Friday, May 17, 2013

Book Two Letter Sixteen

I have lately learned that I am a pacifist. Of course, I’ve felt second winds concerning my path as a rampaging Dragon many times. But by the time my eighth wind came and past I knew my true path. I had been getting hints throughout my life urging me to take this cue, and an excellent example is my late encounter with my two…brothers. See it’s even hard to write on paper.
            I had decided to track Scaligar’s intercontinental flight to Semithino’s province in hopes of witnessing Scaligar’s offensive eviction of the Familé dé Crackpot (i.e. Remdrix and his foul relatives, a literal analogy in Gaertho’s case). The narrative that follows concerning Scaligar’s antics further concerning Remdrix and his cohorts only serves as another excellent reason for me to become a pacifist.
            I arrived at Semithino’s cave shortly after Scaligar, and his pro-hotdog demonstration was already in full swing. I witnessed the whole charade; Scaligar’s antics concerning the acoustics of Semithino’s cave, his use of the biggest hotdog I have ever laid eyes on, and Semithino’s short lived lesson on grammar.
            My reactions concerning my relative’s heinous endeavors were quite simple. I remained where I was, for I had by that time decided on the road to peaceful co-existence, I had found my Zen, my spirit place. I would not hurt another creature. Be he invertebrate I shall help back to his earthen domain, be he mammal, I shall endeavor to strike up a friendly conversation with him, be he lawyer…alright, I shall the draw the whole ‘co-existence’ vow at mammals.
            I would no longer be the pyrotechnic maniac that so many seek after, and I would never again eat a thatched house.
            No, I am completely at piece with my spirit. My every claw step shall be the stepping stones for countless generations to come…Bah. I’m over it. Maybe I will go back to eating straw settlements, but I shall take no responsibility for the spectacularly times semi-nuclear fission of Gaertho’s tobacco stock. A mushroom cloud of pure ­revenge, collateral matter, something. Anyway; I witnessed Scaligar’s hotdog prone magic, and the resultant smoky depth charge involving Gaertho’s now sadly transparent tobacco supply, and that is all ye need to know.
After this I decided to make my retreat while I could, although all subterfuge I had previously been in use of was now gone, as I had just sent the cigar-friendly equivalent of a nuke through the peaceable countryside of Zuul. I had planned to take an aerodynamic leap from my hiding spot straight into the wind to mobilize my escape plan. My sudden craving for hotdogs in the seconds preceding my launch was most inopportune. I decided to liberate several of the hotdogs from the tyrannical clutches of my brother Scaligar, but his placement of the alarmed trip wire, the rigged hotdog bar, and the explosive infused mustard tubs only accomplished the fact that my brother takes security far too seriously.
Anyway, why he had to dump me into the river and promptly bestow upon it the gift of flammable liquid is anyone’s guess. But I say truthfully that he deserved the spectacularly performed triple lutz kick that I planted on his skinny, runty flank seconds after I had escaped.
            The kick struck him with the sound of a thunderclap, and the subsequent popping of his knees, elbows and olfactory sensors (all of which I told him later bore an astonishing resemblance to the mating call of a rare Serbian mountain goat) merely served to mobilize his retaliatory attack which I crushed like an egg between two proverbial frying pans, and promptly dunked him into the recently cindered river, and once again refreshed it’s waters with both a wailing Dragon and a gallon of un-letted lighter fluid. The marvelous upheaval of pyrotechnic appreciation served to stimulate the required adrenaline to re-mobilize my escape strategy, closely followed by a maddened Dragon wielding a clump of water weed and a sledge hammer, whose origination point remains as the apex of mysteries. Although its connection point upon my bonce remains the apex of SEARING, INDESCRIBABLY PAINFUL BOO-BOOS!
Apart from that, I enjoyed a perfectly peaceable afternoon on and of your uncles’ property. Though, if I may be so brazen as to ask it of you, do not read the news for the next couple of days, as it is a wallowing pit of lies, profanities and pro-terrorist lump of ugliness, and their Discussions on Insane Dragons page has lately been updated with another batch of lies possibly including your uncle Scaligar and I. But I won’t admit anything, you can’t prove anything. You have the right to remain silent.
Concerning other matters I have heard that you have entered the Tournament of Energetic, New and Neurotic Incendiary Serving. T.E.N.N.I.S. for short, but that isn’t even a word. It is a deserving game, properly modernized and involving the exercise of a Dragon’s most useful attributes. Fire breathing and the ability to vent the anger of a full day spent entertaining three mother-in-laws on a small, aerodynamic projectile. The second attribute is optional in any cases, but I write from experience.
            I also heard that you entered for the annual continent-wide rally. I have obtained the written schedule for the event through circumstances that did NOT involve me holding the post office clerk for ransom and running through the streets, throwing water balloons chased by the collected law-enforcement agents of six collective provinces, and have noted that your third opponent will be none other than the world famous athlete Ratakis the World Famous Athlete, a world famous…barf. I would say ‘nostalgia much?’ but the receptiveness of that sentence causes me pain even bringing it to mind.
            Anyway, I may have to council you on exactly how to defeat Ratakis in your coming match with him in the T.E.N.N.I.S. rallies. And whether or not it will involve dynamite is privileged information.
            Your mysterious uncle,
            Trubodox the Scarlet

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