As a kid, leaning against Rahman Dental Works, sucking on a Bomb Pop, ignoring the sticky blue rivulets dripping over his fingers, he watched a team of firefighters cut a guy out of a crumpled car with the jaws of life.
The guy was bleeding badly, but they worked efficiently, didn’t panic.
As a father, he watched his precocious son build dozens of kaiju models, working efficiently but with obvious great joy, smiling broadly with large gaps of adult teeth not yet emerged.
The drill arm of a Megalon lay at Doug’s feet, somehow still intact.
The carapace was smashed to bits, a Gamera only recognizable by a piece of flame mashed into the shag carpet by a shoe so brightly polished that Doug thought the body attached to it should be standing up in a wedding.
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