“Lord Drixol’s castle is aflame!”
“No it isn’t, it’s a whacking great pile of stone.”
There always had to be a literalist in the crowd. “It’s on fire.“
"His creations are escaping! Run for your lives!”
“Um,” said the literalist. “It’s just one creature.“ They checked their pocket telescope. “And it appears to be a sheep.”
“Lord Drixol made a sheep?”
Three humble townsfolk looked at each other. This was not the usual kind of madman they were used to.
“Ah,” said the literalist as if that explained everything. “It’s a fire-breathing sheep.“
This, they mutually thought, was more like it.
"Fire-breathing sheep! Run for your lives!”
“Head for shelter!”
“Ready the bucket brigade!”
It took quite some time for the dreaded fire-breathing sheep to reach the town. It didn’t do much fire-breathing, but it did do a lot of being a sheep.
The literalist spoke up. “You know… we could probably just shoot it.“
The citizens nearby glared at him.
"What? Mutton’s tasty.”