Detective Kent Larson-Knight for Hire

He ran from his car to the safety of his covered porch, but still got drenched in the process. The storm raged on into its third night, and he hoped his basement wasn’t flooded. He dug in his coat pocket for his keys, and lightning struck, illuminating his neighborhood.
Once inside, his muddy boots and dripping coat discarded in the entry way, Detective Kent Larson headed to the kitchen in search of food. The dim lighting in the kitchen reflected Kent’s mood. After slamming cabinets in his quest for a pot, he tossed a box of spaghetti onto the counter and set some water to boil. Outside the thunder growled and Kent felt like growling too.
The Dawson case was bringing him down; he had no good leads and that asshole Dick Bentley took every opportunity to remind him of that. Never before had a case given him so much trouble, and he wasn’t sure how much more stress he could take. If he had to look into Mrs. Dawson’s face one more time, and tell her there was still no news on her son…
Kent shook his head, droplets of water flying from his hair. Don’t think about this now. It won’t help you.
Lightning flashed again, and Kent remembered how much he used to love storms as a kid. He would run all over his pappy’s house, pretending he was in the midst of a war, under siege from the gods, or perhaps a force of alien warriors. Other times he would imagine the lightning was the fiery breath of a great dragon and only he, Sir Kent, could save the realm.
Kent laughed, remembering the way he’d run around using pappy’s frying pan as a shield. Then he sighed, why couldn’t life still be that much fun? If only he still had such a vibrant imagination. He tried to remember the last time he went out for a drink, or even laughed.
He slumped into a chair. Is this what I’m destined to be? Some dead-end detective, devoid of happiness? I haven’t talked to my friends in over a month, I’ve got no girlfriend, hell, I can’t even keep a dog. With a scowl he remembered how McGruff had run away. My career is kicking my ass and I haven’t had fun since god knows when. My colleagues think I’m a joke…
That jerk Bentley probably never sat alone in his dingy kitchen pitying himself. He was the top detective in the precinct; everyone in the whole goddamn city seemed to love him.
Lightning flashed again as Kent’s fist slammed on the table. “Enough!” his voice seemed to echo through the house, and suddenly he was on his feet. He grabbed the pasta spoon off the counter and the strainer out of the sink, impulsively plopping it onto his head. He burst out the front door and onto the porch.
The wind whipped rain into his face as the storm grew more violent. “Back you beast!” Kent shouted into the storm.
Ahead of him loomed the biggest dragon he’d ever seen, but he would not back down. Holding his head high, Sir Kent though of how the king had pleaded for his help. Even Sir Bentley, the land’s most beloved knight, had failed to slay the dragon.
I shall not fail you, Sir Kent had told his king.
Fire rained from the sky, but Sir Kent’s shield protected him. He jumped from the porch and landed in the mud with a splat. The dragon howled and the brave knight felt its foul breath on his face. Raising his sword he slashed once, twice, and ho! he had blinded the beast! Darting this way and that to avoid the stumbling beast and its lashing tail, Sir Kent ignored the rain pounding against his helm.
With a fierce cry he jumped and slashed at the beast again, narrowly missing a bout of flame. Dragon’s fire raged against the night sky and the beast was howling endlessly. But valiant Sir Kent would prevail!
He wished he’d brought his bow and arrows, but his mighty sword would have to do. As he slashed and parried, the dragon grew weaker; the end was nigh. Sir Kent prepared to deliver the hellion’s death blow and he raised his sword to strike and…slipped in the mud.
Falling on his ass in a large puddle, the pasta strainer slipping from his head, Kent swore. The dragon was gone and replaced with the reality of a severe lightning storm. His sword was not a sword, but a large plastic spoon. He was soaked to the bone and now covered in mud, along with his strainer and spoon. With a bitter laugh he wondered what the hell he was doing. He hoped none of his neighbors had seen him running around in the storm with kitchen accessories.
Grumbling about what an idiot he was, Kent stood and went back inside. Back in the real world the pasta water had boiled and was now bubbling over the pot and onto the stove and floor. With a defeated sigh, Kent shut off the stove and headed to the shower. “Some knight,” he muttered to himself.




So this was an exercise for Fiction Writing. We were given three words (I got spoon, jealousy, and lightning) and we had to write a story about it. This obviously isn't a full story (though I'm sure with work I could turn it into a short one), but our teacher didn't specify a length. I like it ^_^