Crocodile Tears by Chazz Noble

Done. Finally. I tossed my wrench aside and tried to wipe the grease from my face. It smeared around, now a dark blotch, now a rain cloud on my face. I sighed and wiped it away with a towel. Have to be presentable, after all, to see one of the most important men in American history. I knelt and patted Boris’s scaly round nose. He let out a throaty, contented growl. I crossed my fingers and flipped the large red switch into the ON position. The large machine whirred to life.

“We’ve done it Boris!” I wrapped my arms around his thick scaly neck and kissed the top of his head in delight. He looked at me with his toothy, perpetual grin. “Now, Boris, we must go kill George Washington. Now now, don’t pretend to be sad! This is no time for second thoughts. Or crocodile tears!” I giggled at my wordplay. Simply Machiavellian! He let out a low hiss that sounded like a sigh. “Alright boy, into the machine, that’s a good boy. Off we go!” He shuffled his long body into the cramped compartment. I followed him in.

“Later, gator!” I giggled again, then corrected myself. “Earlier, rather, 1778 even!” I tapped a few glowing keys, twisted a handful of bright knobs, and pushed a few switches into the correct position. A loud whirr and a flash of colored lights later, I stood next to Boris in the middle of a bloody battlefield. He quickly snapped up the leg of a nearby corpse and began thrashing and snapping, as if he were actually in the water.

“Boris! No bite! Honestly boy, where are your manners? If we succeed, America will lose the way and there won’t be a president. We might have tea with the queen, and with those dreadful manners you’ll be sent to the corner directly to think about your actions! Now! Off to find Presi- Mister Washington. He can never be president. What a silly question! You already know why. Oh, forgot? You never listen to me, Boris! The presidency has too much power, and will eventually bring about the end of the world. It’s really quite awful! Now, be a good lad and point me to the general’s tent,” Boris replied with a disappointed grunt and a swish of his great tail.

“That big tent with the flag seems a likely culprit! No dilly-dallying now, we’ve a deed to do and it must be done if we’re to lose this war!”

We walked. I skipped. Boris crawled. Finally the tent was before us, and I was faced with quite the conundrum. Being a tent, and therefore made of burlap, there was no door upon which to rap my fist, and thus get the attention of the owner of the tent. I contented myself with simply shouting, “Knock! Knock! Knock!” No answer. I stood and waited, not wanting to barge in on the poor man, especially right before mauling him with a crocodile. That would be astonishingly rude. Finally, the face right off the dollar bill peered at me through a crack opened between the tent flap and the rest of the burlap. Satisfied I was not a British soldier, he stepped out and greeted me.

“Good morning young lady. How may I help you today?” The man looked very old and tired, much older than in any paintings of him I had seen.

“Good afternoon, General Washington. There is, in fact, one thing you can help me with. Boris, din-din,” Boris let out a loud growl and lunged. I stepped back from the thrashing and blood spray. Mission accomplished.