Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Letter Twenty-Six

Lately I have come upon the information through situations that I assure you did not involve mugging the postal dragon, I found that your blasted uncle Scaligar sent you a letter requesting that you begin learning Math. MATH! The bane of the true dragon, no self-respecting dragon would stand for that.
Such was my righteous anger that I at once returned to my cave, devised a devious plan, then flew on silent wings to your math-loving uncles residence to teach him a much needed lesson on the true dragonish ways.

. .

Here follows my account of the unfortunate and frankly embarrassing adventure at your blasted uncle’s cave. And I must insist that you do not publish this or tell it to any of my more esteemed acquaintances.

. .

I reached Scaligar’s cave soon- -my wings being the faultless, streamlined implements that they are- -and crept inside.
My plans had been to drop a bookshelf on top of him, but upon investigating his stingy lair, I realized he did not possess any bookshelves!
But after further searching, I found that your foolish uncle possesses strewn on his floor the tools to make a good sturdy bookshelf.
It took me perhaps an hour to build the shelf beside his bed, but as I was finishing, and hammering in the final nail, your cursed uncle awoke and pushed the heavy bookshelf over on ME!
Thereafter your puny, excuse-for-an-honorable-dragon proceeded to attack my defenseless person.
The fight that raged on after that was mostly one-sided due to my injured state, and contained many dishonorable moments in which you uncle stuffed boards down my throat, and leapt up & down on my back.
After this, he had the GALL to drag me to his stinking, smelly, unkempt cave-mouth and hurled me from it!
I need not record my journey back to my lair, it being the long and pained crawl that it was.
But now that I am back, I will not rest until BOTH of your insolent, sniveling uncles begs my forgiveness, and I have given them the thrashing they so richly deserve.
But for the moment, I must rest, and scheme.

Your seething Uncle,


  1. Oooh, this doesn't sound so good. I wonder what Smok was thinking.