Making Up Monsters writing prompt — Monster who met the devil in Georgia
“I met the devil in Georgia the other week,” Old Snapper says sleepily, sunning on a rock outcrop.
“Huh!” Kretla pauses in the middle of preening its feathers. Kretla’s somewhat like a vulture, and somewhat like a flayed human, and somewhat like a horrible bagful of teeth. “I thought the devil lived in Jersey?”
Snapper blinks a few times. “No,” they say, with the strained patience of someone who’s had terrible garden-path conversations like this far too many times already, “not the Jersey devil. The devil devil. I think. We were in Georgia, not New fucking Jersey.”
“There’s a new Jersey?” Kretla folds its wings, shakes it head in a settling-bird sort of way then cocks it, looking vaguely perturbed. As recognisably perturbed as you can look on a vulture-meat-teeth face, anyway. “What happend to the old one? Did it sink?”
“Did it — what?”
“Well, I heard things,” Kretla says vaguely, shrugging one shoulder. “About the ice caps. Global warming.”
“Anyway,” Snapper says loudly. “The devil devil. In Georgia—”
“Actual Georgia? Or is there some kind of new Georgia, too?”
“The devil! In Georgia! You know, like the — like the song?”
“I don’t know any song,” Kretla says solemnly. “The Black Sea’s nice this time of year, though—”
Snapper flails, like an angry lizard cryptid on their back in the desert sunshine who can’t believe what they’re hearing. “You don’t know the — that’s the whole POINT of the anecdote, Kret, you’re RUINING it, you ruin ALL my stories, I met the devil in Georgia because he was hiring a DJ for a party and he has to go to fucking Georgia to do it because all the musicians go there to meet him like the fucking tourists who go to fucking English churches looking for Dracula—”
“Well, that’s stupid,” Kretla says soothingly.
“YES THANK YOU,” Snapper says.
“—Vlad’s been in Melbourne for years now, hasn’t he?”
“OH, SO NOW YOU HAVE TO ONE-UP ME BY NAME-DROPPING—”
