The monster smoked dynamite. He lit the wicks with whole trees. Once, a country begged him to leave. As he left, he puffed acid clouds in perfect rings around the top of their mountain. Fire hissed from chapped lips as he hawked spittoon lakes numerous as his cavities, numerous as the discords he whistled through so many holes in the mean teeth that there were as much teeth as holes. Every breath was like a bad organ player. When he left, he stomped off avalanches, and it must have been forever before he disappeared.
Little was known of him. Nobody followed him off. It got around that someone, though, told someone their vagabond cousin got close enough to know the glistening, black flanks were slick and dripping as a tongue in an easy girl's mouth. Whatever that meant. "It was ugly, and he was scared," they said he said, "but he bore it. But he wouldn't again if he had the chance." And then, they said, the vagrant closed his eyes and shook. And died.
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