"Dude. You can't go around believing everything you read on the internet. There are people who purposefully post inaccurate information just to turn the tides of civilization. The entire fashion industry is swayed by a group of people who secretly have majority stock ownership in all the major labels. They say things like pink is the new black or Adidas is the new Nike just to get you to buy things. But, let me tell you, you don't actually need those new high-waisted whitewashed jeggings. I don't care what they say. You don't. So I'm one hundred percent certain that there's absolutely no abominable snowman."
That was just logic. Probably science, even. Then again, Rasmus was an ice breathing dragon, so he didn't really have room to say that things didn't exist.
He just enjoyed being argumentative.
Rasmus quirked a brow.
"A fan of dragons? What does that mean exactly? How can you be a fan of dragons? Do they have a club or something? Is there a support group? Are you one of those people that dresses up in furry dragon costumes and pretends to be one and insists that it's not a sex thing but it's actually a sex thing?"
And all of this was said with little change in his inflection, denoting that he was absolutely serious. He wasn't making a jest. This was, for Rasmus, an honest conversation. And a topic that suddenly had his rapt attention.
He shrugged.
"Dragons are okay. I mean ... some of them, I guess. Not those corrosive spit ones. Eww. When they drool it's a disaster."
Rasmus tried leaning closer towards Lucas to catch a glimpse of his file, but the doctor snapped it closed too quickly. Damn. He wanted to know if the clinic was hiding anything from him. He probably really was dying from some—
"Excuse me, what? I don't know. My drapes are from the nineteenth century. Moroccan imports. More like tapestries, actually. What kind of breakfast will you be serving? Croissants?"