Viva La Brea: Morituri Te Salutant [TWS]

>Shout a couple of times and see if she answers you. No sense getting up if she's not really in any trouble, right?

“Girlfriend?” You call, hoping that whatever is going on in there won’t actually require you to get up. “You got it?”

Scrrr

“….Girlfriend?”

ScccrreeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A blurry mess of rage and frothiness bursts out of the kitchen. It doesn’t appear to be wearing floral print so you know that this can’t be your girlfriend before she does her makeup in the morning, never mind the fact that it’s night. It lands behind the couch and freezes there, inches from your head as hideous slavering sounds issue forth.

“Did you put the peroxide in,” you say weakly. “You’re not supposed to overdo it…”

A cracked, yellowing crescent of bone punctures the back of the couch, missing your unkempt head by an inch. It stabs around for a few seconds as you lie frozen in horror, nothing that the surface of this unwelcome appendage seems to have a thin sheen of black liquid on it. You regain your senses and perform a rather pathetic roll just as another claw scythes through the entire back of the couch with a sound like a homeless person giving up on their dreams. Gaping stupidly from the floor, you realize why your late girlfriend never bothered to get intruder alarms: dinosaurs just don’t give a fuck.

You missed out on the obligatory “prehistoric” phase of every six-year-old’s life due to a hilarious misunderstanding about draft requirements and the Second Neo-Atlantean War so you can’t immediately identify the exact species of demon lizard eyeing you with a chicken-like malevolence, only that it has 1) teeth 2) scales 3) breath like a corpse fresh out of Manhattan Bay. It screeches at you happily, allowing you a fascinating view of the rotted interior of its mouth. It seems to be waiting for something.