Odd Prompts: The dragon wore a sweatshirt that said, “Don’t tread on me!”
It’s time for the Odd Prompt! Today’s prompt for me is from Nother Mike, who brings forth a query about dragons and sweatshirts. Let us see how we can sink our teeth into this one…
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Jarago, Blood Lord of All, Keeper of the Death Chalice, and the Maker of Widows, impatiently tapped his foot, and folded his arms, being sure to show off how impressively large his muscles were. They threatened to bulge right through his shirt, and he hoped the line in front of him would be suitably intimidated enough to let him skip the maddeningly slow queue. Alas, no one so much as turned around, much less pay him attention. The humans, in their dull grey shirts, trousers, skirts and jackets, were fixed to their phones, or ogling the myriad collection of brightly-coloured cakes and pastries in the coffee shop.
Where has the respect gone? Where is the fear?
Jarago recalled a conversation with Lurge, the Ocean Master, and Sinker of Hope, about the decline in appreciation of dragons, and other mythical creatures. Lurge had bemoaned how downtrodden he felt, and Jarago had been powerless to ease his friend’s misery, for he shared their emotions. As the queue for coffee slowly shuffled forward, he cursed the day humans had decided powerful, strong entities like himself were the stuff of children’s fables. I should be ruling these peons, not entertaining them!
On the flipside, Jarago looked down at his expensive gold Rolex, and remembered that he owned the rights to his image and titles. At least I get royalties from these stupid apes.
His mood lightened only in part by the regular financial rewards, Jarago grumbled as someone staggered into him, in turn forcing him into bumping the slender human woman in front of him. She turned around, initially wearing a face like thunder, but she paused, and trained chocolate-brown eyes on him, looking him up and down. Jarago rolled his own eyes. The ‘other’ image problem. I am a powerful and deadly dragon, not a sex symbol!
The lady’s lustful look lingered longer than Jarago liked, and he glowered at her, until she took the hint, and faced forward. He shot a glance behind him, and a mousey-looking man, with messy brown hair, looked at him through frightened green eyes. Jarago bared his rows of razor-sharp teeth, and took an evil pleasure from the man’s increased anxiety. He turned back to face forward, and the queue inched forward, placing him within range of the baguettes and sandwiches. Jarago eyed a ham and cheese baguette with great interest, and his stomach rumbled. The lady in front of him thought she discretely snuck another peak, but he noticed, and he shot her a look of anger. Annoyingly, she seemed undeterred.
Irritated beyond belief, Jarago grabbed the baguette, and now the till was in sight, along with the promise of a rich, hot coffee. His sensitive nose sucked in the gorgeous aroma, and he sighed from unfathomable relief as the creepy lady collected her order and left, albeit she brushed by him far too closely for his comfort. Jarago sighed, and stepped to the till.
“Do you want that warmed up, sir?” the barista asked. Jarago grinned.
“I can take care of that myself, thanks,” he snorted a puff of smoke from his flaring nostrils, for emphasis. The young man in the apron apprehensively nodded.
Slightly less stressed, Jarago walked out of the coffee shop, and onto the busy London pavement. He checked his watch, and shoved his hand in his pocket, whereupon he felt something that had not been there before. He pulled out a small business card, and turned it over in his hand.
“Madam Fence, Purveyor of Pleasure and Pain for Mythical Creatures,” he said aloud, and realised several passers-by were within earshot. He sheepishly shoved the card, complete with its suggestive imagery, back into his pocket. “Oh, I bet it was her, how dare she assume something like that.”
Jarago shoved his thoughts back inside his head, and strolled under the rising July sun toward his apartment. He paused a few times, to offer cash to other legendary creatures who had fallen on harder times than he. Anger swelled in his soul once more, at the imbalance, and the injustice. He resolved to offer them employment, and mentally ran through his plan for vengeance. By the time he had reached his apartment block, and travelled up the lift to his floor, Jarago’s rage had reached a fever-pitch, and he tossed his jacket on the back of the chair at his breakfast bar, ready to unleash his fury upon the unforgiving, ignorant world.
The ‘business’ card fell to the floor, and he scooped it up. He intended to hurl it into the bin, but in his stress, Jarago paused. On the back of the card, the siren had written of ‘relief’, and as he trembled with his dark emotions, he reflected on whether or not he deserved an opportunity to vent. It has been a while…
Toying with the idea of making a call, despite his initial annoyance at the presumptions made by Madam Fence, Jarago picked up his phone, and dialled the number. A woman’s sultry voice answered.
“You have reached Madam’s Fence’s office of pleasure and pain, how may we help you?”
“I, uh, I’d like to book an appointment, if I may,” he began, surprisingly nervous.
“Of course, sir. Do you have any specific allergies or species requirements we need to be aware of?”
“Just one, both, uh, literally and metaphorically, I, ah, don’t like being trodden on, especially on my tail. I even have that on a sweater,”
“That’s cute. I’ll tell Madam Fence not to walk all over you, at least not too much. We can slot you in this afternoon, 2pm?”
“That, um, works for me,” Jarago replied.
“Excellent. See you there, and enjoy,” The line went dead, and Jarago breathed out. I’d better wear that sweater.
