LSC: The Dragon's Soda 2
The Sequel to LSC: The Dragon's Soda
Jonathan sighed. The party was a total bust, at least to him it was. Why had he come here? He should've known, as a matter of fact he did know, that any party or event hosted by the school would've been a snore fest. The same music always played that was played at any mass get together organized by a, ahem, family friendly staff.
But, as he thought about it, he thought perhaps it was worth some merit to earn the trophy in his hands, The Arts Excellence trophy that he acquired for showing profound proficiency in the field. He'd proven to be the best in his class, by far, and receiving the award upfront of all his peers did have a few redeeming qualities in it. But even then it felt hollow, considering he was the only one in the class with the funds to purchase all the required technology and materials to pass the class with flying colors.
So would this trophy imply arrogance in him, having been the only one to actually do any of the projects in the class? Or was it presented to him by venture that he made the effort to garner the appropriate and required items that none of the others had gotten; which again was only due to negligence or lack of cash. He stared at the brass paintbrush in his hands, rubbing his thumb up and down its length, a guilty feeling inside for receiving it.
He glanced at his watch, and, after seeing that it was ten thirty, began to make his way out of the school's awards ceremony. As he weaved in and around the crowd he reached into his pocket to retrieve is cell phone, a fPhony 2, his Christmas gift from last year, to himself. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the five missed calls and ten messages.
None of them had been from his mother, she'd had to leave on an emergency business call shortly before the ceremony began so he'd have to show her the trophy when he got home. Most of them were messages from FS&F.com, but three were from Jake; two missed calls and a text. The poor guy was home alone and had tried calling around to see if anyone was finished with what they were planned to do tonight and if they wanted to come over. His StatusPoster said 'yay, a night alone with Beast Wars.'
Shocked that he'd missed the calls John quickly looked at his caller settings; silent. He laughed awkwardly, fearing that perhaps everyone else had replied to Jake's distress call and he looked like a snub for not returning his calls. He quickly dialed his cell number: 2-662-767-4836.
It rang, and rang, and rang again but he never picked up the phone. He considered that strange for a guy who was all alone tonight, but he thought maybe he'd gone to take a shower or something, then thought 'why did I just think about my friend in the shower?'. He sent him a text saying he'd come over.
The air was cold as ever, his breath floated in the air; he chuckled and pretended it to be dragon's fire as it rained down on some foolish knight and his steed. There was something to be Me Gusta about in the coldest winter on record for the tiny town.
He got to his car, unlocked it and opened the door but paused to look up at the night sky. The moon was bright and full against the star light of the black blanket of oblivion. John took a breath and entered his car, started it and drove away, taking a left at the intersection of Coral and Conch.
He ran a hand through his brown hair, scratching at all the little itching places on his scalp; standing alongside his fellow award winners had made him twitchy and rather uncomfortable in front of the camera, he hated them. If the photographer had surprised them all with a quick camera flash it wouldn't have felt so bad, but the school did need a professional photo to go on their web site and the paper.
"Meh, I guess it's not as bad as it could be." John said, thinking of the ungodly amount of time he spent in front of a camera during family photos. He waited a minute then gave Jake another call, and received his voice box yet again. He looked at the time again; it was now ten till eleven.
The town was practically dead this time of night as he cruised through it, but he was still shocked to find it all so disserted and dim; the street lights offered next to nothing as a source of lighting the streets and sidewalk. In fact, the only time the dark was overcome by light here was early in the morning when the bakery, Fatty McFatass', opened at six in the morning. But tonight, to his surprise, he saw one shop still open, Wilkerson's Costume Parlor.
He stared at the shop as he drove towards it, open sign and shop lights still fending off the dark of night. What was that poor old lady doing still working at this time of night? Certainly anything she was working on could wait till tomorrow. He stared to accelerate by the store, but, a thought swayed him to pull over; the thought that perhaps she'd died during the day occurred to him and so he soon found himself walking to the door.
The little bell chimed as he entered.
"Ms. Wilkerson?" He called out. When he received no answer his heart began to thump faster, as that thought of death occurred again with far more fury than it had but a second ago. "Wilkerson?" He cried out again and somewhere a door unlocked. He walked swiftly over to where the sound came from and discovered a very cross looking old lady.
"Jonathan I told you, it won't be ready till next- something wrong?" She said, more annoyed than angry. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts but when he did he was able to speak calmly.
"I just saw the lights on and didn't know if something had happened."
"Why would you think something had happened?" Her voice changed, she sounded, not skeptical, but genuinely worried that he had had a bit of a fright.
"Well, it's nearly eleven and I thought that, I dunno..."
"That I'd died?" Wilkerson laughed. "Well I'm not, I'm perfectly fine. I feel even more energized than I have in days, and I haven't had a thing to drink or eat all day." John stared at the elderly lady with surprise, thinking how angry his own grandmother would be to discover that he had gone all day without eating a single thing. "Is there anything you need hon?" She asked and John shook his head
"No, I'm fine mam." He paused. "Do you need help with anything? It's late after all and the full moon isn't made for late nights." The lady looked skeptical of him, as if he were suggesting that she had no business being at work so late.
"What time did you say it was again?" Jonathan fished out his phone and gave her the time of ten fifty five. Her eyes widened when he told her. "Wow, it has gotten late. I do need to be getting home after all, time just got away from me so fast working on the costume."
"Mine?" He asked suddenly feeling guilty in the off chance that his purchase had been the cause of her staying at work so late. But she shook her head and motioned for him to follow her to her office.
Inside he took in the surroundings; various pieces of fabric strung up on, cutting utensils strewn wildly on a desk with a large box sitting beside it and all sorts of clutter flung about on the brown shag carpet. On the desk lay a nearly finished set of Colonial Marine jackets, painstakingly recreated from the movie; he couldn't help but gawk at their amazing quality and the attention to detail Wilkerson had for them.
"This is what has kept me up so late. Guy wanted them to be movie quality items so I've been sort of doing long hours, but not as long as the one tonight. This was an accident."
"Well, they certainly look exemplary Ms. Wilkerson." John said. He saw red flush come to the old lady's cheeks. His eyes looked around the rest of the room in search of the suit he intended to wear to MegaCon next month, but his eyes ended settling back on the box beside the desk and the wyvern on its side.
"What's that?" He said, already approaching the box and peering inside.
"Oh those? Their some drinks I have about once or twice a month." John picked one of the six packs out of the box and examined the cans, giggling at the drunken wyvern on their sides. If the drink tasted anything like the cans' design implied then he perhaps would like to try one. He looked down at the rest of the box, and realized that little old Wilkerson couldn't have brought this loaded thing inside on her lonesome.
"How did you manage to get this thing inside mama? You're not some secret super hero are you?" Wilkerson laughed and batted her hand.
"No I'm no hero. Your friend Jake saw me in need and gave me a hand in getting them out the car and into the office." John raised a brow, trying to imagine the skinny frame of his friend lifting the massive thing and carrying it. It brought him a laugh.
"Its funny that you mention him. I was on my way to see him when I saw the lights."
"Oh?" Said Wilkerson, curious. "I'll bet he'll want an explanation as to why you're taking so long." John shook his head.
"That's the strange part. He's home alone but he's not responded to any of my calls. I hope he hasn't fallen asleep, otherwise I'm going to look silly driving out to his house and stabbing the doorbell." He noticed Wilkerson cock her head and stare at him quizzically.
"Did you say it was a full moon tonight?"
"Yes mam, why?" The old lady stood in silence for a moment, her eyes fixed on the box he stood beside; she appeared to be deep in thought. Then a smile formed on her lips. "Well, you can wake him up on the grounds you want him to see the moon. Why don't you take him some of those to apologize if he wants to kill you afterwards." John looked at the cans in hand, becoming a little lost in the wyvern's stupid expression.
"And how would a strange soda appease him from being awoken from slumber?" The old lady laughed again.
"Those are his favorite, that's why. He's been coming for the past few weeks to get them from me." John glanced between her and the cans, even more surprised that Jake had managed to acquire soda under his mother's nose; but then Jake had been rather jittery lately, especially after Mrs. Kensington had started her diet, actually all the Kensington's had been twitchy since she started. He wondered if Jake had been the middle man in getting his brothers and father caffeine after this phase the gal had started. He shrugged.
"Okay." He said, still unsure of what Wilkerson said was even true, but what reason would she have to lie about Jake and how could lying even benefit her? "You sure you don't need anyt-"
"No I'm fine honey," She interrupted, pushing on Jonathan's shoulder, ushering him towards the door. "I'll clean up and lock up a soon as you leave. I'll go home and get a good sleep so that I can try to have your suit done by tomorrow at closing, how's that?" Already at the door, John found himself thrust outside and into the cool of the night.
He stood there stupefied by the rapid manner by which the whole thing had happened. As he walked to his car he looked over his shoulder back at the shop, seeing Wilkerson staring at him from behind the glass window, a contented old lady smile across her face. He smiled back and continued on to his vehicle, the six pack cradled against his chest.
The drive over to Jake's house was uneventful enough, very little passed by that he could bother to remember save a deer grazing just of the side of the road; which gave his heart a little jolt of worry as he sped by, fearing it would make the decision to leap in front of his car and utterly ruin the night.
But it never happened and he just continued to cruise along undisturbed to Jake Kensington's home. The large blue and white home stood out against the woods behind it, the colors popping in the night. The lights under the house's balcony cast the only light outside, beside the moonlight of course, but its luminosity counteracted any light that could be coming from the bottom floor.
Jonathan looked up to the window above the balcony, Jake's room, and considered the possibility that his friend had gone to sleep was in fact true, for the lights were off upstairs. But he'd be damned if he was to drive all the way out here without so much as an answer for why his friend hadn't returned his calls if he was supposedly alone. "Wow that's not stalker material." He thought; he then decided that if Jake didn't respond to another phone call or knock on the door then he would leave and make him pay for the trouble of driving all the way across town.
He pulled to a stop and went to the front door, giving it a knock and the doorbell a ring. Still nothing. Stepping back, from the door he quickly pulled out his phone and gave Jake a call. In the darkness of the house he saw the light from Jake's cell phone through the window, and still no answer.
"You truly are a heavy sleeper aren't you?" John said with a laugh. It would bring him a laugh at school later he supposed. Something about Jake couldn't be awoken by the climax of the apocalypse or something in that nature. He put his hands on his hips as Jake's voice mail called out through the phone's ear piece, shaking his head.
As he turned to go back to his car he noticed lights coming down the drive way. As they drew near he recognized the blue '98 Mustang as William's, Jake's eldest brother. John could feel the bass from the car's sound system jarring his chest, pounding it with a steady dose of heavy metal.
Will got out of his car with a huge smile on his face, as though he were either coming from a great party, or was about to make a crack at John for being out here so late; Will was known to poke a little fun at John for a certain costume in his closet, one that came about in away that wouldn't go over well with his parents should they discover it, but it was never to the point of harassment, only friendly joshing. Nevertheless, if he were to ever to discover some secret of William, he'd run away with making up for all the teasing.
"Hey dickwaffle!" The blond jock said as he got out of his ride. 'Real mature.' John thought.
"Hey back." John said, placing his phone back into his pocket.
"I thought you had somewhere to be tonight."
"I did, but I left early and decided to check on forever alone here." He motioned with his head at the house. William looked at him with a cocked head.
"And you couldn't call him from wherever it was you were? You just had to drive all the way out here?" John did his best not to show any sort of reaction to what the man was suggesting, knowing it was only his way of teasing him. So he played it off as indifferent as he could.
"I've tried him on his cell, figuring it would be the easiest way to contact him but he'd yet to respond to any sort of message I've sent him." Will folded his arms and stared at John with a sly grin.
"So the possibility that he'd gone to sleep never occurred to you? You had to come out here still?" Try as he might, John furrowed his brows as the joshing began to get the better of him. He paused to steady himself before continuing.
"It did but I had forgotten to give him his, um, drinks from Wilkerson's today. You know he's got to be secretive with your mother on her diet and all." That seemed to throw William off guard, for his eyes widened with surprise.
"Drinks? As in the caffeinated, sugary type?" John nodded, while wearing a nearly equal level of surprise; if what Wilkerson had said was true then Jake had done an incredible job of concealing the beverages from his family members. William glared angrily at the upstairs windows. "You little shit!" He yelled before storming towards the front door with keys in hand, John behind him, both curious to see how this would turn out, and scared that he'd brought down the guillotine on his friend.
Inside the sounds of the television penetrated all to be heard, looping on the DVD's main menu, and chill in the air but no sign of Jake nearby.
"Jacob Kensington!" William shouted, sounding more like his father than a brother, but no answer. He immediately stormed up the stairs. "If you're asleep you're not going to be for long." This left John curious. Why on earth could someone become so angry over some soda, and second, an absolute gap in logic, why would he have gone to sleep with the TV still on?
He scratched his head and proceeded to glance around the couch, searching for any kind of clue when he noticed, what he assumed to be, spaghetti sauce on the coffee table. Paranoid as the thought was, he wondered if Jake had somehow bumped his head on the counter tops and gone limp.
John went straight to the kitchen and discovered to his horror a blackened spot by the floor, as if it had been burnt. The markings carried over into the open fridge and even on the ceiling. He stood, frozen to the spot as the sheer bafflement of the situation rocked his mind with more than it could comprehend or understand.
It was in this moment of stillness that it occurred to him that the markings on the floor had a fairly human shape, with the exception of what appeared to be another appendage coming down between two legs shaped ones. There were also black cans scattered around the spot, all without images or brand markings to identify themselves as belonging to any company.
Save one.
There was tucked under the fridge that held some form of a design at its bottom. Like a zombie, he walked stiffly over to the fridge, closing it as he kneeled down to pick up the drink. Green lines jagged across the bottom, forming scales in their web. But as he held the can they faded away into nothingness, becoming darkened, featureless objects like the rest of the cans.
Motion out of the corner of his eye told him that he was no longer alone in this room. He looked up at the equally confused and shocked expression on William's face. He quickly pulled his cell phone out at made a call.
Jonathan became lost in the commotion that followed.
The flickering of police lights, the chattering of their radios, and constant bombardment of questions, always the same ones.
He didn't know where Jake could've gone. He didn't know if someone had wanted him dead. He didn't know anything about Jake's plans for tonight outside of what he himself had learned from word of mouth or the post on StatusPoster. The same questions, over and over and over again, asked each time as if the police expected his answers to change from person to person. The same applied to William and Terry, who'd come home immediately after word had gotten to him that something had happened to his little brother.
"You sure you know nothing about his plans?" Asked the police chief, whose breath smelled of powered sweets and booze. John looked the balding man over, staring in to his brown eyes and said again, with the utmost honesty.
"No sir." The chief sighed and patted him on the shoulder. He started to rise but instead pointed at the blank can in John's hands. They'd sent the others to be examined, somehow missing the one clutched firmly in his hands during their collection process.
"What about those? Anything on them?" John shrugged.
"Not truly, I picked them up from Wilkerson's and was coming to give them to him. I didn't know anything about them until barely an hour ago." The chief nodded as headlights passed by the window. An officer stepped in and declared that the parents had arrived via the police escort and the chief left promptly. That had been a shocking thing to discover, both of them had neglected to take their cells out with them during the night, thus leaving Will and John with a sense of panic from the start, in addition to what they were already feeling from the markings on the floor. Will and Terry were still being questioned by the law across the room they were in, the Beast Wars DVD had been shut off earlier to kill the drowning sound it made.
None of it made any sense. How could someone be utterly vaporized into nothingness, leaving behind only burn marks on the floor, fridge and ceiling, but nothing else be damaged in the process? Namely, the soda's from Wilkerson's lying amuck in and around the immediate vicinity of the scorches. John twisted the empty can in his hands, trying to piece together what was happening now, and the can in his hand.
He dumped the thing over, ass end up, expecting some fluids to drain out of the opening. But, as he'd done four minutes ago, the same thing happened. Nothing. No droplets of this drink fell from its opening, nothing here to tie itself to a makeup that could be identified. It was as if the laws of physics had been broken by Jake when he consumed them, if it was he who'd drank them.
Will and Terry suddenly went to the front door, greeting their pale father and hysteric mother. They engaged in a deep embrace, with the mother sobbing hard and tearfully. They exchanged words with one another but he couldn't hear them nor did he bother to care, for his mind was affixed on the drink in hand, and the full ones, ripe and ready to be consumed in his messenger bag inside his car.
Shortly, Mr. Kensington net by his side, hand on his shoulder. He looked as if he meant to say something, but could never form the words. They just stared at one another, eyes conveying what one another felt. The eyes always give it away. The man was heartbroken and devastated, but was certainly trying hard to maintain composure in front of everyone present.
Before either one could break down and cry, the chief called Mr. Kensington over. John's heart told him to stay, to try and comfort and reassure the family that everything would be alright, that Jake would turn up eventually. But, alas, this never occurred to the brain and the gut. They were both furious and certain they knew the culprit of this who scenario. The little old lady that ran a costume shop.
Perhaps it was his belief in the super natural, his love for science fiction, and desire for answers; things he knew the police wouldn't bother considering in the slightest, that caused him to march out to his car and begin driving. He played the events over in his head, the rushed and nearly hostile manner in which Wilkerson had ushered him out of the door with the Dragon's Potion in hand. The things she said about Jake and the drinks he was for certain were false, and her asking of the phase of the moon only fueled his racing imagination into believing what he was thinking.
"I've got to see her face." He said. He'd tell her of what had happened tonight at the Kensington's and let her reaction convince him of what he believed. If it gave him any inkling to believing that she was responsible, then he'd find a way for the police to search her shop and whatever place the drinks came from. The eyes give it away.
But then, his heart gave another perspective into the whole thing. Perhaps the goading on had been purely innocent, perhaps she was only saying what she wanted about the drinks in order to convince him that he should offer the kindness of fellowship with his friend on a night he was forever alone. It could even be that she knew not what was in this batch of drinks; she did say after all that she hadn't eaten or drunken anything today. It was possible, but it could be argued against just as much as the other thought could be.
Screaming down Bakalakadaka Street he saw that the Costume Parlor had indeed been closed for the night. He glanced at the time, twelve fifty in the morning. The road dipped and his car shook from the bump. As did the drinks tucked away in his bag. It was sort of a deathly sound now that what had happened had come to pass, a reminder of what he believed had happened to his friend.
He knew, like all small town folk do, the general location of where everybody lived, and Wilkerson lived. In the far side of town, on a road where asphalt bled into gravel and rock and deep ditched shoulders. In a part of his mind, one thought that was shrouded by the angry storm of accusations and assumptions of the other parts, it occurred to him that what he was doing was wrong, driving across town to wake an old woman up on the mere speculation that what she'd given someone had been a death sentence.
But something told him, something urged him to continue his pursuit of knowledge, even if it meant doing something that was frowned upon. He had to be sure, he just had to be.
He found the house easily enough, first house on the right off Cypress Street. A big tall brown house that looked more antebellum than Gone With The Wind, sat at the end of a long gravel driveway, standing out on a large expanse of fields and trees. He stopped on a section of the shoulder that was flat enough to park his car, some distance down the road. As he made to get out of his car he stopped to stare at his bag, sitting so innocently in the passenger seat with its cargo cozy inside.
John snatched the bag and slung it around his shoulder, pausing when he felt unnatural warmth coming from the sack. Investigating, he found it to be the drinks that held this warm temperature as he held them yet again in his hands. Holding to his ear he could hear a steady fizz as though the drink was boiling.
He stared up at the house, almost certain of what he was thinking, though completely outrageous, was indeed a possibility. But now that he stood here on the edge of Wilkerson's property he suddenly felt his confidence slip away. Was he really about to do this? He took a breath and a step forward, but stopped as a figure stood in the doorway of the house. Still wearing her work garb, the old hag stood with her arms crossed at the front door to her house.
"I told you, tomorrow Jonathan! Now go home!" She shouted, surprisingly forceful for one so old. He swallowed, and mustered up the courage again to confront the possible murderer of Jake Kensington.
"I need to talk to you Ms. Wilkerson." John began to march across the lawn, the icy grass crackling under his feet, breath like a bull preparing to charge. He soon found himself standing face to face with her, but despite all the notions he'd acquired on his way here, once looking into her eyes he couldn't see any malice that would betray her as anything more than an old lady that ran a costume shop and nothing more. But he'd yet to tell her the nature of his visit. "I really need to talk to you."
"Fine. Then come inside, it's far too cold to be out in this air." She darted inside with John close behind, admitting that the cold was indeed detestable. But in a way, he wished the conversation could've continued outside, for the depths of Wilkerson's home had imagery he'd rather not see an old lady's home.
There were statues, both big enough to tower over him or small enough to fit on a bookshelf. Each of them was a dragon, but they were all the same one. A great white dragon with massive wings, muscles that appeared large enough to rip apart its skin and a powerful stance as it stood on its perch.
Paintings of this beast also littered the walls, each great and small like the busts. Save one above the fireplace in Wilkerson's den; which had an absurdly tall ceiling. He stopped in his tracks as the glare from this creature sent a chill down his spine. Again those snow white scales against pink eyes, blue claws and a massive cock that touched his chest.
John blinked in surprise. A new light had indeed been cast on his perspective of the old lady. She saw his puzzlement and gave a weak smile.
"I splurged a little when I did that one. I had done him so many times with the other paintings and statues, but never could I capture the raw beauty of Rastaban, the Dragon God." Again, a new revelation, Wilkerson believed in worshiping a creature that doesn't exist except in the minds of man. Not that she'd outright said it was religious, but with all the art of this one dragon lying around John found himself hard pressed to consider it to be anything but that. "What did you need to talk about John? I was about to go to bed when I saw you drive by."
"These." He said flatly, pulling the drinks out of his bag, feeling warmer than before. Wilkerson raised a brow, as if genuinely confused.
"I thought you and Jake were going to spilt them in celebration of tonight's moon? What's wrong?" Her voice felt truly sorrowed, like she was concerned. Thus John explained the events that transpired from leaving her shop until the moment he decided to leave, and throughout the retelling Wilkerson grew to the point of tears, which made John stubble and fall and have trouble finishing his tale. He was unsettled by her emotions. In his mind he imagined her faking it or being rather indifferent to it all, but the reality of it was far different. Not to mention, being in a room with an explicit painting of a dragon made by a sixty year old woman sort of made him uncomfortable.
"I, I'm truly sorry John. Truly, truly sorry to hear this. This, its, its unheard of. I can see in my head what you're describing but I can't think of a way it could happen. I, I'm at a loss." She rested her head in her hands, pondering the goofy wyvern on the cans.
"As are all those at the Kensington's." John said. The old lady and he shared a moment of silence for a minute before she stood up, rubbing her arms in the universal sign for cold.
"I need something warm on these bones, would you care for some tea?" John didn't specifically feel like a drink, but felt obliged to have one. Wilkerson walked behind him down a dark hall and into the kitchen, were glasses clanging and buttons being mashed could be heard. He tried to focus on those as a distraction from the painting of this, Rastaban.
But, his eyes were drawn up to the painting's eyes. The way they seemed to peer right into his very soul placed him on edge, gave him goose bumps, and thus made him jump when Wilkerson entered the room.
"Oh, sorry." She said, handing him a glass of a darkly colored beverage. He took it in stride, smiling despite his embarrassment.
"It's no problem mam."
"That's good. If you'll excuse me, I've got to go upstairs and give the Kensington's a call." John nodded as she left the room. He sat alone in the den, staring down at the glass and its bubbling contents. He held the drink to his nose, curious, and found it to be rather pleasant smelling. He took a sip, which turned into a gulp, which turned into a complete draining of the drink.
It was only then that he had time to reflect on the taste of it. Rather on the sweet side, and tickled his insides as it traveled down his throat, almost made him want to spew up the brew for it tingled so. Somewhere in the house a door opened and closed. Wilkerson wasn't leaving was she? He licked his lips and found a syrupy taste to the drink, almost like...
The moment of clarity hit him like a diamond bullet. He looked at the empty class in hand, and then to the cans on the table between where he and Wilkerson had sat. John quickly walked over, popped the top on one of the cans and poured it into the glass. He froze with horror as the drink he just had matched those that poured out of the can.
Shaking, trembling, he dropped both to the ground as a surge of heat coursed through his veins, as if he was on fire. He grabbed at his chest as his heart began to pound furiously, and sweat formed on his skin. He had to get out of here!
He turned to run out the house but a wave of pleasure shot through him, making him go limp and drop to the floor. For but a moment he was unable to move, he had to fight hard to regain control, but once his body yielded to his command he saw that he had an erection straining against the fabric of his pants.
As he pulled himself to his feet, his legs seemed to operate by their own will making him stumble towards the remaining cans on the table. He screamed and yelled with all his mental strengths for his body to act by his command as he plucked a brew from its package and cracked it open.
"Fuck me!" He yelled, throwing one last effort to stop the madness and threw the can and the others against the far wall and then collapsed on his haunches, cock still achingly hard and begging for attention. But this was unnatural! Whatever poison Wilkerson had given him had been all the proof he needed to make his decision.
"If that is what you wish." Came a strong, booming voice . A glowing light ripped through the painting of the white dragon, and a great wind blew through the den, sending anything not nailed to the floor flying against the walls. John held his hands before his eyes to shield him from the blinding light, and to his horror, a shape slipped through the blinding crevice.
The White Dragon, Rastaban, entered the room, towering over him in an utterly terrifying stature. Those pink eyes against a narrow black slit of an iris chilled him to the bone, despite the fact that he felt as though he would spontaneously combust at any second.
His breathing grew into a hyperventilating state as fear took hold of his soul, driving out all hope and joy he had ever experienced and replaced it with fear for this almighty dragon that stood before him. There was an overpowering musk that floated around the dragon, despite the fact that, unlike John, he wasn't sporting a hard-on.
"If that is what you wish, then I would be more than happy to grant it. But I'm no friend to those who trash another's home." The dragon motioned with a claw at the cans flung unceremoniously to the floor. "I cannot abide by that, nor the filth that you are." The dragon growled and pulled its jaw into a snarl, saliva dripping from his great maw.
John scrambled to his feet and made an attempt to get away, but was denied the opportunity to turn around before Rastaban pinned him to the floor with his paw. John struggled against the strength of the dragon but it was utterly futile. The dragon plucked the cans from their resting place on the floor with his tail, observing them with an unreadable face.
"My brother has to put his face on everything. His ego will get the better of him someday."
"Please, let me go!" John pleaded, tears streaming down his face as the dragon's weight crushed down on his belly. But the White Dragon ignored him, taking interest in a ceremoniously plucking a can from its holsters, completely indifferent to how John tried to writhe and squirm his way out of his grasp. "Please." He begged again, only to be slapped by Rastaban's tail.
"Quiet filth! I do not tolerate you or how you've treated the fair Wilkerson. You do not waste a drink when it is given to you!" The dragon leaned forward, pulled John's mouth open with a talon and began pouring the drink down his throat. "Especially when doing so denies one's soul from entering the afterlife."
I needed it, but the human had proved resilient in denying my efforts to devour his soul and mind. But by his mercy, my lord Rastaban intervened. I watched through the eyes of the man as the drink slipped down his esophagus and into his stomach.
His shirt and pants grew taunt as muscles swelled and realigned. Skin pulled into diamond shapes, the beginning of my scales. The can emptied, my lord plucked another from the lot, the end to any effort produced by John to hold off my advance.
It was glorious! The moment it hit him my tail sprouted from below, my wings from the back and my glorious blue scales at last were mine to look upon again! I had control now as the human's subconscious lost his grip on reality and slipped away into oblivion as I took his soul for my own.
The boy had been dumb enough to not experience the joy of his final climax before he let go, leaving me with a diamond hard cock, and knee buckling pleasure coursing through my veins. Oh good things come to those that wait after all! But before I could attend to my needs yet another drink was shoved before my face.
"Drink." Rabastan commanded, and so I did. The dink was glorious, doubling the pleasure I felt in my loins, and making my hips thrust in the air as a slurped the last of the brew down. As I let the can fall roughly to the ground I looked up at my god, my savior but found no joy in his face, only steel eyes and disappointment. "It shouldn't have taken my help for you to do this." He said.
I whimpered, sorrowed to my deepest fibers that I had done wrong in the sight of Rastaban. Light suddenly touched my vision, drowning out anything I could see with a rainbow of colors.
And when they opened, oh, by his grace, I saw my home! The dragon's afterlife! It brought tears to my eyes as the vast mountains, mesas and plains stretched out as far as I could see. I, for the moment, could careless that my throbbing member had carried over into now from the hell that was earth, for the joys of at last traveling up to the stars had happened.
I saw a dragon approaching me, one with deep purple scales and a great smile. My longtime friend had come to welcome me home.