To my friends at the Ashur police department:

If Timothy Weaver ever told the truth, it was a half-truth, and Tim Weaver didn't tell the truth often.

Asked where Weaver had acquired his extraordinary aptitude for skewing reality, most people would say something like, "His parents didn't teach him right from wrong," or "He's got a demon in'im." Neither were true: the fact was, he simply enjoyed lying.

In Weaver's mind, the thrill, however brief, that came from deceiving someone was incomparable. The knowledge that he knew something they didn't? Intoxicating. But the greatest reward was the intense feeling of control he experienced: stringing along credulous commoners and toying with them like marionettes; simultaneously manipulating their minds and belittling their intelligence with every confident word that left his lips.

Weaver frequented a small tavern. It was situated on a heavily-traveled road that connected two trading towns. The tavern served a varied group of customers: farmers, fishermen, and fur-traders, with no shortage of degenerates and criminals. He liked to come in and socialize with the non-regular crowd: he would spot his target and have a little fun at his victim's expense.

The sky was overcast one evening when Weaver decided to make another trip to the tavern. He left his house in the city and walked down the paved road, whistling as he went. Moisture lingered in the air; he knew it would rain later that night, probably during his trip back home.

Built a few years earlier to take advantage of the booming traffic, Clemen's Tavern was once a beautiful building, outside and in; but this last crowded year had taken its toll: the path leading up to the door was a muddy slush pool; the interior walls were caked with grime; the smell of cigarette smoke clung to everything inside the pub.

Weaver opened the heavy oak door with a grunt and stepped in the tavern, splashing mud into the already-soaked entranceway.

A few there that night, though not as many as a weekend would bring. The smells of alcohol, sweat, and smoke mingled together in an unholy trinity, and a low murmur of absentminded, sometimes drunken, conversation rose and fell in random intervals. He loved the atmosphere; it was more therapeutic to him than chirping birds or waves on the beach would ever be.

He moved instinctively to his regular table. A large painting hung on the wall above him. It was done in a strange, dreamy style, and depicted two tigers mid-clash, swinging their claws wildly against an exotic background. He fancied the picture: there was something fluid about the brush strokes that evoked movement and action.

There were a couple strangers there, but none Weaver was drawn to. A person had to have a special combination of weariness, openness, and slight poverty to attract Weaver's attention.

Time passed, and he drummed his fingers patiently on the stained table. He knew there'd be someone on a night like this.

The door opened with a groan. Conversation briefly paused as heads turned to see who it was. A tall, lanky figure stepped through the doorway with an air of bashfulness; he smiled awkwardly and stepped over to the bar counter. Weaver noticed his face: black and sooty; he'd come from the mines, no doubt. He sat on the bar stool with a weary, timid slouch, and Weaver could tell he was not here to converse, but to drown the drudgery of the day in the numb comfort of alcohol.

Two out of three wasn't bad.

Weaver stood up and sidled over to the bar, sat down on the stool next to the man.

"Hey stranger," Weaver said. The man turned his head and assessed Weaver with tired eyes. "You new in town?"

"Depends which town you mean." His voice sounded rough and unused. "Ashur, yeah."

Weaver smiled. "Hell, not my town, but I'll buy you a drink anyhow." He waved the bartender over and ordered two drinks. The bartender slid the glasses to them. "I'm Tim Weaver." He stuck out his hand.

"Murphy Jones," the man said, accepting the handshake.

"You working in the mines?"

"Yeah, that's it," said Jones, and he pulled out a cigarette from a pocket in his overalls. "Wouldn't happen to have a light, would you?"

Weaver produced a match and lit Jones' smoke.

Jones leaned forward with a sigh. Smoke unfurled from his mouth and nose, joining the black fog that hung about in the air. "You smoke, Timothy Weaver?"

"Not when I'm drinking." He took a sip of his beer and mulled the question over in his mind for a moment. "Otherwise, I prefer cigars."

Jones nodded absently, relaxed.

"So what brought you to Ashur?" Weaver asked casually.

Jones' mouth twitched upwards at the corners. "It's always money, isn't it?"

"I don't know. A warrant for your arrest is a pretty compelling reason."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Friends. Or -- former friends. You know the type. Messed up early on; never got a chance to recover; bum around for the rest of their lives." He took another drink. "Try to help them out, but they only know one way. Eh?"

Jones shrugged. "I'll take your word for it."

This wasn't going as well as Weaver thought it would.

"So -- money problems," he said after a moment of silence. "Where'd you come from?"

"Up north."

"My uncle lives up there -- sent me a letter not too long ago -- said there's a recession. Guess it's true."

"Hell yeah it's true. Factories laying off left and right," Jones said, emphasizing with a wave of his hands. "Can't even beg without your ass freezing to the pavement."

"Damn," Weaver muttered. He almost felt sorry for Jones. "Bring a family?"

"A wife and kid. You know," his voice rose slightly; "it's amazing how hard it is to get someone to move, even when they're in hell." He took a gulp of his beer and stared at the reflective surface of the counter. "But enough about me. Who's this guy who bought me a free drink?"

"I guess you would call me a fisherman."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. One time I caught one this big!" He stretched his arms far apart and wore a stupid grin on his face. "I swear!"

Jones smiled.

"You think I'm joking, but that's how most conversations go at the pier. Either that or damn war stories. Most'f them down there're old men; fought in the Great War, so they have plenty of stories to tell."

The bartender asked if they'd like something to eat. Weaver ordered a steak; Jones only asked for another beer.

"Any've your relatives fight in the War?" Weaver asked.

Jones shook his head slowly. "None that -- well -- yeah, my uncle, but I never knew him. You?"

Weaver swiveled around on his stool and leaned back against the bar edge. He brought his beer glass up to his lips and sipped thoughtfully, a mischievous smile playing over his face.

"My grandfather," he said. "'Tough-as-nails' kind'f guy. Didn't take bull from anyone; sort of fellow who'd give you a literal kickintheass if he thought you needed it."

Jones nodded in understanding and took a drink.

"Now, he fought on the front lines -- the trenches, gas, suicide charges; he was in it deep. I suspect he liked it, honestly -- is that a horrible thing to say? That someone likes war? I feel like I'm attacking his character, but hell if it didn't seem that way, the way his face'd light up anytime someone asked about it." Weaver waved it off. "Anyway, he told one particular story more than any other.

"One night after a fierce round of fighting, a few captured enemy prisoners were brought back. My grandfather managed to get himself alone with one of them. I'm not sure whether Gramps could speak German or if he had a translator, but this is what he says happened.

"He points his gun at the prisoner's head and says, 'I'm going to ask you three questions. If you answer all to my satisfaction, I'll let you live.' So the soldier, who I imagine is terrified at this point, asks what the questions are.

"Gramps says, 'One: are you German?' Prisoner can't do much but say yes. 'Two,' Gramps continues, and the prisoner sighs in relief, 'if I gave you this gun, would you kill me?' Naturally the German lies through his teeth and says no. 'Three: why shouldn't I kill you?'

"So the prisoner gives a long and drawn out speech about mercy and compassion and not harming prisoners of war. Gramps listens patiently until he's finished. Then he says, 'You didn't get the first question right' and shoots him in the head. Ruthless sonofabitch."

The noise in the bar lowered to a murmur and Jones drew on his cigarette thoughtfully. "So," he said, expelling a plume of smoke, "do you believe that?"

"I don't know," said Weaver. He slowly spun back around on his stool and began tracing patterns on the side of his beer glass with his finger. "Do you?"

Jones smiled. "Mr. Weaver, I've heard a lot. But with all due respect, I've never heard a man boast about killing someone -- no sane man."

"Well there you go," Weaver said. He emptied the dribble of beer resting in the bottom of his glass, then slammed the glass on the table. "I never said he was sane."

The bartender came over and slid Weaver his steak. Weaver picked up a grubby knife and fork and began eating. When he was finished he retrieved a toothpick from his jacket and placed it in his mouth.

"White?" Jones asked.

"It's bone," Weaver said, rocking the toothpick to and fro between his teeth. "Tastes better than wood; lasts longer, too."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. A large fan twirled above them with languidity, pushing the stench of sweat and drunkenness around the room. The white noise of conversation gradually dropped off as people left for the night.

Presently Weaver reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar. "Care to join me outside? No greater flavour combination than fresh air and cigar."

"Why not?"

The two men hopped off their stools and maneuvered their way to the door.

It was dark outside. The night air was summer-like, wet and cool; a breeze blew in from the west. Moonlight peeked out shyly from beneath layers of clouds.

Jones felt a raindrop hit his arm.

They stood out on the side of the road. Weaver held his cigar between his teeth and lit a match. The light burst, flickered, then waned, a beacon in the night, as he held the flame up to his mouth; then he waved it away, a wisp of vapour floating into the sky. He drew deeply and sighed. Jones was beside him, cigarette in hand.

"And," said Weaver, dreamy.

"And."

Silence.

Weaver looked up and blew smoke at the moon. "It's getting late."

"The hell with home."

"Yeah."

Weaver placed his free hand on Jones' shoulder. Jones squirmed and pulled away in discomfort, face averted.

"Have you ever seen a crocodile?" Weaver murmured. His head was bowed, eyes pointed downward.

Jones stood there for a moment.

"Where did you say you're from?" he asked finally.

"I didn't." Weaver's fingers twitched; he squeezed his cigar. "But -- south."

"South." Jones turned his head and saw Weaver's eyes, barely visible in the dark. And then he saw the white gleam of teeth, the sharp curve of a grin.

Weaver struck him in the face. Jones reeled back and clutched his cheek in shock: blood streamed in rivulets down his chin, his hands. He saw Weaver's fingers, inch-long claws jutting out.

"What the f--" Weaver slashed him again. And again. His arms swung until Jones lay cowering on the ground, his face a shapeless piece of meat. Weaver grabbed him under the arms and dragged him behind the tavern, into the deep shadows.

Jones writhed about, moaning softly.

It started to rain.

"I do apologize, Mr. Jones. It's nothing personal; it's primal."

Now Weaver's face began changing. Small etchings began carving themselves in his skin, becoming scales. A sickly greenish hue spread upwards from his neck, like a pox, a disease. His nose flattened and stretched outward, then fused with his mouth and chin. His teeth sharpened and grew, multiplying to fill the new elongated jaw. A faintly acidic smell filled the air as his eyes melted and oozed to the sides of his head. They solidified into small spheres, staring without a trace of emotion.

Weaver, his head a grotesque mask, his soulless smile mocking silently, bent down over Jones. Water streamed down Weaver's reptilian skin and slapped Jones' muddy, immobile body. Acrid breath poured out of Weaver's scaly nostrils: an ancient scent, cold and heartless and utterly savage. Drool slopped onto the ground as he opened his jaws.

Jones lay there, so helpless...

I bit off his head.

* * * *

My dear friends,

You really should've seen the mess. I mean -- wow. It's amazing how much blood can fit in the human body.

I want you to know that this is just the beginning. To be sure, not everything in the preceding actually happened, but I am confident you can sort fact from fiction: it's your job, after all. I will give you a few clues: my name is not Timothy Weaver, I don't like steak, and I don't tell lies.

I'm moving west. I would advise you to alert your neighbors. Oh, and tell them to be on the lookout for a man with long, unkempt hair, a thin face, and a height of about 5'8: he owes me money, and I sure could use some right now.

You'll find the bones of Murphy Jones in the woods behind the tavern. They are picked clean, however, and won't do you much good in terms of identification -- you'll have to take my word for it. I left a note there for his wife and child; if you could deliver that to them, it'd be splendid.

Keep your doors locked. I'll stay in touch.

Yours forever,

Croc Teeth