Written by Kaylee Kowallis
The glow of the figure’s enormous, luminescent eyes was dimmed slightly as its thick lids lowered and the face contorted into a sinister grin that was really more of a grimace. It’s raspy, clicky voice grated against Jern’s ears. “Your humor will be the death of your species.”
“Yeah, because your plans always work out so perfectly.” Jern’s fingers were working furiously behind his back. Locks and handcuffs, like sarcasm, had always been a specialty of his.
“Oh, but they do, do they not? You are here, trapped and imprisoned, and the fate of your species lies in the balance. All because that little tongue,” the creature made an expression of disgust at the word, “of yours had to twist itself into our affairs.” Jern stuck his tongue out and wiggled it then laughed as the creature squirmed uncomfortably and turned away. “It matters not. You are finished.”
“Your face is finished!” Jern’s shout echoed around the dark, bare room. With the lock holding him constrained now open, Jern kicked out and planted his boot squarely in the terrified face of the creature. It’s small, spiked frame flew across the room and made a wet slap sound against the wall. Jern walked to the creature and gave it another sharp kick. It went limp. Satisfied, Jem walked over to the opposite corner of the room, where enormous barrels with fluorescent caution labels were stacked.
Jern ripped the lid off one of the barrels, then pulled a matchbook out of his back pocket. “You’re wrong. My humor may be the death of me, but it won’t be the death of my species. It will be the death of yours, though.”
With a flick of his wrist, Jern lit a match and tossed it into the barrel. “Well, there goes the neighborhood,” Jern said as a sizzling sound and smoke rose from the round container. Then oblivion was unleashed.