The Last Dragon - Chapter 29

Where we learn that poodles may look all floofy and cute, but the name Death and Torture says a lot about their true natures. Even to werewolves!

Feb 07, 2026

Oh shit!

Think before you jump… into being a werewolf!

I know some may find this to be quite a strange quote, but as he stood in a wide clearing in the dark forest, Zorro was definitely thinking along these lines.

He also didn’t often have treacherous or traitorous thoughts, but some were now creeping into his loyal and friendly mind like a dejected and miserable drunk, sizing up to his usually bubbly and happy-go-lucky moral compass and suggesting in a deranged and slurred manner that maybe, just maybe, there were ways to point other than due ‘happy’ north, like, for instance, pointing in the direction of staying alive at any cost.

Zorro’s moral compass was then forced to consider the facts that yes, it was true, Sir Richard was a friend, but not as good a friend as Sangre, Torren, Beatrix, Jo, Mr Geezer on a good day, Mrs Tipsy, the man who delivered his meat order once a month, and definitely not as good a friend as Mother Harper.

But Sir Richard was in his friendship circle.

He’s outer friendship circle.

His very, very outer friendship circle.

You could almost say on the fringes or in the ‘Badlands’ of a friendship circle where bad people did bad things, and that’s why they live there, because they were bad, and maybe defending them to your own death wasn’t really necessary.

So… maybe, it wouldn’t be too despicable to just…

You know, melt back into the dark forest and go back to camp and then climb under Torren’s cart’s front seat and hide there for a little while!

Because speaking of bad people, Zorro now faced one of the worst.

Zorro’s personal vendetta mission to avenge the death of Sir Richard had flipped him into his werewolf form, which had carried him quite easily into the depths of the dark forest, chasing the scent of the arrow’s flight and the fleeing of its owner. It was a basic need he felt to his very core that whoever shot the silver arrow at him and missed, hitting his ‘right on the far rim of his friendship circle’ friend, in the chest, deserved to die.

Zorro had run free in his true form, talons outstretched, digging into the wet earth, sniffing the scent of the fool who owned the arrow. His ears pricked, absorbing distant sounds, and his nostrils devoured the faint scent mingled with the forest’s earthy tones. Here was his true nature off the leash in all its glory.

But that was before he had run smack bang into the middle of a newly made clearing in the forest.

It was also before he had seen one of the most terrifying shadows standing in front of a semi-circle of fire.

Sadly, it was now after he realised he’d ruined his favourite, well, actually, his second favourite onesie by running through the muddy and wet forest.

His green, magic unicorn and daisy-patterned onesie would never be the same, no matter how much he licked it clean.

And now, having calmed down and returned to his vulnerable human form, Zorro breathed deeply and watched the beast in front of him stand as still as a statue. He wished he still had his tail so he could firmly shove it between his legs.

Zorro wasn’t sure whether he should roll over on his back, stick his legs and arms in the air, and let the brute come and sniff his private parts. Worried that if he did, would this just invite the patient killer to end his life or maybe it would create some very awkward, weird scenario where he’d have to smack the fiendish eradicator for sticking its nose in his human groin?

The third option seemed the safest. “Hello, my friend”, casually announced Zorro in his most Labrador tone. “What brings you to the centre of this very dark and scary forest? I am chasing a very bad person who was trying to kill me, but by mistake, shot my friend with a silver arrow. Have you seen anybody running through this area, silently questioning their life choices because they had a magnificent and very sexy werewolf hot on their tail? I would like to disembowel them or rip their throat out!

As any apex predator would, the statuesque hunter blinked, looking haughty and uninterested in Zorro’s existence or longevity. A desperately bored sigh was given as her one and only response.

Zorro grabbed his onesies unicorn tail and began to twirl its multiple rainbow colours through his big, hairy fingers, still not ready to give up the true and tired ‘wear them down with big friendly puppy dog eyes’ method. “Oh, so I’ll take that as a no, then? Well, I hope I didn’t disturb what you were doing here. I’ll just be on my way now, shall I, my friend?”

A low, throaty growl emanated from Clarice, a snow-white miniature poodle adorned with a pretty pink bow on her floofy top knot. Zorro’s reaction may seem strange, but she was named ‘Clarice’ to her friends, and ‘Oh, good goddess, make this rabid needle-toothed fluffy piranha let go of my dingily dangly bits. For all that is holy, just prize the insane Primadonna’s jaws open! Oh goddesses, no, she’s starting to, ahhhhhrgh oooo that hurts ahhhhrgh ahhhh make her stop ahhhhrgh help, help, help!’, to her enemies.

“Oh, okay… I’ll just stand here then, shall I?” Zorro smiled and gathered his tail up to his chin like a security blanket.

Clarice snorted, then turned her head to indicate that although Zorro’s longevity was in question, his decision to stand and remain was a smart move.

Into the semi-circle of fire, a large black standard poodle named Simon, who wore a harness belonging to a miniature pony across his perfectly groomed chest, pranced into the clearing, pulling a large ornate wooden chair behind him. He carefully nuzzled it into place, so the dark wooden recliner sat smack in the centre.

“Oh shit.” Whispered Zorro to himself. Admittedly, like a lot of us, just being able to voice some of his anxiety out loud brought a sense of comfort.

It was only once Simon vacated the circle, disappearing into the darkness behind the fire, that Zorro saw two red toy poodles slowly saunter their way to the chair. Some may wonder why the poor werewolf’s heart skipped a beat; maybe it was because he knew the two poodles named Death and Torture, respectively, by reputation of their blood-curdling deeds, or maybe it was because the killers were so confident and haughty that they didn’t even acknowledge his presence.

The truth is, there was only one person in the whole wide world who referred to the two little red devils as ‘mummy’s little boys’, one person to whom ‘Clarice wouldn’t even bear a single front tooth toward, one person to whom Simon acted like a cart horse for, one person who could face down a fully grown werewolf and not even flinch and she was following the killers closely behind.

The Zimmer frames’ silver surface caught the fire’s light and intensified it as pink fluffy slipper scooped along the rough forest floor. “Unbelievable, whoever thought this would be a bloody good idea deserves a quick boot up the backside.” An old, frail-looking woman, wrapped in a pink quilted dressing gown, looked at Zorro through her thick pink-rimmed bifocals. “I’m miss’n me shows tonight, all ‘cause I had ta come out here and speak ta you.” She shuffled around and sat in the chair like a crumbling mummy, before Simon nipped out, picked up the Zimmer frame in his perfect maw and trotted back into the darkness.

The two red miniature poodles jumped up on either side of her, turned, faced Zorro, and began licking their lips while eyeing up just how much fresh meat Zorro’s body might produce.

“Let’s just get down ta business, fuzzy man, so I can get back on the dog slay and get me behind back ta bed before midnight. I’ve been sent ta tell you ta ensure that Mother Heggerty loses her head.” The old woman, with her bifocal-enlarged eyes, focused directly on Zorro.

“Isn’t her head attached? Because the last time I saw her, it looked pretty attached, and I don’t think I could hide it from her because of its, well, it’s attached-ish nature.”

“No! Bad boy!” echoed out amongst the trees like a whip’s crack, ensuring every K9-related being quivered with regret.

Zorro slowly slid a hand below his unicorn tail’s root to check he hadn’t added any extra unwanted stain to his costume.

The old lady raised a grey eyebrow, “Don’t be play’n silly buggas with me! You know exactly what I mean, Zorro Lombo.” Torture’s fluffy head was patted roughly as she calmed herself by rearranging his top knot’s white bow to a more appealing position. “We want her head on a plate because she will be dead by your hand, capisce?

“Yes, Mrs Brown,” Zorro answered with his eyes downcast.

Mrs Brown smiled, then felt annoyed that Zorro hadn’t enquired as to why. “Ain’t you going ta ask me why?”

“No, Mrs Brown,” Zorro’s eyes remained downcast. “Because I’m a good boy, Mrs Brown.”

Mrs Brown nodded, “Yes, you are a good boy.”

To which Zorro looked up with a big, bright and happy smile.

“Well, I’m going ta tell you Zorro because I didn’t come all the way out here, sitting behind a pack of sleigh dogs who poops as they run ta sit in the dark forest in me pyjamas, missing me shows and putting up with the cold and ta not express myself properly. And frankly, if you’d ask me, all this could have been conveyed to you in a bloody note.” Mrs Brown rearranged her dressing gown before continuing because she surely didn’t want to get a chill in her legs. “But oh no, it had ta be done face ta face, and I had ta be the one ta do it!” She looked up from scratching Death’s chin. “Voted 19 ta 1 and ya don’t have ta guess who the one was ‘cause it was me! All because Lady Hoity Toity wanted it that way!”

Mrs Brown reached into one of her deep dressing-gown pockets and found her handy little silver flask, which she tipped upside down over her raised mouth and found disappointingly empty. “Bugga, I forgot I used it ta blur out the memory of the flying dog poop. All I can say is from tonight onwards every time I yawn, I’ll put a hand over me mouth.” Mrs Brown gagged a little at the memory. “Simon, can ya be a good boy and dig out of the sleigh, me ova medicinal flask please.”

Mrs Brown resigned herself to accepting her alcohol-free existence before she addressed Zorro with a sigh. “We want her head because Heggerty is bad for business, and I, along with others who shall remain nameless but are definitely paid-up and very active members of Bone Valley’s Ladies Soroptimist Association, are very annoyed by it.” Mrs Brown waved a finger at Zorro, which made him feel as if he were about to get into trouble for doing butt skiddies along the lounge room carpet. The elderly enforcer continued, “Heggerty is a crazy loony who will drag us all to hell, and anyone who gets in her way. She’s burned the city and all our business ta the ground. So, the best way ta deal with any cracked pot is ta get rid of it!”

Zorro nodded very sagely then inquired, “What’s a soro...potato…matoe..ist?”

The old lady rested her hands on the shoulders of her two salivating little red devils and smiled a smile which was the last thing some ‘bad boys’ saw before they were sent to the big kennel up in the sky.

“A Soroptomist is a lady who has her own financial means and doesn’t have ta kowtow ta any man by asking him if it’s alright by him, could she please own her own basic rights. She uses her financial means ta ensure all humankind is treated with respect by making sure women are educated, safe and can access Mother Harper’s hospital whenever they so desire or need. We also send the Rotary Club boys around ta beat up any husband who decides he has the right to beat up ‘is misses.”

“Oh, I thought you were the Country Women’s Association.” As soon as Zorro said those words, he knew he’d crossed into dangerous territory as Mrs Brown stopped patting her two poodles’ heads and Clarice whined.

“I’s ‘ll let that one slips because youse’s a favourite of Jeanie’s. But never ever mention that dreadful CWA ta me in my presence ever again, the way they undermine the economy with their Devonshire teas and crochet market stalls. They all should be ashamed of themselves and don’t even get me going on their range of sandwiches, tea cakes, ‘n lucky dips for the kiddies. And best I don’t even acknowledge the existence of those goat-riding weirdo Masons, or we’ll never be leaving this here forest.”

“No, Mrs Brown, I’m a good boy!” The 6’9 werewolf was back to looking at the forest floor and waiting for approval from the 5’1 frail bifocaled elderly pensioner.

“You will be if you give us Heggerty’s head! But if not… well, I don’t like threatening people ‘cause that’s not of my true nature, but just let me remind you of what damage a slipper can do, and wouldn’t it be a shame if such a good boy like you was given it!”

Zorro and all the other K’9s couldn’t contain their nervous shaking when the old lady raised a thin leg and shook her fluffy pink slipper about.

“Yes, Mrs Brown!”

A quiet pause flowed freely through the dark clearing before the spell was broken.

“Mrs Brown?”

“Yes, Zorro.”

“Did you shoot a silver arrow at my friend?”

“What?” Mrs Brown sounded genuinely shocked. “No, never, Zorro, what kind of a monster do ya think I am, eh?

“Oh, that is very good news, then, Mrs Brown, because I thought I was going to have to be a bad boy and rip your throat out.”

The elderly pensioner’s, bespectacled and enlarged eyes widened further than anyone would have thought was healthy.

Age had brought Mrs Brown wisdom, and so instead of panicking, she really looked at the ‘good boy’ in front of her and took in every latent aspect of the hairy werewolf. His massive height, heavy muscular build, and large k9 teeth caught her attention and held it for a longer-than-comfortable moment.

Mrs Brown had only reached her position of underground Soroptimist power by thinking quickly, making friends, and ensuring her enemies’ whereabouts, market stalls, and goats were always known. She was not a weak or easily frightened lady, but during her ruminations over Zorro, she realised just how precarious her situation was and therefore chose a true and tried pathway.

“Sit down, you bad boy! Don’t you bloody dare growl at me or it’ll be the bloody newspaper for you, my lad!”

A deep howl of regret left Zorro’s chest as the rest of Mrs Brown’s pack joined in and harmonised with his deep regretful terror.

“Oh, my good goddess, they’re torturing him,” Dementia screamed into the shoulder of dark trees, “Sangre, Sangre, we must rescue him!”

“I can’t leave Richard before he wakes!” Sangre gently cradled the shovel he’d been using to pat down the earth on top of Sir Richard’s grave.

Another wave of terrified and desperate howling broke through the darkness. Sangre whimpered, “I can’t, I just can’t leave Richard. If he wakes and one of us isn’t here to hit him over the head and knock some sense into him, he’ll drain every human from here to the sea.”

Dementia screamed into the dark forest sending a chill up the spine of Jo and Torren who were absolutely exhausted from digging the shallow grave for Sir Richard, and then setting up camp and now attempting to light a fire to quell the complaints from the two elderly travellers who had Beatrix running around fetching them their creams and pills to alleviate the symptoms induced from sitting on the carts unforgiving bench seat all day.

“Don’t you think you could have told us all about the downside of turning a person into a vampire before you actually turned him into a bloody vampire. Because I, for one,” Torren lifted a shaking finger, indicating he was using his last nerve up right now, “I for one would have liked to have known! Dementia, get your brother out of his coffin and out here to help with Richard. You and me can go look for…”

A huge downward draft filled the cold campsite with gusting wind.

“Oi Oi”, laughed Mrs Tipsy, “Oh goody, we’re in this set of events. I like this set of events!” She turned to the equally cocooned Mrs Geezer, who was wrapped up tighter than a pupa in his doona, and commented happily, “This future is very, very bloody interesting. You’ll not be bored one little jot, Mr Geezer, I promise you! And you toy boy, be glad our Beatrix has just flapped out ‘cause if Youse had gone into the dark forest… well, let’s just say vampires can be killed just as easily as humans can be when silver arrows are fly’n about.”

“Don’t you think you should have been telling us about your future predictions?” ask Torren angrily. “Like, hey, Richard, wear some armour today because there’s a high chance you might get shot by an arrow.”

“No…”

“Why not?”

Mrs Tipsy pursed her pink lips and patted her mouse-riddled wig back into place, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Once again sighing as he held on to his sanity, Torren looked up at his golden dragon as she lifted her huge, magical body into the air. Beatrix’s golden scales glittered exquisitely in the cool moonlight,making her look like a breathtaking bejewelled angel… if angels had talons, tails and could breathe fire. And as his heart swelled with glowing pride, he yelled out in concern, “Just remember, Beatrix, the books said you’re not to eat anyone, it’ll give you indigestion for a week and constipation for much longer!”

The golden dragon circled the sky, sniffing the many light zephyrs, seeking out her friend lost and in danger within the dark circle. And there he was. The golden dragon looped around the cold camp, everyone was where they should be, and sent a direct hot flame straight into the fire pit Jo had been trying to ignite, thoughtfully ensuring Jo himself was not a part of the kindling.

It was strange being a dragon. Everything looked… much more, was the only way Beatrix could explain it.

The world, the air, the water, the people, they all had extra bits to them. Torren in particular looked the most amazing of all. She put that down to sexual attraction.

And in her dragon form, she could see Zorro had left a trail through the forest that was easy to smell. So easy, in fact, Beatrix would have sworn she could see it.

Mrs Browns eyes may have widened when taking Zorro’s true nature in, but when she saw the huge golden dragon circling the sky above the clearing, they almost became saucers.

She didn’t think it wise to threaten the dragon with either her slipper or newspaper and instead grabbed her two little red babies to her chest, who were more than happy to snuggle in.

Instead, she watched enthralled as the dragon landed ever so delicately and wrapped her body around the sobbing werewolf.

“He’s alright, jus’ calm ye-self young lady!”

The dragon raised a large golden-scaled eyebrow in reply and added a deep stomach rumble.

“Aye, tha’s right, I know what your… let’s say, day job is.” Mrs Brown drew heavily on all her years to calm her shaking hands. “I knows you’re new ta the whole business and you’se not eating anyone, so you can’t be on Heggerty’s side. You’re not Harper or Merryweather, and so that only leaves the young witch Jeanie, was training up, and who, might I add, my 5 pinches worth to the situation, stabbed poor Jeanie in the back when she went and joined Heggerty on a whim and false promise.”

The dragon sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Beatrix!” Mrs Brown relaxed as the large dragon snorted her reply.

“Interesting!”

The conversation would have continued if it were not for the silver arrow, which bounced off Beatrix’s snout and landed smack right between Mrs Browns fluffy slippers.

“What the fu…” no one knew what the last word was because Mrs Browns poodles launched themselves into the dark forest with blood lust on their baying breath, drowning out the voice of their beloved owner.

Poodles are, under all the ribbons and pampering, a breed of single-minded, undeterred, tenacious, stubborn and willing hunters! When engaged in the chase, a poodle’s determination to bring back the prize or not come back at all phrenzy, makes an enraged, blood-lusting werewolf look like an upset guinea pig who just had their favourite carrot eaten by that bloody, annoying, fluffy-tailed, big, floppy-eared rabbit in the cage next door.

Never ever be fooled by fluff.

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