“You!” he barked as he dismounted. “Stay there! Keep those hands where I can see them!”
The normal-sized man with the tiny wrinkled head raised his arms. “These hands?” he asked.
The rider was all in black, with some thick and undoubtedly bullet-proof vest and an oily black gun slung over his shoulders. He reached back to touch this gun as if drawing some shallow sense of strength and security from it, which of course he was. He also had a small stone around his neck on a tether, a coldstone, and this was busily giving off purple sparks. But in the glare of his headlamp the rider hadn’t noticed.
This old man was strangely built, like he hadn’t enough head but had entirely too much neck. “The park isn’t safe tonight,” the rider told him. “You should return to your home.”
“Mind turnin’ that off, lad?” the old man asked.
“Sorry,” said the rider, and he reached up to switch off the pink light of the helmet.
“Yeh have somethin’ in your eye,” the old man added.
The rider pulled the goggles up and over his helmet. And then he winced when he saw that, while the old man was still standing before him, his head had just now disappeared.
(From Cold Cereal)