Dear
Smok,
I
have lately attended my annual family reunion. I have not disclosed an account
of this holiday in my latter years of communication as the very thought of
divulging those memories upon paper is horrifying. Also for several years now
the reunion has been discontinued, as the injury count, damages expense and all
around semi-nuclear state of it, (to quote the exact wording of a distant great
aunt Biggagutta Of The Lack Of The Need For A Title “this so called family
reunion is merely an enigmatic loophole for all relations to mobilize their
revenge on each other and an excuse for any Dragon attempting nuclear war’) has
subsequently ended these periodic episode of disaster. But this year I have
been informed that Scaligar restarted this scarring episode. I shall get him
for this.
The reunion was held on a large meadow
in Banroc, a province on the coast of the Dampening Straights at the southern
end of the western provinces, just shy of the southern continent. Thank heaven.
I would have retired before I was a hundred if the curse of Yovi would be added
to the c rse of th s cursory reun on, curse it, my quill is r nn ng dr
Anyway, I arrived early to the party,
curse my water clock; I had planned to be three hours fashionably late. The
spot had not changed much, although the entrenchments had been filled in and I could no longer smell the customary scent
of black powder. Odd, although Ixtor the Explosive hadn’t arrived yet, so that
stench was soon to come.
I learned that Semithino could not
come, his excuse being that he had his claws full keeping the cave from
collapsing as apparently Remdrix and his cohorts, er, relatives, had paid an
extended visit. In hindsight, the metaphor concerning keeping the cave from
falling in may not have been meant as a figure of speech seeing as Bortas the
Bloated had accompanied Remdrix. I feel for Semithino, bwaha, oh wait, no I
don’t! Serves him right for dodging out of this torturous occasion and leaving
me to undergo the experience alone.
Eventually the entirety of the
extended family arrived, all six dozen (except for you, my nephew. How you
managed to dodge this ballista bolt I am much wanting to know). My first
incursion upon insanity began with my conversation with my cousin Bellatos the
Abrasive. He insisted on berating me on my every failing, finding room for
aspersion in almost everything I said or did.
At last, after his final jab on my molecular
structure beings crooked, I gave him a wide smile, then clobbered him with my
tail, covered him in sand, then crystallized it with a single blast of my fiery
wrath, and then hollowing out some air holes just in case a flea wanted out. Then
I put it up for sale and sold it to a relative from Kokaslavia, an alien
province from outside the compass continents, all this I did in the space of a
few seconds. This done, I continued on with my quest against violence.
I next was stricken in conversation
with Rubiyub the Salesdragon, stricken as one is with a plague; a cousin so far
removed that he has to throw a rock to reach the top of the family tree. After
he tried to sell me an extra foot, a frog skin poncho and a portable dolphin I
managed to distract him long enough to melt into the crowd of other relatives.
This melting-into-crowd started off a disastrous course of events.
I first accidentally stepped on a Dragonlett
of infantile age, barely into his twenties and his ensuing squeals and screams
of protest gave inspiration to my sister-in-law, Hecta the Soprano, and the
following wailing demonstration of her singing ability shattered the glasses of
my aged old grand-uncle Diletrio the Poet, causing him to blunder blindly off a
small hillock.
The placement of the mine shaft was most unfortunate, and
he only saved himself by grabbing onto the sides of the shaft, but the
resultant din of cracking vertebrae spooked a nearby pack of wolves, whose
howls woke a sleeping Dragonlett, whose antics concerning the hat stand, the
Falafel tray, and the new-age dictionary only served to deepen the chaos of the
ecosystem of destruction that is my family.
On the bright side, I survived the
reunion; the bad news is that I don’t know whether permanent quill ink is
actually permanent (I hope it isn’t), and if Pogno the Golfer will ever get his
driver back. Unlikely, as I myself liquidated it, after his eighth golf ball
found and left its mark on my person.
Concerning other matters I have just
received a letter from Doraha the Explorer—a world famous discoverer who is a
good friend of mine—, which involved her pet talking monkey’s recovery from an
injury caused by a semi-homicidal fan, an involvement with a tribe of
pachyderms, and the plea for help concerning a vindictive plague of Dragon-slayers
who have been lately encroaching themselves upon her property.
This was no factor of great surprise
for me, as I had warned her that that ‘latest model’ valentine print cave cover
was bound to draw trouble before long. I imparted this judgment into a replying
letter and am certain that it’s arrival will remedy her troubles, at least
until they publicize the next ‘latest model’ of crackpot-crocheting.
I believe, my nephew, as all (alright, most) of the
erratic happenings of late have been subdued I believe it is time to continue
your mentoring to become a respected and well known Dragon of the age. I
believe whilst I was still in the opposite psych of Gargazath I attempted to
council you on your maturing Draconian abilities. From what I heard, most of
his mentoring involved butterflies, chewing on beasts of burden and
re-possessing other Dragons’ hoards.
All this has merely led to your turning from your
rightful training, which I shall be much obliged to carry out, as I take most
of the blame for swaying you from your actual objectives. Although I believe my
brothers took some part in you parting of the ways…Yes, all their fault.
Continuing from the subject of your erstwhile uncles, I
will be continuing you’re mentoring in my next letters, which shall concern
history, literary accomplishment, and the proper use of one’s Draconian
attributes. Although I hear you uncle Scaligar has already attempted to delve
into the latter category of your learning, although, having run over his advice
concerning such things, my objective criticism is that he really should be
committed, single cell too.
Your loving uncle,
Trubodox
the Scarlet
