Mrs. Falls a lot's Arc

Chapter 7 of 8

The dragon still stared at Buzz and Big Larry. His nostrils flared. Nuts saw the opening. The old squirrel dropped his beer, spread his arms, and shot across the arena floor. He darted between the dragon's claws, quick as water down a drain. The dragon snapped at him and missed. Fire scorched empty stone. Nuts kept moving, forcing the beast to twist and chase. It bought Mrs. Falls a lot a breath to think. She watched the dragon flinch each time flame left his throat. Sound rattled him. She turned to Buzz, who fronts the bluegrass band she played with back at the brewery. He picks faster drunk than most men play sober. "Play," she said. "Your worst. The ugliest thing you know." Buzz grinned through his beard. "Now you're talkin'." He tore into it. Big Larry blew his harmonica off-key beside him, notes bent and screeching. It was the worst song ever made. Strings screamed. The harmonica wailed like a hurt cat. The two hillbillies leaned into every sour note on purpose. The dragon's head jerked back. His ears flattened. The sound clawed at him worse than any blade. He roared, but the roar came out weak. He shook his skull side to side, trying to lose the noise. His flame sputtered. "Take mine," Buzz shouted. He shoved his banjo across the stone to her. This was no ordinary banjo. A metal spout curled from its body, and a nozzle jutted from the base. "She shoots beer. Pull the neck back and let go." Mrs. Falls a lot set down one beer. She hated to. But she grabbed the banjo and hauled the neck back like a bowstring. Beer loaded into the spout with a hiss. She aimed at the dragon's open mouth, where fire glowed. She let go. A hard stream of beer blasted out and hit the flame dead center. It hissed. Smoke poured up. The fire dimmed. "Again," Big Larry said between wails. She pumped and fired. Beer poured down the dragon's throat. He choked. He tried to breathe fire and got only steam. She fired again, and again, faster than she'd ever moved. The band played louder. The beer filled him. The great beast staggered on the cracked floor. His knees buckled. Beer ran from his jaws. The last coal in his throat went dark and cold. He crashed down onto the scorched stone. The impact shook the ring of flames. Then he lay still. Ignis Dreadmaw was dead. The arena went quiet. The band stopped. Mrs. Falls a lot stood over the dragon, banjo dripping, chest heaving. She picked her second beer back up. Nuts limped to her side and stared at the huge carcass. "You want permadrunk," he said flat. "It's not the fight. It's him." He nodded at the dead beast. "You have to eat the dragon." Mrs. Falls a lot looked at the mountain of red scales. She drank. "Then somebody find a fire."