A Stiff Drink

Wings hummed and rustled in the closed space. The red of hatred, of rusted iron gates, fresh blood on paper, old blood on linens, a storm of crimson, mauve, rust, and brown rose and spiralled in the air below the dome.   Look how they glow, look at them flutter and flatter. So beautiful, so tasty.   Something wicked was watching the butterflies.   One, luminescing like a lightning strike at midnight, rested upon a leaf just inches from a scaly mouth. Blending with the foliage, the deadly J’aketa’ith reminded himself of the succulent reward patience brings. Gently easing his jaws apart, J’aketa’ith raised his neck, slow and careful. Vestigial wings stiffening, he poised for the strike. Yum yum yum yummmm, INTO MY BELLY YOU G-   Light stabbed into the room, falling on Ja’aketa’ith and his prey.   “Bessie!” a human screamed. “There’s a basilisk at the butterflies again!”   The proverbial fox in the henhouse, J’aketa’ith attempted to flee. All six chicken feet scrabbling, miniature wings flapping frantically, the basilisk wriggled, slithered, stamped, and hopped away from the blood curdling sound of the enemy: the baying of the sanctuary’s residential hound.   Through the hole in the crumbling wall, under the gap below the fence, and past the once sleeping canine, J’aketa’ith fled. A big black ball of rage and spit and fur, and most importantly, TEETH, rocketed towards him. Jaws snapped shut. They were supposed to be his own jaws, around a tasty butterfly, but that wasn’t in the cards. A bright hot pain exploded in the very tip of his tail, but he only ran faster.   Scrambling onto a street, monsters bore down on him at impossible speeds. Panicking, he hugged the pavement and prayed to scaly deities. Stinking and rumbling, a line of motorcars passed above, wheels skidding, metal skins gleaming.   They swerved, rubber squealing, rusted underbellies passing over J’aketa’ith as he flapped across the road. Looking back, he saw his pursuer lying in the street, a concerned motorist exiting her vehicle. The dog lay panting in pools of yellow light from the headlamps of stopped cars.   Feeling almost a pang of regret at the dog’s fate, the basilisk slithered from the lamplight and into the familiar shadow of a seedy bar. Feet slipping on less than clean wood, he darted past shoes and stool legs. Climbing the leg of a half-asleep drunk at the bar, he found himself atop the bar. Seeing the burly back of the barkeep begin to turn, the basilisk sat very still at the edge of the bar, attempting to look inconspicuous.   It must have worked, because the barkeep attacked the bar with a cloth, wiping broadly and sweeping J’aketa’ith off the bar. Finding himself balled into a stinking rag, the basilisk squirmed and writhed. Oddly, the barkeep must have been used to his dish rags giving a bit of fight, as he simply shook it out absently in the corner. The basilisk fell into a glass, then flattened himself as small as possible. Viewing the bar from the warped vantage point of a glass, he felt ill. He felt iller still when the barkeep whisked him from the counter and put him to the tap.   No thank you, I do not need a shower at this point in time.   Beer gushed into the glass, swirling Ja’ekata’ith in circles. With a satisfying clunk, the glass met countertop and slid down towards an expectant patron.   The woman looked out of place; her brown tunic bared her shoulders, her torso was oddly constricted, shoving her breasts into her face. They could have served as a shelf, though the basilisk was sure how she was breathing.   A solid red bandana covered long dark hair, rough beads and coins adorned her clothing; the basilisk was used to the bobbed hair and cute hats of most ladies who braved these kinds of bars.   Her lips pursed as she lifted the glass to her lips. She took a sip, then paused.   “What the fuck?” she demanded, slamming the glass down. Her hand plunged into the glass, seizing him by what remained of his tail.   “What are you?” she gave him a small shake.   “A bassssssssilisk,” he hissed, for effect, wincing in pain. “What are you?”   “A pirate,” she held her head high, narrowed her eyes. Plopping Ja’ekata’ith on the bar, she peered at him. “You’re no basilisk. A mutated snake, maybe.”   “And you’re no proper lady,” the basilisk cried, offended. “Who’s ever heard of a pirate lady?”   Ignoring him, she poked his toes.   “You’ve got chicken feets,” she slurred. Obviously Ja’ekata’ith was not her first beer.   Lifting a foot to peer at his bright yellow toes, Ja’ekata’ith looked back up at the pirate with a small amount of shame.   “But I’m a basilisk, ma’am,” he said. “Not a chicken.”   Considering this, the pirate brought her glass to her lips again. Eyes focusing on the beer, then on the basilisk, then on the beer again, she slammed it back down in horror.   “You poishoned my pint, shicken feets,” she accused.   “I did not,” he stiffened in offense. “Garden basilisks aren’t venomous, poisonous, or even very ornery,” he explained, hoping she would take pity. “I just want to go back to my garden.” Nevermind it wasn’t his garden.   “Sho you’re a pesht,” the pirate clarified.   “I am NOT-” he began, but shrank in alarm as her hand shot out towards him. Impatient, she shook her hand.   “Ahm Vanesha,” she said. “Wash’yer name, shneke?”   “My name is Ja’ekata’ith,” he said, gently placing a foot in her hand.   “Shakatits?” she attempted, frowning.   “No.”   “Shakira,” she said, perfectly.   “No, it’s Ja-eka-”   “Ohhhh,” Vanessa said. “I got it.”   The pirate beamed in delight at the basilisk.   “Ish a pleazzzure to meet you, Jake!” she cried, scooping him off the bar and heading for the door.   The basilisk could only pray for safety as, wedged under Vanessa’s arm, the pirate carried him onto the streets and away into the night.