Warning: The vignette below contains crude language and is not appropriate for all readers.
Rex was itchy. Not like, could-scratch-it-with-a-hindlimb itchy, but rather needed-to-find-a-bigass-cycad-upon-which-to-rub-the-back-of-his-skull itchy.
Fucking neck mites.
Twenty minutes of searching later Rex found exactly the cycad he’d been seeking. A couple of pissant Pachycephalosaurus had staked it out but they scurried off long before he crashed through the ferns and bellow-tagged the spot.
RAWWWWWWWWWWR! Yeah, bitches. This is Rex’s cycad. He pissed on it just to make sure the next motherfucker knew it too.
Rex scritched the back of his neck for a few seconds and imagined a whole village of neck mites screaming for their lives as God’s vengeful asparagus came out of fucking nowhere and wiped their shitty little huts off the scaly map.
The settlers shrieked the same way every time he wrecked a road or ate all the sheep or crapped in a well. Then they had to wait until somebody pulled a seven and Rex got his marching orders to fuck up some other godforsaken hex. Until then Rex could park himself on a town and eat as many virgins as he liked.
You couldn’t ask for a better life, really. But it was getting a little old, you know? The island was only so big, and you can only terrify so many miners and loggers and bricklayers and shepherds before all the hysterical wailing loses its thrill and starts sounding the same. And sometimes he had to go to the desert, which sucked.
And sooner or later, he’d have to pack it in. Diminish. Go to the West with the elves. Everybody did, eventually. His brother Marty had been planning to do it as soon as nephew Pip was old enough to rampage on his own.
Pip! Crap. Rex’s bowels dropped. He was supposed to take Pip to the park today so Marty could get his license plates renewed. Dammit.
He gave his neck one last scratch, hastily Instagrammed the urine-soaked cycad (hashtag #watersports), and trotted off towards Marty’s cave. Ten minutes later he was greeted by a fly-ridden Triceratops corpse and a note scrawled on a Chipotle receipt with blue eyeliner.
HAD TO WORK AT 4
SO GLAD YOU COULD BE HERE ON TIME REX
God, Sandra could be such a passive-agressive pain in the ass.
The cave was packed full of Marty’s art crap. This month he was doing mostly freeform sculptures hot glued together from things pulled out of the trash, so the kitchen was dominated by a rickety mobile made from guitar strings and brown vinyl squares skinned from a recliner and a pair of bent bicycle wheels. The spokes were stuffed with a dozen used tampons spray-painted gold. Again with the tampons.
Rex searched for the hatchling, planning out his afternoon as he nudged cardboard boxes and milk jugs out of the way with his foot. How long could this take? An hour at the park, maybe, unless there were any hot females there.
Girls love a dude with a baby. They’re all like oh is this your baby and you’re like no baby this is my nephew but I totally want kids someday but not just right now cause I’m a firefighter and I’m on call a lot. That had worked four out of seven times so far.
He found Pip behind the dryer, eating a day-old didelphimorph ass-first.
Rex picked up his nephew, plopped him into the pram, and tucked him in under a blanket. Fifteen minutes’ walk each way would still leave plenty of time to smoke a bowl and play Call of Duty for a few hours before the night shift started.
Yeah, this could work out.