The last monster you shall slay
You were seven when you received your first weapon.
“It’s a dagger, mate, not a knife,” your uncle George said as you unwrapped the package above the bloody corpse of a gorgon in a dusty small-town street.
You swung the blade, stabbing it in the summer air. You made swooshing noises as your family smiled.
“He’s got it. See?” said Granny Claire.
Beaming, you turned to your dad. Bunyip Bill they called him. Even you called him that. He was a huge bear of a man, all gristle and grit. Stronger than his namesake, people said.
“A dagger’s not a toy,” Bill told you.
You turned the blade, fascinated by the way the light shone on the steel.
“We use these old blades because we’re warriors,” he said. A cigarette danced on his lips.