Literary Death
A Laguna
Loire Dribble,
Being 300
Words Minus the Title and Such,
And
Representing the Feelings of the Writer at the Time
Not Beta-read and Truly Pointless
By Beautiful Lady
Laguna Loire was having a bad day. He was having one of those bad days where he just wanted to kill something. Unfortunately, he wasn't in the military anymore and Balamb Garden patrolled pretty thoroughly around this area so the mean nasties that could have been around to slaughter were already dead. This was one time when Laguna didn't feel any gratitude for his overzealous son's patrol techniques.
The Palace had a pretty extensive gymnasium complete with punching bag, but that wasn't what he wanted, either. Hitting a bag—no matter how hard—wasn't quite going to give him the feeling he needed. Even taking a machine gun to it wouldn't be enough.
No, Laguna wanted to kill something.
There was only one thing to do.
He sat down at his computer and began to type.
The dragon he imagined was diced, sliced, minced, resurrected, burned, flayed, frappéd, stabbed thousands of times, resurrected again, tickled mercilessly, poisoned, drowned, and then shot with a canon. Close range.
He felt a little better.
That took the edge off. He decided on a boss fight for the main course. But what was tougher than a dragon?
A bigger dragon?
Nah, that was just plain overdone.
How about a giant robot? Promising, but lacking for sheer guts and gore. He wanted to kill something—literarily speaking, of course—that gushed blood. Something everybody hated.
Like a lawyer or a dentist.
He placed his fingers on the keyboard one last time. He took a deep breath and reached deep down inside himself for something universally hated. Something everyone wanted to kill. Something that made a nice, juicy satisfying noise when you took it out.
The giant cockroach, he typed, didn't see the nuclear missile heading it's way until it was too late to duck.
Oh, yeah.
The End