It was late at night when everyone in the village heard the roar of the monster from up on the hill. Sleeping families awoke. Dogs barked. Horses thrashed at their posts. Birds flew off in a panic. Drunks in the pub looked up from their whiskey. Even in the brothel, eight naked men and thirteen naked women went motionless for a moment at the terrifying sound.
Keats, the little scientist, in his lab on the outskirts where he designed bombs for the big guys far away, heard the monster, too. He was always careful at his work, but the sudden, ear-splitting sound of the monster startled him so much that he knocked over an entire row of test tubes, all of which contained some of the most dangerous contents in the world.
As a result, he blew himself up. And the entire village. And the monster. Flames miles up in the air like a giant bouquet. No survivors.
People in the next village, thirty miles away, heard the blast, but it wasn’t very loud. A few people awoke, but they went right back to sleep. The birds still flew off, a few dogs barked and not one horse thrashed. Their drunks kept drinking and their brothel kept hopping.
