The words ‘no offense’ often preceded something offensive, Cornell had learned since the M. This time it was none other than Sheriff Martin, a well respected older man known to kids as a grandpa figure. He was always helping organize parades and shit like that. Right now Cornell didn’t look on the Sheriff as a grandpa, he looked on him as an enemy.

“I’m denying any involvement,” said Cornell in a tone that he hoped was final. Words came out with odd tones sometimes, so he’d have to see if the finality thing was successful. It was not.

“Sixteen cats and seven dogs have gone missing in Sidney,” said the Sheriff, “and more out in the countryside. There’s missing dogs, cats, chickens, and a cow was found half eaten.”

Sixteen cats was excessive, in Cornell’s view—no town needed that many.

“We’re getting reports from here to…”

“To where?” said Cornell.

“Half way to Des Moines. This is a big problem.”

A problem for whom? thought Cornell. He only shrugged, but he wasn’t sure how that looked, coming from an alligator. He made a mental note to spend time in front of a mirror to see how shrugs look.

“Now listen to me,” said Sheriff Martin, putting his hat back on his head, “and I mean no offense—”

Again with the no offense. He looked through the Sheriff’s legs and spotted a deputy standing out by his cruiser. He must have been new, for Cornell had never seen him before. The guy had an ample gut.

“For your safety and mine,” said the Sheriff, “I’m going to have to take you in for a 72-hour hold while we investigate these missing animals.”

That didn’t take long. He had been an alligator less than six months and the town had turned on him. Every little problem was his fault. He had done nothing to deserve this kind of animosity. Sure, his appetite was growing, and a few little animals had found their way into his belly, but there could be half a dozen reasons for their disappearance. These humans had thought of him first, and Cornell found that offensive.

Sheriff Martin reached down with his handcuffs. Cornell backed up a couple of feet, and when his tail stopped him at the porch’s railing, he opened his mouth wide. The Sheriff backpedaled.

“You really arresting me, Sheriff?” said Cornell. “I played baseball with Tom.”

“Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be, son.”

“I’m not going,” said Cornell, trying for finality again. “I’m warning you.”

“Now that sounds like a threat,” said the Sheriff, reaching for his pistol.

Cornell didn’t move. If the Sheriff wanted him behind bars that bad, he’d have to shoot.

“Dammit,” said the Sheriff as he re-holstered his gun. “This isn’t over.”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

With those last words, the Sheriff walked down the steps to the front yard and out to his cruiser, which still had the lights going, like a disco ball of doom. Electric motors whined, wheels spun, and the Sheriff and his fat deputy were gone.

The following day Robert, Sr. came running up the driveway and onto the porch. Cornell was moderately sober, only having had eight cans of Easy Living.

“They’re coming for you, son!”

“Who’s coming?” said Cornell.

“The Sheriff is mad as hell. All of Sidney is talking about you.”

“They’re coming now?” said Cornell.

“No, not yet. I think they’re waiting for reinforcements.”

“I didn’t do whatever they said I did.”

“Cornell,” said Robert in a low tone, “a child is missing.”

“And you think…? How could you think I had something to do with that?”

“It’s the younger sister of Kaitlyn.”

Cornell felt the heat rising in his cheeks, but he didn’t care. He had already checked a mirror to see if that showed, and it didn’t.

As Robert, Sr. moved to enter the house, Cornell asked if he could bring some more Easy Livings. Sure, no problem. When he returned with said beer, Cornell asked if he had seen the Kafka book, which had gone missing. No, his dad hadn’t seen it. He could barely read, remember?

That night Cornell slept on the porch to keep watch. All night long silent hovercars glided through the sky above Sidney with bright spotlights shining down. Cornell assumed these were the reinforcements, probably from Des Moines. The local authorities didn’t have anything as cool as hovercars. He missed his HUD now more than ever. It would be good to see what was happening in the news and on social media. He wanted to know what people were saying.

The next day Cornell started early with the beer. He couldn’t think of a reason not to, so it was down the hatch, and it was a very big hatch indeed. He used the new technique of biting the can and letting the beer drain into his mouth, then shaking the empty can onto the floor. The operation took only a few seconds.

It didn’t take long for him to pass out. Some time later he awoke to the sound of talking from inside the house.

“I don’t have any more credit,” he heard Robert, Sr. say. “I’m maxed out. Samsa’s drinking us out of house and home.”

“He’s eating less, ain’t he?” said Robert, Jr.

“We’re saving money in meat, but it don’t matter, cuz he’s drinking more and more beer.”

“You have to keep the beer coming, dad,” he heard Robert, Jr. say. “We can’t control Samsa when he’s sober." There was a pause, then, "We should shoot him. Nobody’s gonna care.”

“No,” said Robert, Sr. “We’ll keep him drunk. I can pawn my tools.”

“I hope they come for him soon. It's been days since we asked them to take him away.”

A fire grew in Cornell’s reptilian belly and spread warmly through his entire body, even the long tail. Extreme violence in the guise of survival had been etched into his ancestral DNA millions of years ago, and it welled up now, strong and sure.

Quietly he crept into the living room, spotted Robert, Jr., and charged. He crossed the room in the time it took his quarry to raise his eyebrows in terror. He clamped down on this hateful human’s leg with a sound of snapping and breaking, followed by a shrieking that didn’t sound human. He rolled on the floor, around and around, detaching the human’s leg at the knee. It came off as easily as meat came off the bone of a well-cooked buffalo wing smothered in that delicious sauce.

The one-legged human dragged itself by its hands and arms. Cornell followed slowly to savor the iron smell of the blood trail. Ignoring the other human in the room, he followed the trail into the kitchen, where the human foolishly sought refuge. He bit the remaining leg and began his roll. The smell of blood was more intoxicating than the Easy Living, and the rolling and thumping and thrashing was a better high than any joint he had smoked, and he had smoked plenty before the metamorphosis.

Breathing heavily, Cornell looked around in satisfaction at the blood on the floor, on the walls, on the cabinets and cupboards, on the small table and chair, and, best of all, on the ceiling.

Returning to the living room, Cornell saw the other human flee out the front door. An echo of memory flared up momentarily in his reptilian mind, then faded just as fast. Father?

He arrived as a fugitive on the banks of the Missouri, into whose warm embrace he slithered. Let the hunters come.