BEHOLD, it is the end of The Draconian Letters Book Two! Savor the end. If you cry, we will be providing complimentary tissue boxes to your left, right, and/or front. In case of cabin decompression, gas masks will drop from the ceiling. If you have a child with you, please secure your own mask before helping them. In case of emergency, the seat cushions can be used as life rafts.
Anyway, here is the last letter of BOOK TWO, written by Scaligar.
Enjoy, and thank you for reading.
Don't forget to be here November 1st for the premiere of Water Under the Bridge, our newest series!
My dear Smok,
It has come to my attention that in the aftermath of the gigantic debacle Semithino’s idiotic antics have caused, it may be best for me to lay low for a while. I left off in my last letter with my escape from that horrendous prison in which I was imprisoned. As an escaped convict, I had to deal with Trubodox’s underwater grunts and bubbles, which surely meant, “ARE WE THERE YET?!” to which I would reply with some Morse-code bursts meaning, “SHUT UP, I SHOULDN’T HAVE EVEN BROUGHT YOU WITH ME.”
I actually had quite the escape planned. Didn’t even have to hitchhike along Skyway 95. The last place they look for dragons is the water. Thus, having escaped the authorities by the help of a gang of mudtoads who owed me a favor, I made my way to Frizid.
It is frigid in Frizid.
If you’d recall, I’ve had bad experiences with the province I currently inhabit. That is why I chose it. The law will never find me in my least favorite province. Actually I’m pretty sure it’s everybody’s least favorite province. So, I have taken refuge with Cousin X--you remember Cousin X?--whose hospitality I have appreciated, despite my nearly dying of frostbite when a power outage caused the heating to shut off at eleven o’clock last night.
As you can probably tell, Smok, this is not a permanent solution. Despite laying several false trails for the authorities to find, I have decided it best to sell my cave and move.
That’s right, Smok. I am leaving.
Far be it from me to burden you with the pains of my departure, Smok. Even as I write this letter, I shed tears of doubt and depression which make my heart tremble to the very core (I’ve booked an appointment with a cardiologist, don’t worry). As I pen this missal, it may very well be my last to you, Smok. I may never return from this, this long and heartfelt crusade. I’ll be down South where it’s sunny, but my heart will be shadowed with the ice of the most extreme guilt.
I had never thought that this time would come, my dear Smok, when I would have to say goodbye.
But it has. The time has come, my nephew, for me to cease all mentoring. It’s been a fun, fun ride, but as you know, all rollercoaster rides must come to a stop (especially when we’ve flown off the rails along the way).
Shortly after receiving this letter, you may hear that I have hung myself. That is because I will be faking my death. My compatriate Rexrei Wythwave, my oldest friend, will be executing my will.
Basically, all my belongings are going to you, and my cave is going on the market for 300,000 hoarded jewels. The money from selling the cave will go to Rexrei, who will wire it into an offshore account for my use in the “afterlife,” so to speak.
Unfortunately, faking my death will mean the end of all correspondence between us. I wish you well, Smok, as I journey into the next life, full of sunbathing, sand, and starfruit smoothies.
Also, I’ve let go of Xelle as my housekeeper. I did, however, give her a hefty severance package and high praise in job recommendations. You may well see her managing her own business someday. It will be a huge step in the movement for drake equality. That, I suppose, will be my last humanitarian gift to the world: enabling Xelle to rise to the position of power she is truly capable of handling.
Anyway, as for you, Smok, I have left all my belongings. Enjoy them and please, PLEASE don’t sell them all in a yard sale. That would be cruel of you.
I may drop by in a hundred years or so, disguised as a cave-to-cave salesman, and slip you a secret message through a handshake. But for now, this is farewell.
-Your serpentine uncle,
Water Under the Bridge