The Glasses by Clara

“How long till I can have my interview?” thought Jane. It had been two hours since Mark had finished his. “That’s it! I can’t take it any longer!” she said to herself, and she burst through the heavy oak door. What was inside made her scream. The stench was unbearable. Indescribable. One of Britain’s most powerful entrepreneurs was dead. Head back. Eyes screaming. Dead. Sitting on his desk was a St. Bernard with sharp teeth. Its teeth looked deadly. Its teeth had blood dripping down to a puddle of its victim’s blood. And the dog was wearing glasses. His glasses.