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ANNUAL ADDRESS
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It was the occasion of the annual address by the King on the State of the Kingdom. What was usually about an hour long speech concerning the normal goings on in “Plunkersham Forest” had turned into a morning long tirade about everything from the rising price of eggs to the traffic congestion on the Renaissance Expressway. It all really boiled down to just one serious complaint; The Dragon.
That darned Dragon had been causing more and more chaos within the Realm. The populace in general was getting restless and demanded action by the King. And of course, you know where THAT burden was eventually going to fall.
All the Knights of the Wrong Table were present and all were privy to the Royal tongue lashing. All, that is, except Sir Wenchalot. He was, as usual, off merrymaking with some ill-moraled example of the fairest gender and his having missed the quorum call didn’t look good either. All the press were there and some of the dignitaries from neighboring Kingdoms had come to see “real” nobility in action. All were adorned in brightly polished armor with fresh plumage and one or two had fashioned new ribbon and banner for their crests. And ALL of them had been given the same after-shave for Christmas. It only stood to reason the entire crowd would pick today to douse generous portions of the stuff on their person. It smelled like a perfume factory in the meeting hall.
Bothered the press too. Since cameras were not allowed in the Royal Assembly Hall most reporters were attempting to sketch the proceedings and take good notes to be ready for the afternoon editions of the “Kingdom Crier” and other such “rags”. A great many of them were teary-eyed and sneezing while attempting to draw and notate. Frankly some of the stories weren’t very flattering. Some of the artwork wasn’t either.
As they penciled their versions of events and deftly depicted the morning’s sights, a low, nearly inaudible murmur began to make its way through the crowd. As the King ranted and raved the whispering took on a purposeful chatter and soon it was apparent to all that a plan of action was necessary to quell the subjects and restore order to the dominion.
Something was going to have to be done about that fire breathing carpet bagger! Why, just last month he’d shown up at the Jester’s reunion. Bar-B/Que’d two squires and a one-eyed Juggler before disappearing into the deep forest. Only a week before he’d popped up out of the night to wreak havoc on the Renaissance Expressway. Caused a ten cart pile-up and literally destroyed the new wooden bridge across the Somber River.
That bridge had been built by the Plunkersham Highway Dept. At great cost to the taxpaying residents, one might add. Absolutely no one was happy about it. Without that bridge the entire village of East Wackme had to detour to the old river crossing. Two horses and a chicken trainer had nearly drowned through overcrowding of the ferry. Attempts to put life jackets on the horses had met with disaster. And the horses were getting mad. The Queen had redecorated Plunker Castle three times this year already and each time the Dragon would come along and burn the drapes right off the parapets. Clearly something had to be done. Action was needed. Quickly.
By now most of the nobility had gathered in the foyer of the great meeting hall. It’s hallowed walls of stone and timber reverberated with incessant chatter. The Wizard, decked out in his “Sunday” robe, looked on from the second floor balcony. After a time he was joined by the King and the Bishop, who were themselves flanked by several Pages and a Jester. They listened intently as the chatter took on a strong and distinctive direction. Slowly, but surely, the frayed confidences of the metal’d membership began to give way to pride and purpose. A plan was forming. A plan that was, by accident or incident, manifesting itself as a hopeful scheme to rid the Realm of this awful menace. ONCE AND FOR ALL!!
The night air was cool and moist. An eerie silence had descended across the land and hardly a creature stirred. That is except for the movements of the Chivalrous heroes, steadfastly determined to banish that mischievous symbol of disharmony forever.
The plan itself was simple. Several areas of the village and surrounding acreage had been baited with things the Dragon had proven to have a penchant for and he was sure to take the bait and pay the village a visit in the darkness. It was felt his flames would serve to light up the night and disclose his hiding places to the strategically placed Knighthood, who were scattered about the village on “stakeout.” All was quiet now as the surveillance was in full operation.
Stepping carefully from alley to street, Sir Where’edhego eased up alongside of his steel-plated ally, Sir Bounderbutt, and whispered, “See anything Harry?” “No” said Bounderbutt in a low and cautious whisper. “It’s too bloomin’ quiet out here. But I know he’s around here somewhere because I smell brimstone!” “Yeah, but where is he. We should ‘a seen im’ by now.”
Just then the sound of heavy leather being dragged across cobblestones could be heard. Straining now, Sir Whoopsalot cocked his helmet slightly to one side to hear better. The darkness had taken on a surreal quality now. It was so quiet the mist in the forest could be heard as an audible hiss when it fell against the pine needles and the ground. Even the wise old Owl, normally heard from somewhere in the eastern forest, was subdued. Sir Bounderbutt had heard the disturbance too. Moving slowly, along with Sir Where’edhego, ever so quietly, they stole across the street and further into the village square. The sounds were coming in unmistakable repetition now. That fire breathing joker was around. Somewhere. Following the sounds and smells, several of the Knighthood had eased into the village square, sword and mace at the ready. All trying valiantly to maintain a stealthy silence as they moved about in their armored uniforms. Through the dense fog, the guys could barely see each other but they all knew they were in the openness of the square and their quarry was lurking close by. The smell of brimstone and damp leather was permeating the cool air and no one said a word. Each scanned his immediate area, waiting for a sign, a target, ANYTHING that would betray the Dragon to his assailants.
All at once, a bright tongue of flame accompanying a loud roar exploded across the civic center of towne. The flames had found their mark and Sir Bounderbutt leapt into the air, grabbing his backside as the flames heated his armored “tuxedo” red-hot! He yelped and ran around in circles, crying for water and ripping a cloth banner from one of the store fronts to fight the conflagration in his long-johns. In the fog he couldn’t find the fountain in the center of the square and ran headlong into Sir Dudley, who had seen the light show and had come running in an attempt to aid his renowned ally.
Next, the Dragon, seeing the panic and confusion he’d started, lit up one of the town’s vagrants who’d been sleeping under an awning of one of the businesses along the square. He never knew what hit him! He ran naked and smoking for the river, all the while cursing about drinking vodka and orange juice before bedtime.
The fog made keeping that fire breathing antagonist in sight nearly impossible. And the Dragon was making good use of the alleyways and colorful banners that adorned the festive center of village life. But he stayed close by. Sir Whoopsalot bumped into Sir Dudley and they almost “duked” each other over the head with their swords before recognizing each other.
About then the Dragon shot another flaming bolt of heat towards one of the Knight’s horses and he in turn kicked one of the Knights in the shin. While he was hopping around, screaming and yelling about it, the “Flamer” took the opportunity to turn Sir Where’edhego into roast “Knight Under Glass.” The Dragon then quietly made his way around the backside of the “Ye Old Feather n’ Wing” restaurant. Silently, and with a hint of smoke billowing from his nostrils, he crept up behind Sir Whoopsalot, who at that moment, was peering, sword at the ready, around the opposite corner of the masonry. He was desperately searching for the Dragon with eyes, ears and a dulled sense of smell.
The Dragon was eyeing Sir Whoopsalot from behind, without Whoopy ever being the wiser, and wondering to himself if it was unfair that he had such a clean shot. “Hmmm”, he thought to himself. Then, as if to render the point mute, a slight noise from another direction distracted him momentarily. But only long enough for him to decide this was just too good to pass up. There was nothing in the “handbook” about taking a clean shot, even if the opponent wasn’t looking. Dragons weren’t supposed to be Chivalrous. Just consistent.
Just as Sir Wenchalot was making his way up the cobble stoned street in front of the restaurant a roar and bright light illuminated the fog enshrouded darkness. Sir Whoopsalot came running around the corner, ricocheting off the opposite wall and yelling he’d found the Dragon and would somebody please “get him!”
The Dragon snorted. HE’D found the Dragon. Yeah, Right! He huffed under his breath and scampered off to find other victims. This was getting fun!
From the battlements, the King and Queen looked on as best they could in the fog. From atop the high castle walls they had a good view of everything except the main village. Fog covered most everything from the gatehouse downward. From the yelling and the commotion going on, it didn’t sound very good for the home team. The visibility problems, aggravated by “educated panic”, had made this an uneven contest in which the “Flamer” was holding all the cards.
The next morning, as the King and his “Emergency Management Team” surveyed the damage, his discomfort was evident. Four of the shoppes around the square had been reduced to splinters and cinders. One of them, the “Ye Old Feather n’ Wing”, which had specialized in chicken, had been a favorite in the Kingdom. Many would mourn the loss.
The Knight Corp hadn’t faired much better. Two were toasted and one was “grilled”. Two more had collided in the fog and had “duked” it out in a fit of confused panic. One was in “intensive care” over at the Tavern. The other had his helmet mangled to the point he couldn’t get it off of his head. Two Squires and the Royal Blacksmith were working on him. Several horses had suffered second degree burns and one of them had panicked and ran headlong into the King’s favorite ride. The horse was out cold and the carriage was totaled. Three more helmeted heroes were sitting in the fountain in the village square and refused to come out. The smell of burnt cotton and brimstone was everywhere. Scorch marks covered the landscape.
The front page of the Kingdom Crier ran the story and no one in Plunkersham Forest was more upset than Sir Whoopsalot. Right there on the front page, in glaring color, was a snapshot of him and the Dragon. Wasn’t even his good side. Both of them had that “deer in the headlights” expression and the headline read; “TOASTER BREATH WINS ANOTHER ONE!”
No one had seen Sir Bounderbutt since he took off for the river. Rumor had it he’d quit the Knighthood and had run away to join the Foreign Legion. Oh well, maybe he’d send postcards.
The Dragon had returned to his mountaintop lair and had plopped down on his couch. He didn’t mind the late shift so much but it was getting old. He rolled over on his couch and snorted. Nothing on TV. It had been a long night. But a fun one. More smoke eschewed from his nostrils as he turned off the TV with the remote. “HHeehhh!” he muttered under his breath. “That’ll teach’em to try an ambush ME!” He drifted off to sleep. He was pretty cozy up there in his well appointed cave. Curtains, a full kitchen and “cable”. Life was good.
For the Dragon.
(The reason Dragons sleep in caves is because they snore. And when a Dragon snores, they usually burn the house down!)
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