The Last Dragon - Chapter 25
Where danger is on a scale of one to "Oh, is that my kidney?"
Life has been a bit interesting of late, and so I give thanks to Katherine Elaine, for whom, without her request… this chapter would not have been written. Sometimes you need to know a friend is waiting for you at the end of the tunnel.
Chapter 24 Chapter 23 or CHAPTER 1
One to Kidney!
Most individuals go out for lovely, relaxing drives through the countryside… this was not the case for our intrepid band of heroes, who were currently enjoying ‘coffin banter’ between Sangre and his siblings.
“Nigel, will you shut your infernal racket up! My ears are beginning to bleed!”
“What Sangre, you call a racket, I, Maledictus Goreyth Vane, call music! But you wouldn’t know that because you’re a boring, dim-witted moron who can’t even address me by my right name!”
“Well, brother, if you call shoving a cat in a tin box with a violin up its bum music, you, Nigel, need not only to have your ears examined, but your taste buds too, because they seem to have withered up and died.” Sangre’s coffin rattled a little bit as his enunciation became pointed and sharp. “And don’t ever hold your breath waiting for me to call you that stupid made-up name, embrace your inner Nigel, because we all know your name is Nigel Barry Susane De Ventosa. Live it, embrace it and grow with it.”
Maybe their argument would have ended more quickly if Sangrey and his brother Nigel… sorry, Maledictus Goreyth Vane (we all have our dreams!) had been face-to-face. But as both were ensconced within the safety of their dark mahogany coffins, separated by their sister’s gothic masterpiece, neither could really eyeball the other without suffering some pretty deep third-degree burns from the afternoon sun. Verbal insults slung through swivelling speaker tubes were, unfortunately, for everyone else in the cart, the only way forward.
“What would you know about good taste, Sangre? You won’t even partake in ‘The nectar of life’. You’d rather suck a carrot, so you’re one to bang on about good taste.” Nigel’s teenage voice was becoming rather squeaky and high-pitched as his emotions rose. “And just because mother and father gave you a cool name doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t have one too!”
A quiet little throat clearing escaped the speaker tube of their dear sister Demonta’s black and gothic sarcophagus. “My dear brothers, I would like to interject here my somewhat unemotional and tempered ideology, in the hopes of settling your stirred emotions.”
Jo, who had been nursing a migraine since Nigel turned his music on and off under the belligerent and ongoing barrage of his older brother, sighed gratefully, “Oh, thank the goddesses, let there be peace.”
“What ho? Did you say something, old boy? Deaf as a post, thank the goddesses. Gave up listening to the caterwaul about three hours ago. Now with my socks stuffed in my lug holes, nothing much is passing through their tight-knit,” happily commented Sir Richard, who sat with his socks dangling from his ears and looking not dissimilar to a baby elephant.
Demonta continued calling sweetly through her speaking tube, “I think both of you should seriously ‘SHUT THE HELL UP’. I am trying to do my hair, and I can’t think straight with you both banging on at each other. I intend on looking my very best when we enter the ‘Dark Forrest’; Mother said there are lots of very eligible bachelors in the forest who look just like my most favourite movie stars.”
Everyone bar Demonta quickly concluded that this had been the ‘fake news’ tactic Sangre’s mother had used to budge her daughter out of the castle, but no one had big enough… ‘dangly bits’ to laugh at her.
Demonta’s speaking tube swivelled to her right, where Nigel’s coffin lay on Sally’s cart tray. “Nigel, your music sucks. It sucks big and it sucks hard. For Pete’s sake, put your damn headphones on so I am not forced to open my casket and burn myself to a crisp whilst shoving them down your bloody throat.”
A snigger came from within Mr Geezer’s big white doona in which he was happily cocooned against the late afternoon’s chilled air. “Typical. Can always depend on a woman putting a fight to an end before it gets good ta watch. I was hoping they’d both fly outta theirs coffins and beat three shades of snot outta each other.”
A puff of pipe smoke and a deep, dirty snigger rose out from the chimney-like hole at the top of Mrs Tipsy’s cocooned doona. Her blond-wig mouse sat on top and was the only indication of which doon belonged to whom. In fact, if the travellers had looked closer, they would have also seen that the little mouse had nibbled at the doona, pulled out some of its internal stuffing and rammed that into its ears. (Mice are sensitive creatures.)
“And you, Sangre.” Her black speaking tube accusatively swivelled to her left so she could speak directly to her older brother’s coffin. “You’re supposed to be older than us, but you throw insults around like a hundred-year-old child who’s never left the nursery. You should be setting a good example for Nigel and I to follow. And frankly, dear brother, may I also add, if you don’t SHUT THE HELL UP TOO, I’ll be forced to turn myself into a BBQ brickette by climbing from Nigel’s coffin to yours, where I shall then happily rip your shoddy coffin open, flip you over and shove your love of carrots up your backside.”
Demonta’s voice adopted a tone not unlike her mother’s, “I am trying to bloody well do my bloody curls, so if you love me and don’t want me to be BBQ’ed and carry that on your conscience for a thousand years, knowing you’ve spoiled any chance I have of meeting a tall, dark, gorgeous, and kind, but wild and ferocious young blood duke of darkness who’s looking for his bride. Knowing that initially, he and I will cross paths in the forest, where he will rescue me from a fate worse than… well, I can’t die. Still, you know what I mean. And then he and I will have a love-hate relationship until both of us fall madly in love and live happily ever after in his castle. So, for my and your sakes, you’ll buck up and shut up!”
The travellers waited for a full five minutes before they all comfortably embraced the quietness of the darkening country road. It was true that everyone could still feel anger emanating from both Sangre and Nigel’s coffins, but neither brother was stupid enough to induce their sisters’ rage, so their silence spoke volumes instead.
Almost oblivious to it all, Zorro stretched out on top of his friend’s coffin, his K9’s gleaming in the golden glow of the dipping sun. “Beatrix?”
“No Zorro!” came a low growl from the witch, who rode in front of Torren’s loaded cart.
Neither she nor Lucy had been able to trot away from the carriage in the hopes of avoiding the din, in case luck had befallen them and bandits attacked. (Which they hoped would have put an end to the internal bickering.)
“But you don’t know what I’m going to ask Beatrix,” Zorro answered in a maligned tone.
“NO Zorro! I do! It’s going to be exactly like the last seventy-three times you asked me.”
“But, Beatrix, my beautiful and kind friend, I am tired of riding on this cart. All the trees look the same, all the farms look the same, all the people look the same… which is quite odd, but I guess inbreeding will do that. I am bored, Beatrix, my pretty friend. Bored, bored, bored, bored.”
“We can play Eye-spy again,” Torren added, hopeful of avoiding that which he knew was coming.
Zorro frumped loudly, “Eye-spying is boring, Torren, my friend, all the trees look the same and all the farms and people. Same, same, same.”
“Well, we spotted that boy with the three eyes a little while back. That was very interesting.” Forced delight was burning in Torren’s throat. He would do anything at this point not to have another disagreement, argy-bargy or whinge fest.
“No, Torren, my kind friend. He was boring. He wouldn’t play chasey with me and just lay in the ditch by the side of the road and cried. His mother was very strange, I’ll grant you, and yes, she was enormous fun to chase. I really was quite surprised that she managed to get up to such a great speed with those three legs of hers!” A new level of querulousness entered Zorro’s whining voice, “But I’m bored now, Torren, my kind-hearted friend! Very, very bored.”
A loud sigh echoed back from Beatrix to the cart’s occupants. “Ask it, let’s just get it over and done with.”
“Beatrix?”
“Yes, Zorro.” Moaned the witch, who had by her tone obviously given up on fighting the inevitable… or possibly it was her will to live.
“Beatrix… Are we there yet?”
“NO! We’re bloody well not Zorro!!! Read your novel, colour in your colouring-in book, talk to your friends, eat your food, play Eye-spy or go to sleep, but do not, my friend, ask me ever, ever again, if you know what’s good for you, if we are there yet! You will bloody well know when we’re there because we will have arrived.”
“Beatrix?”
“YES ZORRO!”
A wobble entered the werewolves’ deep voice… “Are you mad? Do you still love me? Are you still my bestest friend? My beautiful friend. The one who makes Torren go all wobbly in the legs when his heart beats like a tiny little drum in his chest. Do you still love me, Beatrix, or do you hate me now, because if you hate me…”
Zorro’s howl started up from a low baritone and ended all wet and tear-stained as the werewolf clambered onto Torren’s lap for a cuddle and soothing tones. Beatrix hung her head and felt like the worst person anyone could be.
Lucy stepped in and broke the awkward snorting sounds that were coming from Beatrix as she tried hard not to ‘go dragon’ and beat herself up. “We need to camp here for the night. It’s too dangerous to enter now and risk getting lost in the dark.”
“Good, cause me bunions is playing up and I needs a pee.” This was the final deciding factor for Mr Geezer. “And the dog probably needs a walk too!” Which set Zorro off into a new flood of tears, crying into Torren’s shoulder how thoughtful people were.
Eventually, after make-up cuddles between Beatrix and Zorro, the troupe… well, Torren and Joe unloaded the night’s provisions. They set up the tents whilst the two older travellers helped by advising on the right way to set up a camp by complaining about everything Joe and Torren did.
Beatrix and Lucy gathered wood, set the fire, and began dinner preparations. Both gave the pensioners a death stare under raised eyebrows when helpful advice was first offered, which quickly put a stop to that.
While everyone was very busy, a certain horse witch looked on, lying down in her own doona and endearing herself to no one, as she complained she’d been carrying a heavy load all day and needed to rest her legs.
Zorro tried to help by staying out of the way and, frankly, was more occupied with sniffing the early night’s air as he put on his warmest unicorn onesie. He had confidently assured Sir Richard, who was battling to put up a tent on his own, that he’d be ready for bed at a moment’s notice and then asked thoughtfully, “Why are there no people or towns or cities or… anything?”
Sangre’s coffin lid flipped open as he rose from his quarters, “Because my dear friend, they’ve been wiped out.” He looked sadly into the dark forest’s nearest border. “People who wish to live stay clear of here, and those who don’t… well, let’s just say, they don’t ‘live’ here for very long. It reeks of death and danger!”
“How dangerous, Sangre, my friend? Like on a scale of one to ten?” Zorro relaxed himself into Sangre’s warmed and now vacant coffin like it was a big ol’ claw-foot bath.
The wary vampire sighed, “Well, my dear friend, if the scale were based on how likely a human was to say during their first hour of arriving, ‘Oh, so that’s what my internal organs look like,’ I’d say it’s a firm 10.
Sangre cast a dark gaze across to the thickening, gloomy forest. “Many dark and powerful forces choose to live in the depths of this forsaken land. Monsters who stalk and slither upon their vulnerable prey at night. Beasts who lie in wait so they can drain the living breath from any creature who has the misfortune to pass by. Allocates of Isfet, the Goddess’s nemesis, worshipers of all that is foul and unjust. Creatures I would prefer to avoid at all costs.”
Nigel, who was climbing out of his coffin in a very gangly manner, spoke up through his makeup and thick, smoky eyeliner. “That’s not very nice of you to talk about the cousins that way. If they hear you doing it, they’ll tell Mother, and then she will be all up in your face.”
“If either of you starts your argy-bargy up again, so help me, I will drive one of my curling wands through both your hearts.” Demonta flew delicately down from the cart and gave Zorro a withering stare. “Now that I’ve taken a swig of my antihistamine, you ferocious wild dog, you have no power over me. I am going to take a little walk into the forest to see if there’s anyone about!”
“Not without an escort. Nigel, go with your sister.” The command came absentmindedly from Sangre, who was fixated upon Sir Richard.” Dear Sir, you appear to be having difficulty erecting your tent. May I lend you a helping hand? I’m sure between the two of us, you’ll get it up in no time.”
Sir Richard fumbled with the tent pole, which collapsed under his nervous hands. “Er, thank you, but no, I’m sure I can do it all by myself. Once I get into the rhythm of it all, nothing will hold me back.”
A twin guttural dirty kerfuffle rose from the cocooned pensioners, who had placed their neatly wrapped bottoms on the smoke-free side of the now crackling fire.
Sangrey blushed, “Oh, I’m sorry, I simply meant that I’d like to lend a hand to make sure you all sleep warm and safe inside the tents. While my siblings and I stand guard, making sure you’re safe and sound.” Sangre desperately tried to hold back his tears and calm his pounding heart as he mentally scolded himself for always being so clumsy and immature when speaking to Sir Richard. “It looks as if it’s going to rain pretty soon.”
Sir Richard looked at his limp tent pole and the debris of the tent, which, no matter how hard he tried, baffled him as to how he couldn’t find one simple corner of the square-based tent. “I do apologise, what ho, I’m not very good at accepting help. I am always made to feel inadequate if I do.”
“Yes, that’s what Mother Heggerty does best.” Sighed Sangre as he picked up a corner and stretched it out so that Sir Richard could bang in the tent peg. “She’s like an evil worm who burrows into your mind and eats away at anything you hold dear or believe in.”
Sangre looked up into the most beautiful blue eyes he’d ever seen and swam into their depths. “Well, at least that’s how she makes me feel.”
A dry retching noise broke the moment.
“Arrrge Sangre, please. I don’t think I can hold the vomit down for much longer.” Nigel stood behind Mrs Tispy’s cocoon with a sharp stick, ready to poke her with.
“If tha stick so much as touches my DooHaveVay, I will ensure not to tells you to step to the left so you’se don’t get trampled by the marauding guinea pigs that I see clearly in ya near future. Tha, and I’ll bloody well clip you round your greasy head if you do.” Mrs Tipsy’s doona had spoken and in doing so had obviously made some impact because Nigel pouted and poked Mr Geezer instead.
“Ere, stop tha.” Grumbled Mr Geezer, “Fiddo, bite him. Go on, bites ‘im bloody hard in the nether region.”
“Nigel, leave Mr Geezer alone; he’s done nothing to you.” Commanded Sangre from inside the lopsided tent.
“Shan’t, I like poking him, it’s fun.”
“Nigel, stop it. I’m busy right now. Please, just give it a rest.” Exacerbation rained through every one of Sangre’s syllables.
“Ow, stop it, ya lil bugga, tha hurt.”
“No, I sha…”
“Grrrrrrrrrrroowww!” It was a deep, menacing growl, a hellish rumble of retribution that spoke to the primordial terror buried deep within the bones of all those around the campfire.
“Your brother, who is one of my bestest friends ever, just told you to stop poking Mr Geezer, who is also quite surprisingly a bestest friend also. So do as you are told, because unlike your sister’s idle threats, I really will rip your arms off and beat you to a pulp with them.” Zorro’s eyes glowed golden in the darkness. “I won’t tell you where I’ll shove the stick, I’ll let that be a surprise for your proctologist.”
“Okay.” Whimpered Nigel as the stick was thrown into the fire.
“Help your brother.” Was Zorro’s next command.
“Okay,” was whispered in a wobbly voice as the now blushing and teary Nigel stood awkwardly next to Sir Richard. “Can I help my brother and you?”
It was to Sir Richard’s credit that his tone was full of kindness. He, too, had once been a younger brother who had painfully transmuted through a ‘boy scout’ stage. “What ho, old chap, certainly you can. Climb inside with Sangre and help him lift my pole.”
Zorro smiled. The wolf was gone, and in its place was the Labrador everyone loved and trusted. “I think I will go and look for your sister Sangre. There are some very not nice smells about the place, and I wouldn’t want her to hurt anyone.”
“Will you be okay, Zorro, or would you like Lucy or me to go with you?” Beatrix was busy mixing a campfire damper but seemed more than willing to forgo her flour experience.
“No, Beatrix, it’s best you stay here in the light. I will go and have a pee and look for Demonta. We won’t be very long.”
Mr Geezer called out from his doona. “I’ll save ya some of me dinner bones, Fido, so ya can have a lil treat when ya get back.”
“Ooo, yummy!” and with that, Zorro swaggered into the trees following Demonta’s scent.
Often, the loves of our lives are found in the most unusual places, and this was about to be proven very true in Demonta’s case.
“Why don’t people organise wild forests better than this? I haven’t found a glittering path yet, and all these blasted twigs are getting caught in my curls. I swear, if I must set that damn curling wand up again in my coffin, I’ll scream.”
The moon now shone down on the darkening forest, casting a somewhat foreboding glow.
A sinister voice whispered from the high moss-covered branches, “Sister, what do I spy?”
“I am not playing that stupid bloody game anymore, Blodwyn, that kid with the three eyes completely freaked me out!”
Demonta looked up to the high branches and spied some odd-looking, shadowy figures, then excitedly whispered to herself. “Oh, my goodness… It’s happening!” She then began patting her curls and applying lipstick.
“No, sister, look, a lost soul wandering towards us. Our master would love to dine upon her pure flesh. He would be so pleased with us, his faithful wives.”
“I don’t know… she looks a bit skinny from up here. And really, Monte needs to go on a diet. He can barely squeeze his butt into his tracky-dacks as it is now.”
“Then, dear Belladonna, let us fly down to this morsel and lay hands upon her ebony flesh, so that our beloved husband may enjoy the healthy option of a skinny meal.”
“Yeah, she is a bit pasty looking, isn’t she?”
It would be nice and traditionally romantic to say the two sisters of the night floated down to the ground in front of Demonta, shocking her into a demure and dramatic faint, whereupon she was carried off into the night to meet her prince of darkness. But, as is so often the case, this is not going to happen.
Demonta watched unimpressed as one hugely obese vampire wife, who wore a floaty, frilly night dress, spoiled only by the big gaffer tape triangle on the back, which acted like a very visible gusset, and the other, who wore a dirty old fluffy pink dressing gown with a piece of string replacing the belt, more or less, plop down on the forest floor.
“Be still, sweet virgin, and let us feel the softness of your flesh.” The larger of the two vampire wives pushed the dressing-gowned sister wife forward.
“Err, No! I don’t know where your hands have been, and what’s a virgin?” Demonta gave them both her best withering stare.
“Sister, hear her speak. Our beloved husband will devour her beating heart and bathe in her virginal blood.” Blodwyn preferred to create her own reality; therefore, she ignored anything that didn’t fit her narrative.
Demonta announced angrily in a manner in which only a teenager can.“Errr, again, you weirdos, what’s a virgin and no one’s bathing in my blood, that’s just gross.”
“Don’t worry, deary, Monte’s on a diet at the moment.” Belladonna smiled warmly and loosened the string on her dressing gown. “Whereas me and Blodwyn here are absolutely famished!”
Blodwyn threw a chubby hand to her chubby cheek as if shocked by the suggestion. “Oh no, Belladonna, my dear sister, we simply couldn’t devour her here in the dark forest, bury her body in a deep hole and pretend like nothing happened, whilst poor Monte is at home alone with an… My, she does actually look quite delish close up.” Blodwyn wiped a big sticky drool line from her mouth.
“Oh, please! Whatever, I’m not human.” Demonta folded her arms crossly over her chest as she inwardly cursed the effort she’d put into her appearance. “I shouldn’t have bothered doing my hair for you lot. I’m a vampire… born and bred.”
Belladonna smiled a thin and hungry smile, “Oh, good! Vampire blood has a real zing to it.”
“Goody, Goody gumdrops, squeeze her head until it pops. Suck her brains and marrow down. Turn my smile up from a frown.” Blodwyn salivated with desire as she sang.
It must be said that on the whole, there’s a reason why vampires don’t like werewolves, and it’s not because a lot of vampires have a sinus reaction to their scent. It’s because, under the right circumstances, werewolves have a tendency to rip vampires to pieces and bury their bits in multiple holes. This always makes it hard for any vampire to find missing body parts during the quickening. After suffering a run-in with a werewolf, more than one vampire has had the embarrassing event of wearing someone else’s legs until this ‘dreadful wolf business’ was cleared up.
Neither Blodwyn nor Belladonna saw Zorro coming until it was too late.
“Belladonna?” and an enquiring voice rang out into the now dark, empty night.
“Belladonna, dear sister, are you there?”
A muffled sound greeted Blodwyn in return.
“Belladonna dear, I seem to be missing my arms and legs, and I can see your body lying over that tree branch. It too has no arms and legs, but I can’t see your head.”
Blodwyn waited for another response from her dear sister in death.
“Belladonna, I can hear you, but you sound very muffled, and I don’t mean to make this all about me, dear, but I feel a rather full sensation in my derriere. It is rather chaffing.”
Once again, a muffled response was the only reply.
“Belladonna, I know you’re very close, dear sister, but all your words seem to be very inaudible. And I am sorry, but every time you speak, I am somewhat distracted by my awful sensation. It’s like a giant rat is chewing on my rose bud. If you could be so kind as to help me pull it out or at least tell me where my arms are… Belladonna?”
“Belladonna?”
Thank you so much, V!!! Beautiful! Loved it.🩶