There was a suspicious look in his eye, as though I intended to stab him with it. Or maybe he intended to use one on me.
“Years ago I collected swords,” he said, rubbing his finger against the pommel. “Read all I could about medieval battles and sword-fighting techniques. But that was before I got all fat.” He then giggled, which quickly morphed into an uncontrollable cough.
“Let me get you some water, sir,” I said, rushing into the kitchen. There was only one clean, unused glass. The rest sat in the sink, caked over in grime. Once it was clean, I raced back to the old man, where he was clutching the wall, one hand pounding his chest.
He grabbed the glass of water and chugged it.
“The name’s Merril,” he said once the coughing stopped.
“James,” I said, offering a hand.
Merril had quite the grip. He pulled me in and whispered, “Worst case, we stab the injured wolf with one of the swords. Am I right?”
“Well, Merril,” I said, chuckling as I wiggled out of his grip, “you did say animal control would be here any minute, correct?”
“Of course,” Merril sighed, wiping invisible particles off the legs of his oversized pants.
“Please, come in.” I led Merril into the den, away from the mess in the kitchen. There was enough light in the den for me to get a better glimpse of him. At one point, Merril must have had a long mustache, as he seemed to spend a great deal of time twirling something near his mouth. The front of his shirt had a rusty stain in the shape of an out-of-control octopus.
“The life of a plumber,” Merril said, looking around. “Get called at all hours of the day. Seems like most of my calls come after the sun goes down, especially when I’m sleeping.” He then leaned forward, examining me. There was a look of disgust in his eyes. “What is the awful sound?”
Shortly thereafter, I heard it too. It was a metallic scratching sound. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen sink.
“Excuse me,” I said, making my way to the kitchen.
