My dear Smok,
It has come to my attention that you need a title. Your name has been, all these years, simply “Smok.” I have compiled a list of possible titles for you to don in your caped (or un-caped, depending on your preferences) crusade to bring amazificating jellificational sensationificatingness to the draconian world.
Numero Uno: Smok the Astronomical. Alternative, Smok the Astronomically Awesome.
Numero dos: Smok the Righteous. Alternative, Smok the Right of Way. I prefer the first.
Numero tres: Smok the Jock. Ill-advised, I had to think of a rhyme. Alternative, Smok the Jockey (if you decide to enter the Annual Drake-Sledding Competitions, or A.D.S.C.).
Numero Cat-row-row-your-boat: Smok the Speedy. Alternative, Smok the Flaming Wing (not to be confused with a chicken delicacy of the humans, often served with spicy sauce).
Numero Sinkhole: Smok the Strategist. This is advised because of your victory over the rogue dragons in Frostuay. Alternative, Smok the Stratospheric.
Numero Sank-Like-Lead: Smok the Single. This is a jab at you to get a girlfriend, before it’s too late. Alternative, Smok the Bachelor Loser.
Anyway, those are a few options for your due consideration. I have been pondering them, and I like Smok the Strategist best. It shows your best qualities, the specific qualities inherited from yours truly; the faculties of mind and quick thinking, as well as dashing good looks.
Anyway, you must work on your image as a contemporary dragon in a contemporary society! This means you must, through long and arduous hours of philosophical thinking, come up with your own plan to make the world better. Mine, as a thesis statement, reads, “Farm humans.” Quite a good idea, don’t you agree with me? We wouldn’t have to worry about the supply of the human population running out, and we could enjoy their tasty flavor all we want to!
Your outlook on the world should, as a given, be unique and specific to you and you alone. Thus, I cannot help you with that part of your life. Often it takes several hundred years of thought to perfect one’s outlook on the world. Semithino, I believe is still working on his. Last time I checked up on him about it, it went something like this: “Vegetable turkey burger human dragon moon sky rain world.” He’s probably ironed out the details in the three hundred years since that version.
Some more tips. Since you frown upon eating human flesh, and hold humans to be equal to us (a silly and stupid notion, you idiotic dolt!), I wanted to remind you that fish is the best substitute for human flesh. DO NOT EAT SHEEP! They give you cottontooth, as you may remember me telling you a very long time ago. In fact, Rexrei Wythwave, I am informed, has succumbed to that most unpleasant disease of the mouth, and is consulting Hurdek the Physician personally in order to cure himself of the awful ailment.
And yes! Happy birthday, Smok! You are coming along quite quickly. Last I saw you, you were a little squick, but the other day when you dropped by to check on me after my nearly-frozen ordeal, I could have sworn you were on a path to be as big as Belligast someday! Yes, perhaps a little thinner, reflecting your partially Eastern heritage, but you are growing to be quite grand, my boy.
Anyway, Xelle has been quite handy of late. She has begun her service as a maid. Despite her housekeeping skills and cordon bleu cooking, might I add, one of the downsides to having her around is that I have discovered a sizeable drake population encamped in tents outside my cave opening. At any sight of Xelle, their beautiful princess, they gibber in lovestruck madness and rush for the door. They have begun to wage war on my locked door, insisting that she be returned by her so-called “dumb kidnap dude.” I can only assume they were referring to me.
I fear that, however skilled Xelle turns out to be, Xunt would be the more conservative, less risky option. I do not like the taste of drake, so I’ve been concocting a scheme to run them all off, instead of my alternate plan of gulping them down.
-Your serpentine uncle,
P.S. I realize that Trubodox has taken a quiet and secret vacation away for quite a while now, but has recently returned, supplanted his stupidiotic stunt double, and begun writing to you once more. I must admit that although I was suspicious of a different tone I found in Geekadox’s letters, I did only think that perhaps the Terminal Bligardazash was returning to his head. Very well, then. Could you do me the favor of passing on my condolences to him for the destruction of most of his major belongings?