In an unsteady hand, this is written.
After the boiling flood, the riotous sun appeared, and I leashed it and yanked it from that blaspheming sky. I beat the first man I saw over the head with it, and I wound up in a swarming county jail; I had a bunkmate who got too close for comfort, so I appropriated my toothbrush and stabbed him in the eye, and I drove the sharpened end of that instrument (I used a stone from the yard to hone it) into his skull. The blood assembled and escaped into the antiseptic bawling hallway. The Guards saw and entered, and I was drenched in red, enflamed, grinning, and I jumped, snatched a baton, and beat one, two, three, four of them to death. I seized the key ring and sprinted, jingling, to one door, then another, then to a glass-encased booth, and I took a gun and killed that one, and then I murdered the sleepy giant at the last door. Free, I stole a car and drove, and then I ditched that ride, a Monte Carlo, and then pinched another, an anemic green Fiero, and I left the owner bound and gagged because my pistol jammed, and then I hauled ass, and now I am out of gas. I am empty.
I am hitchhiking. I see your headlights.
Stop, please.
You’re my last hope.
I found his note taped to my apartment door.
None of what is written is accurate. It is worse than that.
My. Other. Is. Out. Side. Thinking.
The dragon is loose.
And people worshiped the dragon because he had given authority to the beast, and they also worshiped the beast and asked, "Who is like the beast? Who can wage war against it?"
I will deal with it.
You are not equipped to slay dragons.
Best to cower behind hardened bars and brush your teeth.