The Lizard

It walks through the city streets, steel-toed boots make long strides down the paved sidewalk. It wears a trench coat, It’s face obscured in the shadow, two glowing pin-points shine out from an unfolded collar and a worn fedora.

People pass the thing by, unaware of what it really is. The evil concealed under the stereotypical detective’s guise. It comes to an alley and stops abruptly. Sniffing at the air. It’s shining eyes gaze malevolently at the starry night’s sky.

A homeless man sits in the alley, slumped against the side of a brick building. The man is dressed in a torn denim jacket, his jeans are ripped to shreds, he has no shoes; his feet are bruised and bleeding. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels rests loosely in his bony hands.

It approaches the resting vagabond. Standing solemnly before him now like the grim reaper. It breathes in a deep, exaggerated gust of air. It stands straight, like a soldier at attention.

Through it’s eyes it can see creeping tendrils of inky blackness. They emanate profusely from the homeless man. The man’s pain, suffering, and loss.

The creature dressed in black steps into the dancing tentacles. It inhales them through gaping nostrils. It’s reptilian eyes glow brighter then before. It feeds off of human suffering.

The lizard has walked among the beaches of Normandy, gorging itself with the violence and bloodshed. It was there at the beginning, when the first murder was committed, the first rape, the first war. A vampire, slowly draining the soul and emotion from the world. A leach sucking the vitality from the very ground it trods.

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