“Oh, let's give the little dears some company on their first and final performance with the Kannibal Krowes! We found they had a little pet!' Rick craned his neck over to see her hand make a flourishing movement towards a door. A burly man who smelled of onions and smoke pushed in their Fang-Monger.
It sat in its water, bobbing, its eyes cast about the crowd with the disinterest that only wild animals can muster. The crowd oohed, then went back to betting, which changed only slightly with the addition of this unknown floating... thing.
The music came on again, and like a switch, the pigeons became much more agitated. Some started flying from perch to perch, from skull to skull. Rick could smell them musty: covered over by a thick blanket of rotting ground beef.
Mary screamed. Rick whipped his head around to look at her. A trick of blood was starting down her cheek. A flurry of feathers, and then another pinprick of blood started out from her forehead. This was going to take much longer than Rick first thought. A sharp prick came from his arm. He closed his eyes tight. The flurries came quicker. Mary's whimpering started to become a scream. Rick, feeling pain from every direction and blood trickling everywhere, started to moan. The pain kept at him, new pain, old pain. shallow cuts, deeper plunges of hungry beaks.
Then something bumped the Fang Monger, Rick heard the gentle sloshing of water. The flurries stopped.
He opened his eyes. He tried to focus through the tears.
The birds had all went back to their skulls. Many with bright red flecks on their beaks and breast feathers. The Fang Monger was no longer lazing about in his water. The glass capsule had faded away, and he hovered, suspended, with his water still wrapped around him as if the glass was still there.
The water spread out in a disc. Little rivers coursed through the air, searching for something. They found a spectator, ripped him from his seat, and pulled him towards the gaping mouth of the Fang Monger, which became grossly large. Covering the inside of the mouth were thin needle teeth, and as far as Rick could see, that's all there was. The man was tossed into the mouth. His screams were soon joined by the rest of the spectators scrambling to get off the bleachers with their lives. The water tendrils shot out, now innumerable to count, grabbing spectators, and now pigeons, and throwing them into an ever widening maw. The gnashing of bone and muscle was barely heard above the frantic screams and wild-eyed cursing.
Rick almost didn't recognize Mary as she came over, off the board. “The pigeons got as much rope as they did me,” she whispered with those inscrutable eyes. Blood streaked down her face and arms, and formed little rivulets down her legs. She managed a grin. All around was chaos, but Rick knew it was now or never. He was pulled by Mary off the board and they ran for the stairs.
Not a single spectator had made it to the stairs, the Fang Monger was thorough. Rick fought the urge to look back, to make sure that Ms. Krenshaw was among the many pulled into the Fang Monger's gullet. But he knew they had to go. Get out of there before the cops came, took them away, and put them with who knew what sort of foster care.
They burst into their apartment. Wouldn't take too long to pack, thought Rick. He glanced around the kitchen, where there wasn't dirt was a dark olive green that did its best to rob you of whatever appetite you dared possess. He just started to smile at that something heavy and hard crashed over his head. He blacked out for a split second. When he looked up, there was Ms. Krenshaw, a twisted, wild look on her face. She raised the cast iron pan again. Rick searched for Mary, she had bolted. “Run Mary, don't look back!” he called after what was most likely empty rooms. It was what he would have said anyways, but it didn't make it any less surprising that she actually did it.
Ms. Krenshaw took another heavy step forward. Rick scrambled back. The oil and grit of the linoleum digging into his hands. The room faded in and out. There was little to be done. Little to hope fore now.
A loud crash.
Ms. Krenshaw toppled over, landing on the ground like so much raw ground beef. Rick winced in spite of himself. Over her stood Mary, in her hand was a fair sized chest, heavy iron with a padlock that didn't look entirely functioning.
“She didn't keep it in a mattress after all,” she waved the chest at him, “come on, lets get out of here.”