees. Hmm, thinks the dragon. A curious flame sparks in the dragon’s eyes then. He stomps toward Latisha. Bows his head to her. Smoke and flame flash in her face. She coughs. Gags. Opens an eye.
“I think you should hit ‘end’, ma’am,” the dragon says.
“Excuse me?”
“End the call. Now.”
“Who do you think you are? You need to get o’tta my face brah, or Imma—Imma—’cause I’m ‘bot to—”
A paw lifts her upside-down by a foot in the air to the front of the scrunched snarling face of the dragon. His gaze penetrates her soul; she flinches. The car riders burst a-panic. Annie faints, releases a dramatic moan, trembling to her knees saying, “Dear heaven, help us . . .”, as Sheraine tries to catch her but fumbles due to butterfingers; Ibby backs into a wall of the car beside Sheraine, repeating, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god . . .”; Johnny Bo shakes his head; George Juppers unsheathes a switch-blade, murmuring, “Knew these dern suckers curn’t be trusted.”; and Timothy takes a fetal position below Pratcher, who takes out his phone to take video, shouting internally, Worldstar!
The dragon shakes Latisha silly. Her cell flies and falls and shatters into millions of cheap scrap on the floor.
“Tell me what you were about to do again,” the dragon says. “Tell me.”
“Ohh . . . I—I was—”
George takes a jab at the dragon’s rear. Sparks fly. Dragon scales chip the end off the switch-blade. What’s left is a stump. The dragon cocks his head back at George and growls. George examines his stump. Gulps. Drops the switch-stump. The next time George blinks, the dragon’s tail is squeezing his ribs. It lifts him to the ceiling. Re-addressing Latisha, the dragon says:
“The same thing your friend was gonna do with his switch-blade, huh? Plotting a dragon’s downfall?”
“No—he’s not my—let’s just—” Latisha rasps.
The claw tosses her into the air. His jaw drops. His tongue lolls out. Snap! With one jerk of the head and a gulp she’s gone. The bulge she makes descends the dragon’s throat, thrashing. Screeching. He grins and picks his teeth with a claw and pokes his belly which squirms from within with vigor. Of course now Sheraine faints on top of Annie; Pratcher zooms in on the belly of the dragon via an instagram video he’ll later caption “on the elevator wtf omg”. Everyone else keeps their distance. The tail swooshes to the dragon’s front to feed the dragon George Juppers. George kicks. Claws. George’s fists pummel the snout. This aggravates the dragon. He scoops George up sideways in his jaws then bites down with a fang. Not enough to draw blood, just enough to George say “Ohhhhhh!” before becoming limp. Xs for eyes.
Gulp, goes the dragon. “Mmmmm.”
The riders don’t speak. Jaws are agape. They watch the dragon flick his tongue and moisten his lips. His stomach gurgles while he proceeds to rub it. His eyes relax. Shut. Kirt McCaleb raises a finger and begins to protest but is cut off at the first syllable “I” by a low growl.
“How rude of me,” the dragon snarls. “You were saying?”
“Nothing,” Kirt whimpers.
* * *
Time passes. The floor level reads, “55”, “56”, “57”. . . . Everyone seems to get along well now. No one insults, doubts, or looks the dragon the wrong way now. Ibby learns to crouch in “the fetal” next to Timothy by the time they reach floor “60”; Johnny Bo stands quietly; Annie, Sheraine, Kirt, and Pratcher do things too, but there’s too many damn characters in the scene to keep track of their doings and they’re mostly all stationary anyway, so let this serve simply as a reminder to the author of who still remains and how many: seven.
“A third sacrifice will be made,” the dragon exclaims.
“Not me,” Kirt says.
“Please not me! I don’t hate dragons!” Timothy squeaks.
“Oh shit,” Pratcher whispers sticking his head in the instagram video briefly. “Worldstar bitch.”
“Why don’t you decide amongst yourselves? You have thirty seconds.”
Annie and Sheraine don’t pipe up or protest much in this matter, being unconscious; it’s only natural Kirt, Pratcher, Johnny, Ibby and Timothy settle on sacrificing “that dark-haired one” first.
“She was talking all that smack,” says Pratcher.
“Aye,” says Kirt.
“Okay, whatever. I just can’t believe this is happening, right now, like O.M.G. . . .” Ibby mutters.
The dragon’s head whips toward Ibby. He rumbles. He snatches her up in a paw, then says in a low voice: “And a fourth and a fifth and a sixth and a seventh sacrifice. You first.”
Her hair stands frizzy on-end. Her arms spasm in quick bursts. Her legs peddle an invisible bicycle. All the while the dragon whisks his tongue out to taste the human toe-to-head. When he feels Pratcher’s got a “good shot”, he scarfs her up with the tongue rolled round her chest pulling her in. Jaws snap shut. Cheeks bulge a while. The tongue plays with her a while for fun, plus Pratcher’s off with another round of shout-outs. The dragon then swallows. Before Ibby reaches his gut he takes up Kirt and Annie in his front claws. They gasp beneath the pressure on their lungs. Annie wakes. The two struggle together, as the dragon’s tail steals itself a Sheraine. Screaming, shouting, roundabout flailing occurs, till throats and limbs are tired and acts performed become tiresome, till the three are all fed down the dragon’s throat at once. One hefty gulp sends them down. The dragon gasps!; even he struggles to keep his prey down descending the esophagus. He forces paws over the ridiculous bulge caught there. Thrusts. Gulp, gulps. The airways clear. His gut’s got a rounded shape to it, now, gurgling. Groaning. He admires it only a second before plucking Johnny Bo off the elevator.
They stare at each other. They come to an abstract understanding it seems. But one cannot be sure. The high “80”s tick into the “90”s for the red floor number: Johnny spectates that, before being prodded by a dragon claw to the cheek. His gaze returns to the dragon’s.
“Well eat me, you overgo’rn fucking lizart,” mumbles Johnny Bo Jacob.
“You could’ve gotten off safe and sound,” the dragon says.
“It ain’t true. Spit in m’face before you eat me is all you want to do.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yepper.”
“So I can’t do front desk, I can’t do room service, clean, do laundry . . .”
“I never said them things.”
“You didn’t need to.”
Without further adieu, the dragon delivers the coup de grâce with one quick snap of his jaws.
* * *
“98” . . . “99” . . . Ding! The car halts at “100”.
In the center of the elevator lays the dragon with a rounded belly. Eyes shut. Smile wide. Tail pendulating lazily. Pratcher puts his phone away, after having sent an instagram video to “Facebook” and “Worldstar”, and also having little tumblr gifs of it made by his loyal fanbase, too. Timothy stands up shakily. Nightmares of hotels and winged lizard creatures will haunt him from this day forth alas.
The car doors open.
Pratcher and Timothy are obliged to go.
The dragon says, “Goodbye guys. Have a nice day.”
But Timothy is first obliged to ask, “Why us?”
The dragon ponders long and hard then says to Timothy, “Pratcher lives because he is the messenger. He will show the world that racism lives on. He will expose the preconceived notions of dragons and their capabilities. Godspeed, Pratcher. Your Instagram video contains a soft, gentler portrayal of us. Also, hit me up on Instagram later?”
And thus the dragon gave Pratcher a piece of paper containing his beloved Instagram username.
“Timothy, you live because you don’t hate dragons, but you’re afraid of them. We just want more of your type to reproduce.”
“Okay.”
FIN
Category Story / Vore
Species Western Dragon
Size 630 x 910px
File Size 458.5 kB
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