Hello,Ladies and Gents. This is my first submission ever, onto this site. I've been lurking for a few weeks now, and I thought perhaps I should give it a shot with a short story. If you guys want me to continue with this, then please leave a comment below.   \{^-^}/

Dichali took a deep breath in. He took a step forward, the guck underneath the soles of his foot providing some resistance as he lifted it, and added to the cushion as it returns to the floor. There was phlegm in his throat,he fought the urge to cough, deciding to simply curse at the dust instead.

The place reeked of all the things he couldn't, shouldn't get used to. Yet, it reminded him of home.

He grabbed the bottle of malt whiskey laying atop the pedestal table. “Don't mind if I do," He laughed, giving Julio a slight nod. It was the man's drink after all, and Drake wouldn't do without asking the humble host for his grace. He uncapped the bottle, and sniffed it, its sweetness and roundness took him a little by surprise.

“You know, for a rat, you really do have fine taste," Drake mused, leaning against the table. Julio stared at him, but didn't respond. Drake shrugged. He didn't know what he expected either.

“Well, don't mind if I do, buddy," Drake mumbled, taking another swing at the whiskey, making a conscious mental note to sip it, and not breathe it in. He let the lilting sweetness lull the bitter warmth as it washed over his tongue. He swirled it in his mouth, forcing the alcohol to make his gums tingle, and then swallowed it, slowly. A chill ran down his spine as his throat and chest bloomed in heat.

He gently took a breath in through his nose, and felt his cheeks flush under the scales. He congratulated himself for not coughing, as he usually would at the first sip. He longed for a good Montecristo to fill sharpen the roundness of the whiskey, to meld with the flavours of the malt whiskey in his mouth.

Oh well, he'd just have to make do with the cigarettes back in the car.

Footsteps, and a gasp.

“Jesus fucking Christ," then, “Fucking hell, Dick,"

Drake Dichali turned to face his very upset companion.

“Have a smoke on you, man?"

“Yeah, sure man, but just,"

“What?"

“What the fuck did you do to him?"

“I shot him."

“A bullet couldn't do all that, for fucks sake, Dick, his guts are everywhere!" The doberman exclaimed. His tail wagging warily, and his ears turned backwards. Drake saw horror in his eyes, but not fear. The canine brought a hand up to cover his muzzle, and his pained expression grew.

“What the fuck did you do?"

“I shot him, and he," Drake shrugged. “He did that,"

“Fuck man! Fuck!"

Drake took another sip of the whiskey, and turned to meet the pacing doberman. The dog leant against the wall opposite of the corpse.

“Why didn't you shoot him again to make him stop?"

Drake never took his eyes of the dead man's entrails. He met Rommel's question with a simple shrug. A part of him wanted to see what would happen. Curiosity of the morbid variety. He let that dictate his actions. Or, more precisely, his lack thereof.

A glance towards Rommel and he knew the dog was on the verge of puking his guts out. Though, a litle less literally as compared to little Julio here.

“Come on man, we gotta torch the place," Drake softly hissed, reassuringly patting the dog in the back. “No way we can dismember that. Too many parts of him are," He rubbed the base of his friend's spine, trying to comfort him.  “Everywhere,"

Drake could feel Fernando shaking, his every breath short, quick, and quivering. The man seemed frozen in place, if not for the fact that he was shaking so much he could put a vibrator to shame.

“Yeah, okay, gimme a minute." Rommel mumbled, his speech barely coherent enough to be understood. The dog shifted his weight back onto the balls of his feet, slowing down his breathing in an attempt to stop his shaking. Drake was afraid his pal might go into shock. Fernando was driving, after all.

“That's great bud, I'll go grab the gasoline." Drake said, already making his way out. The dog was squirmish, but he tends to snap out of it really quickly. This might be the worst he'd seen so far though, he might take longer than usual.

Drake strolled out of the building, an old, dilapidated warehouse the rat made his home. The grass crunched underneath his feet, and licked his shins with dew. He took a deep breath in, felt the moisture in the air enter his lungs and tickled him to a cough. He was glad his throat still felt warm from the whiskey. He hoped it would spread throughout his body. His black oxford was not doing well in protecting his scales from the cold.

It didn't help that he was cold-blooded either.

Drake trudged to the Nissan, cautious of stepping into the potholes in the mud. He opened it's door, and slammed it shut. He sat back into the soft, luxurious padding of the passenger seat, taking a moment to let the interior of the car warm him up. The dobie probably couldn't tell the difference in heat. Drake could, though, his scales were showing it.

Drake tucked the bottle of malt whiskey safely in between his legs, and then opened the glove box, pulled out a pack of Camel's and a zippo. Rommel was going to need some more time to get his shit straight. It's not like they are in a rush, anyway.

He replaced the box of camels back into the glove box, and used his free hand to roll down the windows, the smells of the night forest just forcing itself in. Once the window was fully rolled down, he sat back on the seat, stretching his back slightly to relieve some of the tension. He took the cigarette from his lips, and brought the zippo lighter to the other end.

The zippo stuck open with a ping, a sound that he found some familial comfort in. He stared at the cigarette, and something in his heart twinged. He saw her in the distance, but not quite. Nausea swirled in his stomach, and his head swam in half-formed regrets. He tossed the cigarette out of the window, and pressed the lighter in between his palms.

His heart felt as though his blood has turned to tar, and he cursed at the cruelty of death and life, to keep a heart beating even when it was split in two.

He brought the lighter to his nose, and took a deep breath in.

He could still that stupid fur conditioner she used.

Her lilac perfume.

He could still feel the rush of her fingers against his.

Her fur against his scales.

The last kiss, that was never to be.

He closed his eyes gently, and clenched his fist around the zippo.

He couldn't change. Not even for her.

For a moment, he felt a flash of anger rush through him. He failed her. He failed himself.

He replaced it back into the glove box, and tried to drown her voice out. It haunted him then, that the last emotion she felt was of betrayal.

Drake to a moment to clear his head, stirring his thoughts into nothingness. He pocketed the lighter, careful not to scratch its surface. He got around to the boot of the car, pulled it open, and grabbed two of the 4 jugs of gasoline, one in each hand.

Amongst the still trees and the chirping of wildlife, Drake felt very lost. The damp earth combined with old fallen leaves. Stagnant water collecting in the holes of dead logs. The petrichoric scent of of wild jasmine. Animals that populate the forest, of their dung and their scents.

As he stepped closer towards the warehouse, he could pick up the scent of steel. The scent of blood, entrails and barf. Sweat, and fear, anger, hate, distrust and horror. It was all melded together, as though a cacophany of pain and suffering and twisted delight. It was terrible, but he could taste it on his tongue, almost threatening to go down his throat. It tasted desperate. It tasted deliberate. It tasted unique. Drake felt that there was nothing like it. If there was one thing he could compare it to, it would be to

The Scent Of Rust.

There you go, folks. I apologize for the rather abrupt ending, I just can't think of anything. Feedback is always welcome, so leave a comment below!