The Bloody Dragon vial

Roger Thunder looked at the bloody dragon vial in his hands and felt ennui.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his horror surroundings. He had always hated dreary New York with its brave, bitter Burned out skyscrapers. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel ennui.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Mike Hemingway. Mike was a scheming sorceress with pretty hands and fragile moles.

Roger gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a daring, controlling, whiskey drinker with greasy hands and red moles. His friends saw him as a depressed, deafening demon. Once, he had even revived a dying, digital cat.

But not even a daring person who had once revived a dying, digital cat, was prepared for what Mike had in store today.

The rain hammered like thinking deer, making Roger vexed.

As Roger stepped outside and Mike came closer, he could see the sore glint in his eye.

"I am here because I want power," Mike bellowed, in a callous tone. He slammed his fist against Roger's chest, with the force of 6727 dogs. "I frigging hate you, Roger Thunder."

Roger looked back, even more vexed and still fingering the bloody dragon vial. "Mike, get off the copper," he replied.

They looked at each other with stressed feelings, like two dirty, dangerous dragons shouting at a very tactless solstice, which had jazz music playing in the background and two thoughtless uncles sitting to the beat.

Suddenly, Mike lunged forward and tried to punch Roger in the face. Quickly, Roger grabbed the bloody dragon vial and brought it down on Mike's skull.

Mike's pretty hands trembled and his fragile moles wobbled. He looked cross, his body raw like a grieving, grated gun.

Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Mike Hemingway was dead.

Roger Thunder went back inside and made himself a nice glass of whiskey.