#17 Flying away


I am hit. Yup. Hit.

A leg here, a leg there. Good job. That should do it. Now jump up and catch the bug.

Ufff…. Thud.

I fell down. The bug escaped my grasp. Darn it.

Get up. You need to get up now. Damn these legs. Don’t fuck with me now. What’s that humming?

Its back. The bug is back. Get up now you moron and catch it. And once you do show no mercy.

What did it do now? Don’t leave me in the darkness. Tell me. Did it hurt me? I don’t like pain.

Stop mumbling you idiot. Just get the fuck up. God you are making me cuss you like a faggot.

Stop it you shithead. My legs are shitting on me. My awesome footballer’s leg.

Ha ha. A footballer’s leg. Weak and pathetic. Is that how are they are supposed to be?

Wait. Wait. They are coming around. Yes they are working. Responding. See. They won’t betray me.

Good. Now catch it.

But where is it.

Oh shit. You lost it. You dumbo. You and your leg.

Gosh. Get over it. It was just a bug.

Yeah. As if a moron like you would know its significance.

What significance.

It was a dragon you idiot. A dragon.

Really. I thought they only existed in dreams only.

You really are proving yourself to be a moron eh. Good. Keep up the excellent work. Why do I have to see to these sissy matters?

Can’t you just make things clear; let me on this, on whatever is going on in here. I have to catch it for you na, so enlighten me.

Catch it first and then we can talk.

Ok. Where is it now?

It’s late now. You squandered the chance we had. I would have transformed by now. And if so it would be sitting there in those flowers there for you to come along hopping and catch it and put in a silly old bottle like the girls do.

In the distance a growl was heard and suddenly a streak of fire burned away the blushing roses and tulips in the fancy Grandmas garden. The Garden of everlasting memories. Turned to depressing, sour grey slowly sulking into the minds of the wanderers, eating on their thoughts as if it’s theirs to consume. Charred reds, burnt oranges, mellow yellow, deathly violets, oozing greens. The colors have lost their sheen. Their aura, their euphoria, their magic. Devastated. And amidst them, black sharp talons tearing on the dead appear.

It’s here now. See its power. Magnanimous. Adore it. Conquer it. And for that take this.

What’s this?

It’s a Camelot Dragon Catcher. Latest in its series. Initially built by the late Rev Camelot for King Arthur for his conquest of the notorious Nefarian dragons on the Byshell cove. Improved by his successors over keeping in line with the family tradition. Each one is hand crafted to perfection and there are a few of them only remaining. What you are holding now is something everyone dreams of having but few are lucky to.

What does it do?

You wanna know that don’t you. Well get your ass around and over here. Sneak up on the dragon, aim at it and press these buttons in this sequence.

Blue bells, red eyes, red eyes again, squeeze the trunk, churn the fang, red eyes and grey soot.

That should do it.


Now go. Don’t keep the dragon waiting. From its impressive display, I think it’s a level 26 Hellfire. Pretty dangerous but awesome as hell.

I sneaked around the dragon. The thing was heavy to carry around what with its innumerable buttons and flashy lights. I took my position behind a hedge and aimed at the dragon. It was huge and was bringing its wrath on the nearby trees and birds, reducing them to mere ashes in a fraction of a second.

Ok. So here it goes: Blue bells, red eyes, red eyes again, squeeze the trunk, churn the fang, grey soot and red eyes.

It let out a big burrp. Followed by a foul nauseating smell. Can a weapon fart? I don’t know. Guess I messed up the series. Let’s have another go. I took it up again, aimed at the dragon and screamed my lungs out. The dragon was staring at me. The smell had betrayed me. Shit. I am in deep trouble now. I hurriedly tried my best to conjure up that nonsensical fire code.

Blue bells, red eyes, red eyes again, squeeze the trunk, churn the fang, red eyes and GGRRRRAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…………

I wake up and let out a gas. My hearts are beating as if I ran a marathon. My legs are dead. I look around. A joint lies to my right, half consumed. The ashtray beside it has over flown thanks to the speed at which the fan is running. It’s cold. My carpet in which I suppose I had slept or carried to by my friends of which I have no idea, lies to my left. The clock says three sixteen. I can hear the rise and fall of my friends snore. He is cozily tucked away in his bed. My legs haven’t come around. I am feeling sleepy. I roll over to my carpet and shut my eyes up. I was high. And flying.

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