One Dragon with Left Beef
Nobody saw me. Perfect. Yearling calves were a hefty haul and risky because of it, but Shazar had nabbed the fat little (big) thing in her claws and it was hers. All hers! She caught it and the dragon would make sure not even the rats got a scrap.
A whiff of something drew her scaly nose out of the calf’s abdomen and Shazar froze, waiting for another breeze. Big. It smelled big and strong, and sent all sorts of alarm bells ringing in her head.
Competition. My food. This is mine, fucker.
Her whole body went rigid, and the basic instinct of keeping her food took over. Shazar’s jaws clamped onto the back leg of her kill and she drug it backwards, deeper into the abandoned Wisconsin mineshaft that was now marked with charred bones and scraps of tinsel.