The Velociraptor Chronicles part I

So. My creative writing class. Fun! Only my teacher prefers such somber, depressing literature. And gives us the most bizarre prompts to write about. Also, he seems to make a point of not calling upon me to read my resulting literary work (he calls on 2-3 people per class period to read something they have written. 5 weeks have gone by and I haven't been selected yet). So I decided that my goal in this class is to somehow incorporate velociraptors into everything I write from his interesting prompts.

This one was from the Photo Prompt: a Depression-era photo of a woman in threadbare clothing and a cardboard suitcase sticking her head into a taxi cab window, her back to the camera. This was the resulting work of genius.

“I can’t! I won’t!” cried the taxi driver as the woman leered over him, through the window of his car.

               “I’m afraid you have no choice,” she said, bringing her reptilian face closer. Her hat and thick hair framed the scaly snout that protruded from under it, her sharp teeth forming a horrifying smile. Her eyes were like headlights, bulbous and yellow, parted by black slits which the driver could only assume were her pupils.
               Hesitantly, haltingly the man obeyed, reaching for the documents that lay in his glove compartment. He kept looking over her shoulder at passers-by, hoping that someone would see through her innocuous disguise, but to all the world, the velociraptor leaning her head through his window was a simple poor woman with a cardboard suitcase.
               Velociraptor. He remembered being taught about those in his government training. Six foot four beasts that hunt in packs. Their claws could tear open nearly any prey within seconds, and their insatiable hunger for meat was surpassed only by their insatiable hunger for power. And, oh yes, their disguises had grown ever so clever in recent years. They could walk through a street filled with innocent people, and none would see them for who they were, unless one were to notice their obvious dinosaur faces. Granted, this was New York City, where looking someone in the eye was almost a criminal offence, so they walked the streets as if invisible.
               This one gave him no chance to avoid recognizing her for what she was. The long, leathery tongue flicked out towards him, as if to determine what flavor he might be.
               “The documents, if you please,” she reminded him through that seemingly endless row of teeth.
               The man finally gave in, and handed her the manila envelope which contained everything.
               Everything. The blueprints, the reports, the memos, everything.
               Three clawed fingers reached out from within her coat to receive the precious tribute, and the hideous smile, it seemed, widened.
               “There,” she said, “Was that really so hard? Now, Agent 2, I suppose I should be on my way. Send my regards to whatever fool it is who now sits in your superior’s office in the Pentagon.” The horrid head retreated away from him, those reptile eyes never wavering from his face, until it was entirely outside of his car. “Best of luck explaining all of this to them,” she added, and was off, shoes clicking on the cracked asphalt, snout held high, a hint of a satisfied grin still etched on her face.
               The man buried his face in his hands. He had failed. Headquarters would be attacked this very evening, he knew it. The fledgling experiment that of the President would fail. He and the rest of the FBI were about to meet their doom this evening – the ‘raptors were now one step ahead.
               “No,” he said aloud. He looked up, and it seemed a cloud lifted from his vision. He could still warn them. There was still time.

*             *             *

               “I know, Agent 2.”
               The words hit him harder than a fist. A flood of either embarrassment or relief – or perhaps both – washed over him.
               “You do?” He asked, and remembering himself, added, “Mr. President.”