“All in.”
Timothy Thicke shivered as Evan Edgelow put all of his poker chips in the middle of the table. Thicke knew what the other onlookers didn’t: Edgelow was putting more than just his money on the line.
“I fold,” pronounced Edgelow’s opponent in disgust.
Thicke and Edgelow smiled, relieved.
Cliven ran frantically through the streets. Where had Nogard gone?
If I were a baby zombie dragon, he asked himself, where would I go?
Before he could answer, he heard a whoosh, a shriek, and a giggle.
Nogard flew by overhead, trailing flames, carrying a pudgy six-year-old in a tiara.
It must have been a joke, Herbert decided. How could a letter opener cause a twenty-five percent fatality rate?
As Herbert closed his car door, there was a crash, followed by screaming. The parking lot erupted in green flame and Herbert’s car went tumbling through the air.
He passed out.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Herbert stopped. “Yes?”
“You forgot to take the complimentary safety manual for your new steel letter opener!”
“Don’t need it,” grumbled Herbert.
“The statistics beg to differ!” countered the cashier.
“Statistics?”
“Nearly twenty-five percent of letter opener injuries are fatal.”
Herbert rolled his eyes. “I’ll be careful.”
Herbert Cralston thought queues at office-supply stores were an insufferable, stress-fueled convening of frantic, Blackberry-wielding, over-caffeinated Deputy Thises and Assistant Thats with crooked ties and runs in their pantyhose, frequently all seeking to purchase the same object.
It made Herbert feel stabby; he bought a letter opener made of steel.
“Here it is, sir,” Herbert said, plunking a stapler down in front of a mahogany placard which was embossed with the name “Sir Dr. Willifred the Ninth VanDerGilder the Third, PhD, MA, MSc, BA, with an A-minus average since Grade 4.”
“I asked for a letter opener,” said the Boss.
“Cralston! Bring me a letter opener!”
Herbert Cralston blearily lifted his head, fished around inside his desk with one hand while haphazardly tucking his shirt in with the other, slipped on his leather shoes, then stood and wobbled into his boss’s office.
Too late, he realized he’d forgotten his socks.
“So can any of you tell me the answer to five times seven?” asked Miss Flannerty. “Don’t be shy!”
Billy and Bobby and Suzie played silently with their pencils.
“Kelly, do you know the answer?”
“No,” whispered Kelly.
“That’s ok!” said Miss Flannerty. “It’s the same as my age! Twenty-three!”
Young Princess Emeldatine sat in her tower, surveying the kingdom she would one day inherit. “When I’m Queen, I’ll make every day my birthday!” she declared.
Nurse chuckled. “You’d get old pretty quickly!”
“I’ll also have a pet dragon,” said Emeldatine. “Like the moldy one at the window!”
Nurse fainted.
“Remind me again,” shouted Timothy Thicke, “why I just fell out of an airplane.”
“Because I pushed you,” yelled Evan Edgelow.
“And why did you push me?”
“Our cover was blown.”
“And why did you grab the stewardess, too?”
“I have a thing for redheads! Also, she has the parachute.”