“Moooom, hurry up!”
The girl twists her coal-black pigtails around her fingers in rhythm with her feet, as her blonde statuesque mother paces behind her.
“I’ve told you, there’s no use in getting worked up, Patricia,” she responds. If she feels anything at all, her smooth skin and flawlessly plucked features do nothing to betray it.
Across the street, there is an empty lot, like so many on these streets. Construction and deconstruction are the lifeblood of the city. If there isn’t a demolition or a crane procession on any given day, then it is today. And today is the day The Cecil arrives.
Brought here by red lightning from the depths of hell itself, The Cecil appears on the empty lot, as a few families gather around it. They avoid each other’s eyes, one might assume out of respect, but also because who knows what might be passed down across the centuries.
The art deco doors open, and he is the first to emerge. His skin is hard and red, and atop his head are the sharp curved horns of a ram. He smiles, and his fangs drip with blood and joy.
“PATTY!” he growls!
“Dad!” squeals the girl.
They run towards each other and wordlessly hoof away hand-in claw.
Left behind, (as always) the mother peers at her golden stopwatch, and sets it for a 12-hour countdown.