The heifer chewed her cud.
That funny one-legged man stood in front of her, holding some kind of metal tube and balancing precariously on a crutch.
Now he was pointing the metal thing at her forehead. It smelled delicious.
Later, in the farm house, George softly rubbed his bandaged hand.
“Someone’s in my house trying to kill me!” cried Timothy Thicke into his cell phone. “I’m by my bathroom window.”
“Duck, please,” said Evan Edgelow into his bluetooth headset, two thousand yards away.
Thicke ducked.
Edgelow fired his sniper rifle.
“Got him,” Edgelow said. “He was coming up behind you.”
“What’s Necromantic Fasciitism?” asked Cliven. “And how did Nogard get it?”
“It’s a terrible curse!” said the Veterinary Cleric. “It can’t be stopped! Over the next few days, this little guy will turn into…”
“Into what!?”
“Into… a zombie dragon,” said the Cleric, shuddering. “We have to kill him now!”
Two men ran for the exit.
“Wait!” said Edgelow. “We can’t leave yet.”
“It’s gonna blow!” cried Thicke.
“Wait…” said Edgelow. “Three, two…”
He kicked the doors open, grabbed Thicke by the arm, and leapt.
The building exploded. As they flew through the air, Edgelow mugged for the watching cameras.
The veterinary Cleric plopped Nogard down on a padded examination table. He poked and prodded at the dragon for a few minutes.
“Hmm,” he said. “Oh my,” he said. “This is not good,” he said.
“What is it?” asked Cliven.
“This isn’t mange; it’s an advanced case of Necromantic Fasciitism!”
“Welcome to third grade!” said Miss Flannerty. “Let’s get to know one another! Tell me your name and your favourite drink!”
Billy and Bobby and Suzie liked apple juice and iced tea and Kool-Aid.
“That’s great!” said Miss Flannerty. “My name is Karen, and I like absinthe! Taste test, anyone?”
CRASH!
Two men burst through a stained-glass window and plummeted downwards.
One man screamed aloud.
The second man suavely raised an arm and caught the first as a parachute ballooned out of his sleeve.
“You saved me again!” cried Timothy Thicke.
Evan Edgelow smiled. “It’s what I do. Now, run!”
Cock gun, point gun, pull trigger. Only three simple steps separated George from vengeance. The stupid cow stood and blinked its heavy-lidded eyes, oblivious.
This isn’t difficult, George chided himself. Cock, point, pull.
He couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t his conscience. It was just hard to balance on one leg.
“Put a catheter in that!” the veterinary Cleric called as he emerged from the Operating Room.
A woman and her son stood at the counter, holding a small, whimpering dragon.
“Looks like he’s got the mange,” said the Cleric.
“Can you fix him?” asked the boy.
“Maybe,” said the Cleric.
Twelve ravens settled on the field.
“Raaawk, twelve of us? Somethin’ big!” croaked Elwitch, the biggest raven.
“Death, death, raawk!” agreed Eegar, the oldest.
Esaud, the loudest, squawked, “Raawk, George, the farmer!”
George, left leg missing below the knee, hobbled past on crutches, with a shotgun slung across his back.