Scoffdon's Dragon

Scoffdon's Dragon

By, Ryan M Harris

                   
                   
          "My esteemed colleagues," Andrew Scoffdon said rummaging through his pockets, trying to find his note cards, "first, I would like to thank our very generous and very few supporters, who have kept the Cyrtozoology department alive here at Haslen University..."
                   
         He staggered, took another step and fell to his knees on the sandy trail.
                   
          It was ungodly hot, and the path had become infinite, stubbornly refusing to lead him to his jeep. He shielded his eyes against the sun, and searched the crowd for Dean Williams. Williams hated him, his department, and anything else that didn't increase the school's revenue on a regular basis.
                   
         Had this trip been as big a failure as one to Venezuela, Williams would have been in the front row smiling through the whole report. But no - the Dean was not sitting somewhere out there in the desert.
                   
          "Now," he started again, "presenting the once believed to be extinct Heloderma Patermos, which I have taken the liberty of naming the Scoffdon's Dragon!"
                   
          Reaching into the pouch on his side, he removed a lizard. The newly dubbed Scoffdon's dragon was about a foot long from head to tail, and in proportion to its length, enormously fat. How the animal managed to eat enough to get that fat when it was barely capable of moving, and seemed to loath action of any kind, was still a mystery, one that could be solved after he was published, and the School Board forced Williams to triple his funds.
                   
          Andrew smiled; lab assistants might be nice too.
                   
         He held the lizard up, so that all the various rocks could see it. They remained solemnly quite.
                   
         "You can see here these lumps on the animals back or what might appear to be horns similar to that of Phrynosoma cornutum, which live in the same area, but upon closer inspection they are actually vestigial wings, formed from the elongated bones of what were once fifth and sixth limbs of - "
                   

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                   
         Mike Williams blocked his office door with a chair, having tried and failed to move his desk. The desk would have been better. The chair wouldn't hold them for very long.
                   
          He started looking for a weapon. The broom handle only looked sturdy, plastic piece of shit.
                   
          "Why the hell don't I own a gun," he muttered. In a drawer he found a hammer he used to hang pictures. He swung at the air once with it, testing its heft. It was better then the broom at least.
                   
          There was a knock at his door.
                   
          Mike hid the hammer behind his back and waited.
                   
          "Sir?" It was his assistant, a junior, Eric something, two years into the office slavery known as the work study program. "A doctor and the police are out here. They'd really like to talk to you."
                   
          "Well Andrew," Mike said to himself, "You finally did it, congratulations."
                   
          After wasting two thousand dollars of the college's funds, to wander Arizona for three weeks, Dr. Scoffdon had returned to the academic world, via the courtesy of over zealous rescue workers, less stable then when he'd left. This morning, he wandered on to campus, still dressed in a hospital gown, babbling that he'd found a dragon.
                   
          If Mike had been a well spoken man, he might have done something useful with his law degree, instead He'd been blunt: The simple you're fired. Andrew had stopped mid rant and stared at him, mouth agape. Then his head popped open. Blood, bone, brain-matter, and little creatures had gone everywhere.
                   
          They'd looked like worms at first, wriggling in blood pools, but as they fought their way free of the fluids, wings appeared and they looked more like dragon flies, buzzing about the room.
                   
          "Sir?" His door was pushed open despite the chair's hindrance, and Eric came scrambling through over the defensive furniture. "Sir, they want to help you."
                   
          Like hell, he thought. The bites on his hands and face were already festering. You don't get exposed to something like that then get nice normal help. They’d take him to some secret lab and hack him apart trying to figure out how to save everybody else.
                   

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                   
          Coronal Eric Salgest stalked the line of new recruits.
                   
          "You should know this already, but since you're from clean zones, and came here, I'm going to have to assume you're all shit stupid. So let me tell you about the Scoffdon's dragon!
                   
          As juveniles they are a flying blight, voracious predators attacking any living thing in their path. After about two years they grow too heavy to fly and become ambush predators, continuing to eat anything they can catch until the biggest adults are nothing but fat rocks of flesh.
                   
          I lose more recruits to the fat ones. People get stupid because they don't move. If you poke them they will bite you!
                   
          Their bite is poisoned by their own dormant eggs. If you are bitten by a Scoffdon's dragon you will be impregnated by about a hundred baby dragons who will use you as a means of regulating their body temperature while they eat the fatty tissues of you brain. Some of you were asking why there's a grenade on your belt that doesn't come off, now you know."
                   
          He stopped to glare at a recruit who was holding his helm in his hands.
                   
          "Is there a problem with your helmet son?"
                   
          "No sir, just a little heavy sir," the recruit snapped.
                   
          Eric turned his head so the man was looking at only the broken side of his face, where the scalp had cracked, and his eye was dead and white.
                   
          "It's too heavy? That's fine, I don't wear a helmet. There's an alternative. Would you like to me hit you in the head with a hammer so that shards from your skull fuck your brain making it unappetizing to dragons?"
                   
          The recruit paled and put his helmet on.
                   
          "Good decision," Eric pulled the weapon off his back, "WELCOME TO THE DRAGONSLAYERS! Now our flame throwers..."