Revised Dragon Tale

Sightings
By Doc Walton

In a southern part of the country with the dawn breaking softly, early rising flannel shirted men in boats watched both the skies and their bass-seeking, nylon lines. One of them, only the day before, had sworn to seeing a UFO. Catching a big bass would be nice, the others reasoned, but seeing a flying saucer would be even better.

Not far from them, where lake becomes swamp and swamp morphs into jungle, Livingston Laughsalot walked along a trail unconsciously whistling a happy tune not only because sad tunes are difficult to hike to, but because he was mostly an up-beat sort of fellow. If you asked him, though, Livingston would tell you that his name was a misnomer. He wasn't really a guy subject to bouts of strong laughter. He was a subtler sort, more of a chuckle and grin kind of guy or, at least, that's how he saw it. He had once considered changing his name to reflect his opinion, but Chucklesalot was a tad too circus clown and lacked the rolls-off-the-tongue alliteration provided by Livingston Laughsalot.

On this particular day, Livingston was tramping through the jungle in search of a dragon to mess with and thus spend the day in a pleasurable fashion. He was aware that dragon messing as a term didn't have quite the flair of dragon slaying, but the thought of trying to kill one of the elusive, great beasts gave him the Screaming Willies. And, if you've ever had the Screaming Willies, you know why Livingston gives them a wide berth. Screaming Willies are what happens to you when your Heebie Jeebies get out of hand.

Livingston had learned that dragons were fun creatures at heart and a lot friendlier than Saints This-and-That who were all about running them through with their swords or, failing that, blasting them with heat seeking missiles; this latter a thing in clear violation of the weapons accords signed by them and seared by the dragons a long time ago. Dragons would, in fact, play any game you could think of and especially those that involved hiding, hunting, flying and, in some cases, frying. What you needed to do, Livingston deduced on his first Encounter of the Third Kind when he was too frightened to move, was exactly what he was accidentally doing just then... stand your ground. If you did that and were weaponless, the dragon would begin to make little feints and short runs like a puppy encouraging another to play. After that, it was just a short jump to teaching the big green, winged, lads and lassies how to perform small tricks like play-dead, barrel-rolls and light-my-cigar from a hundred yards away. Any dragon worth his salt could shoot a lick of flame thin as a pencil. Of course, they could also scorch an entire building if they wanted to, but they seldom wanted to. They were in truth pacifists and only fought in self defense. One of the things they couldn't do was fly along while spitting fire, so put from your mind the pictures of them doing exactly that. They would have to fly into their own flames and that’s not likely to happen. You also will never see anyone riding a dragon, so perish that thought as well. Dragons would shake riders free as easy as you would flick a bug with your fingernail. Additionally, if you take a close look at the sharp ridges on a dragon’s back, you will see they are not constructed for passengers. Even if you could sit a dragon, the vacuum created by the down stroke of its wings would suck you off in a blink. And I mean your blink, not the slow, lazy blink of a dragon.

Livingston was in luck. One of his favorites, the dragon he had dubbed Fearful because of her at-first shyness, swooped out of the grey and landed in a clearing before him. She then made an exaggerated stage bow which caused Laughsalot to grin and chuckle; a clear signal to her that the game was on. She scurried quickly then, well, as quickly as a dragon can, into the nearby jungle in search of a place to hide. Flying, it should be noted, is not allowed in Dragon Hide-and-Seek unless one is playing with other dragons.
Livingston counted off the mandatory one hundred and then set off in pursuit of his pal. You would think that finding something as large as a dragon would be an easy task, but think about it, when was the last time you saw one? They have a way of treading lightly using their wings to lift their great weight onto their toes without actually flying and then folding themselves neatly into the jungle flora, becoming nearly invisible. To make the game fair and their discovery a possibility, they leave behind small scorch marks on this branch and that bush and, of course, their distinct dragon scent lingers awhile in their wake. On this day, though, while Fearful crouched in eager anticipation of springing out and startling Laughsalot into further giggles, another entity prowled the jungle greenery and this one was not in search of play.
*

Lord Snarly Flatulence staggered through the underbrush in something less than a good mood. He was drunk, of course, as he always was at this hour of the day, the hour preceding noon, and he carried with him the two things he considered essential to his daily endeavors, hard cider and really hard cider. He also had a gun.
The path from the pub where Snarly had breakfasted to his abode was often difficult to traverse as the jungle tried to eradicate it with new growth on a daily basis. This devious plot of nature to trip him up and twist him round combined with the Lord's inebriation was causing his mood to go from less than good to black and bloody bad. What he most wanted in all the world at that moment was to shoot something, anything really, so he could watch it suffer and die. This act he knew from previous experience would raise his spirits to the “I’m so happy I could kick a dog or beat a wench” plateau which, truth be known, was as high as his spirits ever got. Weaving and stumbling through the bush, Snarly’s foot caught a jungle creeper that caused him to fall. Face down in the greenery, cursing and spitting something crawly from his mouth, he nevertheless realized a ray of hope as his red, pocked and swollen nose caught the scent of something he knew at once. It was the spoor of dragon he smelled and it was strong and fresh. There was, surely, he thought, a dragon nearby.
*

Livingston Laughsalot being, as we have said, a playful and cheery sort of chap, skipped lightly through the brush alternately singing and whistling, “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off in search I go” a catchy ditty that a dwarf hiding behind an enormous mushroom had years ago put to memory and passed on to other dwarves who did the same with, of course, further elaborations. Eventually the song was co-opted and found its way to the sound track of a Disney film whose artists plagiarized from the fairy world on a regular basis and called it inspiration. Livingston felt it only fair to Fearful that he announce he was drawing near. He knew the sound of his voice would heighten her anticipation and add to her enjoyment of the moment when she would spring from cover and cry “Gotcha!” Gotcha in dragon sounded something like the world’s loudest beer burp, but Livingston had grown used to that eruption and didn’t mind. Pushing a broad leafed fern, charred at the edges, out of his way and noting that it was still warm to the touch, Livingston expected Fearful’s leap at any moment. What he didn’t expect was the sudden clap of a gunshot. Ducking instinctively, he paused for just a second and then, fearing for Fearful, he sprinted as best he could through the dense growth, hopefully, he thought, to the rescue.
*

Snarly Flatulence was a terrible shot when sober and only marginally better when drunk; his hand being somewhat steadier in the latter condition. Not being particular about what he shot - he being a member of royalty and thus exempt from both prosecution and conscience - he was not above firing at any movement in the bush with identification of the target a post shot consideration. It was, in fact, his preferred method of hunting. Had he on this occasion realized he had just put one over the head of Livingston, he would have been distraught at his inaccuracy. He and Laughsalot were not the best of friends. Although they were the only two residents of the area aware of dragons, this mutual knowledge only served to divide them. Snarly hated the beasts, Livingston as we have seen, did not. Seeing the movement of the brush receding ahead of him, Snarly realized he had missed whatever was out there, so fueled by rage and further gulps of cider to straighten his aim, he darted after his prey; darted being in his case, a loose description of staggering with intent.
*

Everyone who pays attention to such things knows that dragons are the most sensitive and least aggressive creatures of all the cold blooded species; the Bush family of Texas, being lodged solidly at the other end of that reptile scale. Having somehow taken only half the evolutionary journey from dinosaur to bird, dragons have spent the countless eons and ages until this one soaring through the skies and peering from high places at the small wonders that occur below. It wasn’t until mankind took flight in their marvelous, but deadly creations that dragons understood there was about them now a power that could conceivably threaten their very existence. Prior to man taking to the air, there had been little conflict between the two species apart from the occasional scrap with foolhardy, iron clad, sword wielding idiots. These never went well for the humans, but you wouldn’t know that to hear them tell it. Even before the moment when the first dragon was shot from the air, the gentle creatures had become more reclusive and nocturnal and thus, so limiting their presence to human eyes that they had become mostly the stuff of legend. Only in the densest rural and uninhabited of earth’s private places were you likely to encounter any of the beasts, or, as in the case of Laughsalot, actually befriend one.

Fearful was not really so. Fearful was merely the name Laughsalot had given her, having mistaken her natural dragon reticence for timidity. Fearful’s actual name, that is, the one given her by her parents, was Klaxgrezeck which, roughly translated to English would be Eats Tubas, a moniker so unlikely to be correct that we will just ignore it and go with Fearful. Fearful was, in fact, very brave, her friendship with Laughsalot the proof. Only the boldest dragons would approach a species as violent as humans had proved to be. Seeing Laughsalot rush towards her now – a testament to his own bravery – pushed her dragon adrenals to power load and she was ready for a fight. Using her long curved talons, she snatched Livingston to her breast and held him squirming there. She was urging him to be calm, telling him she had everything under control, but to Laughsalot her pleas sounded more like a NASCAR pile up, close up, than reassurance. His intent had been to shoo Fearful away, but with this idea failing, he realized he had no Plan B. Oh well, he thought, noting he was unhurt and so, reluctantly relaxing, let’s just see what happens next.
*

Fearful had no back-up plan either, but that was of little matter. Her A Plan was more than sufficient. Using her laser accurate spit fire talent, she scorched an area of about fifty yards all around to better see her adversary. And there he was, just beyond the burn area, fleeing into the jungle...if by fleeing, I mean falling, rising, stumbling, falling, cursing and like that. His cider flasks, being hard canvas affairs. were afire and Snarly was swatting at them as he fled, trying to douse the flames and, well, to him, save the day. His efforts were to no avail, though, as the heat reaching the volatile liquid sent it exploding into a burst of white fire and Flatulence was forced to abandon them. It goes without saying at this point that he was truly...and given his rank, royally, pissed.
*

The wide trail left by the fleeing Lord’s corpulent self snaked its way back through the jungle to a bar cleverly, perhaps, named the Trails End, from whence Snarly had begun his fateful day. He arrived there safely ahead of his pursuers and was now loudly decrying the fact that dragons were allowed to roam about bothering innocent citizens. On most occasions and in most bars, when a patron is bitching about dragons or other fanciful creatures, the bartender will immediately cut him off and show him the door. Especially, if like Lord Snarly Flatulence, the customer was a lousy tipper. The Lord, however, had been frightened sober and the bartender at the Trail’s End figured he wasn’t drunk but merely crazy, a condition that didn’t necessarily warrant being Eighty Sixed.

As Snarly babbled on while downing one drink after another, the bar’s other patrons, the bass fishermen in from their day on the lake, started to take more and more notice. They began to wonder if Snarly had actually seen something and wasn’t just a raving lunatic, although they were not ruling that possibility out either. “What did this, ah, dragon look like?” one of them asked, “And where did you see it?”
Snarly, now approaching inebriation anew, his natural state of being, puffed himself up and was about to elaborate when the entire roof of the single storied bar was suddenly peeled back and tossed aside, filling the air with wood and shingle debris. Most of the fishermen dove under tables or ran for the door, but a few, too frightened to move, caught a glimpse of Snarly rising through the dust and disappearing into a sky filled with...was that smoke? They would, later, be the ones to tell the tale.
*

It had taken some time for Fearful and Laughsalot to make their way to The Trail’s End, what with Fearful lumbering along, wedging herself through the trees, unwilling to take flight and leave her pal on the ground. This bit of time had given Fearful an opportunity to calm herself and Laughsalot a chance to convince her that hurting Flatulence would only bring unpleasant repercussions. What really needed to happen he assured her, for the good of all, was for the Lord to be relocated somewhere else; anywhere else distant would, in fact, do. It was not surprising then, to anyone apart from Flatulence himself that Fearful flew off to parts unknown with Snarly held firmly in her grasp. She would be gone for a couple of days, leaving no trace of her journey unless you happened to notice that marching bands from here to there were curiously missing their largest brass instruments.

Back at the Trail’s End, investigators didn’t know what to think of the fish story they were being told,; a story about a hovering saucer, a green creature, red eyes and a beam of light that sucked old Snarly up and gone. Nobody, of course, not there when it happened, believed a word of it and the incident was officially reported as a random tornado.

Doc Walton September 10, 2010