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Phil grimaced as he looked around at his slot machines. Not a lot of folks playing right now, he thought. If things don't pick up, I may actually have to go to work. Work was something Phil Weasel worked hard to avoid. He was a gambler, not a worker. Actually, he thought of himself as a businessman whose business was gambling. He ran the only casino in the Seven Counties.
He mused, We get get-rich-quick squirrels on vacation looking for a good time, and occasional fantasy characters passing through on their way to or from adventures.
Few of these patsies could risk much money, though, and Phil's larder -- never overstocked -- was alarmingly bare. A bowl of whey from that Muffet kid, one measly elf-cake, and a few bottles of mead were all he had.
Phil's games were honest (mostly), and he (usually) relied on the house percentage to keep his profits reasonable. That worked most of the time. One of the few truths of life, Phil knew, was this: sooner or later the house odds win. Just recently, though, the house odds had been elsewhere. Three days ago a zoot-suited character named Sky Masterson had won a bundle the dice tables.
Next evening, two maverick card sharps -- Bret and Bart, their names were -- had nearly cleaned out his dealers. And just last night, the local law had raided him -- and after the bribes he had given them! The ungrateful wretches! Bail for himself and his employees had taken most of his earnings for the week.
As he walked past his casino's empty roulette wheel, he wondered how he was going to open tonight. He almost jumped into the blackjack table when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
A tall young man with a scar across his face stood before him. He was wearing a charcoal-gray suit with wide lapels and a black shirt. A white tie and a blood-red rose completed his ensemble. He was carrying a violin case.
"Sir," Phil started, "I'm afraid you're a bit early. Roulette and Blackjack don't open until after noon . . . "
"That's not why I'm here," the young man said.
"Oh," Phil said, a bit surprised by the man's gruff tone, "Then, how can I help you, Mr. . . . ?"
"Beanzini," the man said, "Noodles Beanzini. And the question isn't how you can help me, it's how we can help you."
"We?"
"The syndicate, the organization, we got us a little interest in your business establishment, Weasel. I'll tell you all about it in a minute, but first --" Noodles opened his violin case, pulled out a violin, and started playing "Three Blind Mice": loudly and badly.
"Stop that, please stop," Phil said, covering his pointy ears with his paws. Noodles played louder.
."Just want to show you," Noodles shouted as he continued to screech away, "What you can expect if you don't cooperate. I play this thing non-stop in every room in your place. You'll go broke in a week -- maybe less. Hey wait, here's my favorite part - "
Noodles had reached the part of the song that goes: "She cut off their tails with a carving knife." He played it with gusto. He also played it off key, very slowly, and with at least six wrong notes.
"And this is the song I play best," he yelled, breaking one of the violin's strings. "You should hear me do 'Rubber Ducky.'"
"I'll cooperate. I'll cooperate," Phil sobbed. He was a music lover and he had very sensitive ears. "Whatever you want, I'll cooperate. Just, please, stop playing!" Noodles stopped playing and put the violin back in the case. "I love this thing," he said. "I call it 'My little persuader.'" He snapped the case shut, patted it affectionately, and pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket.
"Now, here's what we're gonna do: We'll start by bringing in at least seven new roulette wheels. Figure, 20 or 30 more Blackjack tables and at least as many new dice tables. How many slot machines you got?"
"Ten," Phil said.
"About a hundred more of those," Noodles said, scribbling in his notebook, "You got no Pachinko machines, so we gotta get about 50 of them, and of course we'll have to knock out a couple of walls to build the new stage -- "
"New stage?" Phil murmured.
"For the floor show. Then, the dressing rooms, the costumes, the light and sound system, the show bunnies, and a little extra to keep the local police away. Last but not least, a complete remodeling: new paint, new lighting, new fixtures, new bathrooms, the works. So much for the place; now for the hired help. How many do you have on your staff?"
"My what?" Phil asked.
"Doesn't matter, we'll add at least 50 anyway. Gotta have supervisors for all the games, a permanent stage manager, a props captain, a make-up chief, a costume designer, and at least two on-site electricians. We'll need sound technicians, a full-time, eight-piece band (which we'll supplement from local musicians as needed), a world-class chef, a snooty maitre d, and security guards. Later, if things take off, we'll worry about building the hotel -- "
Phil shook his head to clear it. Noodles was talking very fast and (as far as Phil could see) very strangely.
" - and we'll have to triple your salary, of course."
Maybe not as strangely as he thought.
"Triple!" Phil gasped.
"Okay, fourple" Noodles said, making another mark, "You drive a hard bargain, Weasel."
"But . . . but why are you doing this? What does the syndicate get out of it?" Phil asked.
"Well," Noodles said, looking over his shoulder, "I'm not supposed to tell you this but . . . " He motioned for Phil to lean toward him and whispered in his ear. "We get the tips."
"The tips?" Phil cried.
"Shhhh, Not so loud!" Noodles said, looking around the empty room. "You want everyone to know about this?"
"I'm sorry," Phil apologized, "But I don't understand."
"That's what they all say. Look, Phil it's simple. You pay your people from the money we give you and the money you make on the games, the shows, and the restaurant. Pay them well so that they don't need tips. Then, we take all the tips the customers leave. Everybody's happy."
"And you make money doing that?"
"Hey, are you kiddin'? The money rolls in. Everybody leaves tips. Most of the time they leave 15%. Sometimes they leave more. Another thing: tips are always there; all the time. No matter how bad business gets, customers leave tips. And one more goody, since the tips are really nothing but gifts from a customer to a supplier, we don't have to pay taxes on them. They're all pure profit! It's terrific!"
Philip Weasel gave up. He knew that something was wrong with Noodles' idea, but his head was spinning too much to figure out what that something was. He decided to follow his main rule: look out for number one.
"And where do I fit in?" he asked.
"You run everything," Noodles said with a grin. "Just the way you do now. Only you got lots more to run and you make lots more money running it."
"Why me?" Phil asked. "I mean, I'm ecstatic, but I'm just a small-time operator. Why'd the syndicate pick me?"
"You know," Noodles said, scribbling away, "My boss asked me the same thing. 'Why Phil Weasel?' he asked. 'He's a pip-squeak. Why not just rub him out and take over his operation?'"
Phil felt himself break into a cold sweat (not an easy trick for a weasel). Noodles drew several lines in his notebook and went on.
"'Boss,' I said, 'Times have changed.' I said: 'We gotta do things more subtle-like. Besides,' I said, 'The guy already knows about runnin' a casino. There's no start up costs. There's no learning curve. And we don't have to bring anybody in. There's no traveling expenses or relocation fees. Lucky for you," Noodles continued, "The boss bought it. He said to give it a try, but only if you can prove that you're interested."
"Prove that I'm interested?" Phil said, still feeling a bit scared, "How do I do that?"
"This might be a little tricky," Noodles admitted, "See, you gotta get the boss an eagle's claw."
"What?"
"Yeah , I know, I know. What can I tell ya? The boss is a health food nut. He read somewhere that ground eagle's claw is good for ya. So he wants you to get him some -- to show respect."
Phil mulled this over.
"Well," he said, "That's not unreasonable. I guess I can find some at a health food store."
Beanzini shook his head. "That's not the idea, Weasel. The boss doesn't trust health food stores. He bought some St. John's Wort at one once. Woke up the next day covered with warts."
"That's terrible" Phil said.
."Coulda been worse," Beanzini shrugged. "Coulda been covered with St. Johns. Anyway, the boss wants his eagle's claw fresh and natural. Which means you gotta get one from an eagle."
"An eagle," Phil cried, "How do I do that?"
"Relax," Noodles said, soothingly. "I'll help you with that. Now here's what we're gonna do . . . "
He shook his noble head while the weasel dropped. He had seen many bungee jumpers over the past few years. He felt sorry for them. None of them could fly, of course. That was why they tried bungee jumping in the first place. But they handled themselves so badly in the air! They looked so silly! The horses had been hilarious; the rabbits had been ridiculous; and the aardvarks, well . . .
This weasel was the worst, though. This was his fifth jump and he still waved his paws about desperately as he fell. Did he think flapping his arms was going to help? Worse than this: each time the cord reached its furthest stretch, the weasel closed his eyes and started to scream. This screaming went on the whole time the cord bounced him and jounced him and wiggled him and did all of the other stuff that bungee jumpers usually want their bungees to do. Then, the weasel's friend, some guy in a dark suit, pulled his terrified body up the face of the cliff for another jump. Tsk-tsking in his throat, Skreeel took flight from his outcropping of rock. He glided toward the bungee cliff as the weasel was being pulled upward once more. His big eagle heart was breaking for the poor rodent and he decided to try to help. He hovered just below the cliff edge until the weasel jumped off again. Then, Screeel tucked his wings and followed the him down.
"Ho, fellow," Screeel said to the falling weasel. "Relax. Quit waving your arms about. You don't need to be afraid."
"Oh sure," shouted the weasel, "That's easy for you to say. You're not doing this."
"Of course I am," said Screeel. "I'm flying right next to you."
"Yeah, but you're not doing this! In case you haven't noticed, I'm falling, not flying."
"But -- " Screeel started.
"There you are," the weasel interrupted, "Gliding along with your wings and your feathers. And here's me. See any wings? These are paws, pal. See any feathers? This is fur, buddy."
"Of course I have wings and feathers. I'm an eagle!"
"Eagle, shmeagle. You look like a big chicken to me."
"A chicken!"
"Chicken," the weasel said, "Bwwaaawk buk buk buk Bwwaaawkkk . . . "
"Why," Screeel said, angrily, "I oughta - "
"Yeah, yeah, right. Beat up the weasel who's half your size. That's real brave. Hey, how about next week you steal a few lollipops from some schoolkids? That should give you a thrill."
Screeel couldn't answer at first because the weasel had fallen to the end of the bungee cord and was zinging upward again. The eagle turned gracefully and flew up to him.
"I am an eagle!" he reiterated. "I'm the bravest bird alive! I'm completely fearless!"
"Prove it, penguin," the weasel taunted. "Tie up your wings and put some weights around your belly. Then jump offa this cliff with a bungee cord around your legs. We'll see how fearless you are."
And he started down again. Screeel swooped to follow.
"All right," he screeched, "I'll prove it. I'll bungee jump."
"Talk's cheeeeeaaaaap" the weasel said, his last word rising in pitch as he bounced up for the third time.
By now, Screeel was furious. He pulled himself upward and caught the weasel in mid air. He carried him to the top of the cliff, set him down, and landed next to him. "Let's go," Screeel said, "Tie my wings and hook that cord to my legs. Let's get started."
"Take it easy, pigeon," the weasel said. "Let me get outta this thing." He stood well away from the edge of the cliff while his companion untied the bungee cord from his legs."Now," he said, "Let's get you ready. That'll be fifty bux, please."
"What?" Screeel asked, puzzled.
"Fifty bux. The charge is fifty bux. I know it's kinda cheap, but . . . "
"I'm an eagle," Screeel said for the third time. "I don't have any money!"
The weasel's face twisted into a sneer.
"Oh, I see," he said, mockingly, "That's how you're gonna get out of it. Bwwaaawk buk buk buk Bwwaaawkkk . . . "
"I don't understa - " Screeel began.
"Don't try to kid me! Are you saying that you thought we let you jump off cliffs, fall thousands of feet, scare yourself into hysterics, and risk certain death for free?" He rubbed two of his claws together. "Bungee jumping costs money, duckling: in this case, fifty bux. If you don't have it, you don't jump. But," he smiled nastily, "You already knew that, didn't you?"
"Wait," Screeel said. "Wait right here" And with that he leaped into the air. The weasel and his friend watched as, swiftly and majestically, he soared toward his aerie.
"You really think this'll work?" the weasel asked.
"It'll work, trust me," his companion replied.
Less than five minutes later, they watched as Screeel returned. He had something clutched in his claw.
"There," the eagle said, tossing a small, cardboard container to the ground as he landed. "That should pay your fee."
"What's this?" the weasel said.
"Open it," the eagle responded.
The weasel did so, and found a thin paper stamp with a picture of a blue eagle on it. "This isn't a post office," he said. "It's a bungee jump. And the price is still fifty bux."
"That stamp," Screeel said, "is the famous blue eagle. Only two thousand of them were ever printed. The brownies minted them and used them for air mail. Of course, the elves spoiled that. 'Mail can't fly by itself,' they said 'It needs an airplane.'" Screeel shook his head and chuckled. "The brownies were never known for their smarts. Their stamps became collector's items, though. They're worth lots of bux."
"Wow!" the weasel said, finally impressed.
Screeel continued, "I'll do this silly jump, and then you'll go to a stamp collector. He'll buy the stamp and you'll take your fifty bux from the sale."
"But you'll be without the stamp," the weasel protested.
"It's a big price to pay," the eagle admitted. "But my honor has been challenged. I can't have you telling everybody that I was afraid to do something you did."
The weasel agreed. He and the fellow in the dark suit then tied Screeel's wings to his body and placed a weight belt around his waist. As the weasel was tying the bungee cord around Screeel's legs, the man in the dark suit started down the path to the bottom of the cliff.
"Where's he going?" Screeel asked.
"To the bottom of the cliff," the weasel replied, "To videotape your jump. It's all part of the bungee jumping experience. Also, he makes sure you don't untie yourself when you reach the bottom. The bounce back is half the fun, you know." Screeel was a bit miffed that the weasel would take such a precaution, but he said nothing. He just wanted to get this nonsense over with. When his legs were secure in the bungee cord, he hopped to the cliff edge and looked down. Sure enough, hundreds of feet below, he saw a little dark-suited speck who was holding a video camera. Well, he thought, here goes, and he dived off the cliff.
Within the next 30 feet he learned that a "fall" is very different from a "swoop." In a swoop, an eagle dives at a slight angle toward the ground. It's moving very fast, but it's completely under control. It can turn the swoop into a glide by simply changing the angle of its wings or by flapping them a few times. A fall's a lot faster than a swoop, especially if the fallee's beak is pointing straight at the ground.
Another thing Screeel learned was that having "eyes like an eagle" was not always such a fine thing. Usually he loved his eyesight.
He could see small game miles distant. He could see tiny landmarks and beautiful sunsets. He could see lots of really neat stuff. At the moment, however, all he could see was the ground coming up to meet him. He could see how rocky and hard the ground looked. And he could see how very, very quickly that ground was approaching.
As the bungee cord started to stretch and slow down his fall, Screeel did two things he had never done before. He screamed and he closed his eyes. So he didn't see the man in the dark suit put down the video camera and step toward the place where the bungee cord would reach its fullest extension.
He was so busy screaming that he didn't notice when the man reached out and caught him just before the bungee snapped him upward. And he managed to stop screaming and open his eyes only after the man had tied him off to a tree at the foot of the cliff.
"What...what are you doing?" he asked, his eyes finally open wide.
"Tying you down so I can take a claw," dark suit answered matter-of-factly. He pulled out a large pair of toenail clippers.
"A claw? Why on earth do you want - ow!" Screeel yelped as Beanzini clipped one of his claws.
"Oh hush," he said, "You're not even bleeding. I'll put a bandage here, just in case. Your claw should grow back in a few weeks. Meanwhile, be a bit careful when you land on tree branches."
"Let me free," the eagle screeched, "And I'll rip you into tiny strips and hang you from my aerie!"
"Oh, now there's a good reason to let you free," Beanzini said, putting the claw in his pocket, "Don't worry. Just before I leave, I'll make a small nick in the bungee cord just above your feet. The cord will tear and fray until it snaps. When it does, twist your body quickly or you'll land on your nose. Once you're on the ground your feet and claws will be loose. Use them to untie your wings and remove the weight belt. All this should delay you long enough -- "
"Long enough!" Screeel interrupted, furiously, "You'll wish it was forever! No matter how long it is, I'll never forget what you've done to me! You'll rue this day, whoever you are . . . "
"Long enough," Beanzini continued, "For Phil Weasel to get to a stamp collector and find out that stamp you gave him is worthless."
Astonished, Screeel stopped yelling for a moment. Beanzini smiled at him and went on: "Not a bad trick, really. I have to give you credit. I thought you were going to blow it when you told him about the brownies and the elves, though."
"He's just a weasel," Screeel said angrily. "He wouldn't know that the brownies actually printed two billion of those stamps. They tried to pay the elves to use them as wallpaper. But we're not talking about what I'm going to do to him," Screeel was yelling again. "We're talking about what I'm going to do to you."
Beanzini packed away his video camera.
"You won't do anything to me or to the weasel. I'm going to make a bunch of copies of this video tape. Then, I'm going to give those copies to a friend of mine. If anything happens to me or to Phil, my friend will send those copies to every eagle in the country."
"You wouldn't!" Screeel croaked in horror.
"No, I wouldn't, but my friend would. Just imagine: all those eagles watching a videotape of the mighty Screeel closing his eyes and screaming as he falls! I bet they laugh. I bet they call all their friends and play it at parties."
"I'd be ruined!" Screeel gasped, "I'd be a joke."
"That's right," Beanzini said. "But if you just forget about this, no one will be the wiser. Phil Weasel left as soon as you hopped off the cliff. He didn't see you screaming and closing your eyes. He'll be mad when he finds out the stamp is worthless, but he hasn't the courage to come after you again. So you're rid of him. I've got what I want, so I'll disappear and you're rid of me." He cut a small nick in the bungee cord, picked up the video camera, and started to walk away. "Think about it," he called behind him, "So far, you're the only one who knows about this. To keep things that way, forget trying for revenge. Have a nice life."
And Beanzini disappeared into the woods.
A few weeks later marked the grand opening of Phil Weasel's Forestland Casino. It opened to tremendous success and quickly became the top gaming establishment in the area. Oddly, at the very height of its popularity, Phil Weasel vanished. The establishment's new proprietor, Noodles Beanzini, bruited about the rumor that Phil had retired incognito "for health reasons."
Beanzini commissioned a plaque in Phil's honor and mounted it on the wall behind the main blackjack tables. Many patrons remarked on the plaque's beauty and quiet good taste, but none were able to recognize the strange-looking drawing under Phil Weasel's name.
"Looks like a claw on the end of a bungee cord," one overweight matron from Ohio said.
"Don't be silly, Maude," her husband replied. "Let's find a table. The floor show's starting."
It sat right in the middle of the best road in the Seven Counties.
Travelers used it every day. This might have been a problem for some
dragons--mostly the ones who'd live in smelly old caves--but not for
Kadasha. She was smart enough to realize that if she bothered the
travelers too much, she was heading for trouble. Knights errant would
come out on their white chargers with their ludicrous lances and silly
swords. She'd probably enjoy some easy meals (white chargers were very
tasty when charbroiled), but, sooner or later, a knight would be lucky,
or magical, or both. One thing she didn't need was a lance in her
gizzard.
Because there were plenty of wild deer, sheep, and other game in the
nearby forests, she mostly left the travelers alone. She also let them
alone because she was suggestible. Actually, she was a bit more than
suggestible: she was gullible. She believed just about anything anyone
told her. As a result she had a backyard full of used cars, a closet
full of hundreds of magazines, and deeds to several bridges in her front
room.
Despite all of this, Kadasha was a good neighbor. Everyone within 50
miles knew that there was a dragon in the castle on the road. They
didn't mind. She never ate anyone, was rarely seen in daylight, and kept
riffraff out of the neighborhood. On those rare occasions when a bad
winter or a flood threatened a famine, townfolky would find
fresh-roasted moose, or fricasseed boars, or flame-broiled mountain
goats on their front lawns. The townfolky did their part by misleading
the occasional would-be hero.
A dragon, they'd say, scratching their heads and chewing on grass stems,
Around here? No. Used to be a basilisk or two over Snipe's hill, but we
ain't had a dragon in these parts for nigh onto 300 years.
Then, they'd spit a chaw into the nearest cuspidor and offer to buy the
visitor a farewell drink. This nearly always worked because would-be
heroes--while undeniably brave--were also frequently stupid. On the few
occasions that the heroes weren't stupid, the townfolky tried something
a bit different.
Well, before you go after the dragon, one townfolky would say, you'd
better tie your shoe.
When the hero looked down at his shoelace, another townfolky would bop
him on the head. They then placed him in a crate and shipped him as far
from the Seven Counties as possible.
Working together like this suited both Kadasha and the townfolky. She
could worry less about ending her days as dragon shishkebob. They could
worry less about bad weather and hard times. This mutually satisfactory
situation worked great until . . .
"Dragon?" a townfolky said. "Don't know about no dragon, mister."
"Sure you do," the stranger smiled, "Big, leathery, ugly thing; terrible
breath; lives in that castle on the road. Is she home?"
One of the townfolky got up slowly and moseyed around behind the
stranger. He slipped a mallet out of his pocket.
"A dragon," another townfolky said, scratching his head and chewing on a
grass stem, "Around here? No. Used to be a basilisk or two over Snipe's
hill, but we ain't had a dragon in these parts for nigh on 300 years."
"Sorry you came all this way for nothin', stranger," yet another
townfolky said, slipping an arm around the stranger's shoulder. "Let me
get you a going away drink; on the house, of course."
"Oh, knock off the Andy of Mayberry stuff," the stranger said. "I know
there's a dragon here and so do you. I'm just asking if you know whether
she's home."
"Know there's a dragon here, do you?" the first townfolky drawled. "Well
then you oughta know enough to tie your shoes." He pointed at the
stranger's shoes.
"You can put away your mallet, pal," the stranger said without turning
around. "I'm not falling for that one either. Look, fellas, I just want
to know if the dragon's home. You can tell me. Do I look like some kind
of knight to you?"
The townfolky looked at the stranger. He certainly resembled no knight
they had ever seen. Clad in a paisley sport coat and navy-blue slacks,
he also wore a flower-print shirt and plaid tie.
"Should we tell him, Mayor Lukey?" one townfolky said to another. "He
sure ain't gonna sneak up on anyone in that outfit."
"All right, mister," Lukey said. "The dragon's home. Now what do you
want with her? Try doing anything to hurt her and we'll tie you to an
ant hill with a lollipop in your mouth."
"Hurt her? Hurt her? Hah!" the stranger laughed, "I'm not here to hurt
her. I'm here to make her famous."
He pulled a stack of small cards from his pocket and handed one to each
townfolky. Gold-embossed letters on a sky-blue field proclaimed the
following:
"I started to look for a bad guy I could record. That's when I found out
why this hadn't been done before. The trolls tried to eat me, the imps
stabbed me with pitchforks, the banshees screamed at me, and the
vampires...I don't want to talk about it.
"Anyway, you get the picture: I just couldn't approach any of these --
sort-of -- people. They were too busy being bad to listen to my
proposition. Then, about two weeks ago, I heard about your dragon. She's
perfect. She's big; she's ugly; she looks mean and nasty. She'll be
great as Monsta Rap's first recording artist!"
"But the dragon's our friend," Mayor Lukey said. "She helps us when we
need food. She scares bad things out of our neighborhood. She's not
really a 'bad guy.'"
"I know," Pastafashool exulted, "That's what makes her so perfect! She
looks as vicious as a bad-tempered bull dog, but she's really a
mushball. I can't wait to get her to sing and record Monsta Rap."
"Sing?" Lukey said.
"Record?" another townfolky said.
"It's terrific," Pastafashool continued, unhearing. "I'll start small:
just a couple of signature pieces. Then, after the raves start, I'll set
up the first album . . . "
"Mister, our dragon can't sing." Lukey said.
"I'll call it something like The Dragon Rap. Get a cover photo of
her pulling a roll of wrapping paper across the ground . . . "
Lukey enlisted the aid of several other townfolky. "Mister," they said
in unison, "Our dragon can't sing."
Pastafashool was pacing back and forth, now. Ticking ideas off his
fingers as he talked: "When the album goes platinum, I'll hire someone
to write a music video . . . "
This time, Lukey got all of the townfolky to help. "Mister," they
chorused, "Our dragon can't sing."
"I'll bring in MTV and I'll . . . " Pastafashool stopped pacing and
turned to the townfolky. "What do you mean, she can't sing?"
"She's a dragon," Lukey shrugged. "Dragon's can't sing."
"Of course she can sing! She makes sounds doesn't she?" Pastafashool
asked.
"Well, yes..."
"Then she can sing. Tell me: what kind of sounds does she make?"
"Roars," Lukey answered.
"Screeches," a townfolky added.
"Growls," another townfolky said.
Pastafashool nodded his head. "I see, I see. She makes sour sounds. That
solves our problem."
"It does?"
"Of course," Pastafashool replied. "It's well known that any dragon that
makes sour sounds still has its sour tooth."
"A sour tooth? I've never heard of a . . . "
"You've heard of a sweet tooth haven't you? Dragons don't have those.
Instead, they have a sour tooth. It makes their voices sound mean and
tough." Pastafashool went on, "That means all we have to do is pull the
dragon's sour tooth. That should make her voice sound sweet and musical."
"That's all we have to do, huh? Just pull the dragon's tooth?" Lukey
asked.
"Sure," Pastafashool replied, not noticing the sarcasm in Lukey's
question. "Luckily, I was a dentist before I became an agent. I'll just
knock her out with a couple of tons of nitrous oxide and . . . "
"Mister," Lukey asked slowly, "Have you seen our dragon?"
"Seen one, seen 'em all."
"Our dragon's bigger than most," Lukey drawled. "And, nice as she is for
a dragon, I don't think she'll like the idea of someone pullin' one of
her teeth. How do you figure to get her to hold still long enough?"
"That's why I came to you first," Pastafashool said. "I need your help."
"Let me get this straight," Lukey said, turning to face Pastafashool
completely. "You want us to help you pull our dragon's sour tooth . . . "
Pastafashool nodded, smiling.
"...So you can get her to make an album..."
Pastafashool nodded again, his smile widening.
"...So she can become rich and famous..."
Pastafashool positively beamed.
"...And she can leave the neighborhood so we'll starve to death during
the next cold winter. Far as I can see, that wouldn't be real smart."
Pastafashool shook his head. "No, no, you're thinking small. Look, if
you help me, you'll be my partners. I'll cut you in for a share of
whatever the dragon makes. And when Monsta Rap catches on, your
little neighborhood will be famous. You've heard of Motown? Graceland?
They'll be hamlets next to 'Dragonville--home of Monsta Rap.
Tourism alone will bring you millions; not to mention action figures,
clothing, video games, and other stuff."
"It could work, Mayor Lukey," a townfolky pointed out. "Look at what
happened with them beanie babies."
"Hush up, Gomer," Lukey said, "I'm thinkin'."
"Well, think fast," Pastafashool said, checking his watch. "Time's
money, you know. If I don't at least get this deal started today, I
gotta go. There's a Chimera in the next county who plays air guitar . .
. "
"All right, all right," Lukey said, throwing up his arms in defeat.
"We'll help you. But you still haven't told us how you're gonna get the
dragon to let you pull her tooth."
"That," Pastafashool said, "Needs a plan and I've got one. Come here..."
"Good afternoon, Kadasha," he said. "I've come to...Oh, my!" He stopped
suddenly and stared at her intently. "I'm so sorry. I'll come back when
you're feeling better." He turned and started away.
"Wait!" Kadasha called after him, "There's no need to leave. I feel
fine."
"What a brave soul you are," he said, turning back to her. "I was going
to offer you some maple-sugar candy but, of course, you won't want any
of that."
"I love maple-sugar candy. Why on earth wouldn't I want it?" Kadasha
asked, confused.
"It's sticky and hard to chew, my dear."
"I know. That's why I like it."
"Well, I just thought with your tooth the way it is..."
"My tooth? There's nothing wrong with my tooth."
Mayor Lukey looked at her sympathetically. "Now, Kadasha, no need to be
heroic. Your jaw's so swollen that you must have a sore tooth. I'll save
your candy until you can get the tooth pulled." He started away again.
"Pulled?" the dragon said. "You think I need a tooth pulled?"
"Of course," Lukey replied. "Once a tooth gets so bad that it swells
your jaw like that," he pointed to Kadasha's perfectly normal cheek,
"There's nothing you can do but have it pulled. Have you made an
appointment with our new dentist?"
"Dentist? No, but . . . "
"Oh. Well, no matter. Come with me, Kadasha. I'll get you right in to
see him." He grabbed the dragon's front paw and started to lead her down
the path to town.
"But, I don't think . . . " Kadasha stammered, following him
reluctantly.
"Don't worry," Lukey said heartily. "I know you should have an
appointment but, after all, I am the mayor. Dr. Pastafashool will make
an exception for a friend of mine."
"That's not it," Kadasha said, stopping. This stopped Lukey, too. He was
still holding Kadasha's paw and she outweighed him by a good 30 tons.
"My jaw doesn't feel like it's swollen." She started to move her free
paw toward her unswollen cheek.
"No! Don't touch it!" Lukey screamed in horror, startling Kadasha so
badly that she jumped. This yanked Lukey ten feet into the air.
"Touching it's the worst thing you can do," he gasped as he picked
himself up from the ground. "Dr. Pastafashool said that patients should
never touch a swollen tooth. Said the tooth could explode and blow the
patient's head clean off!"
"No!" Kadasha said, lowering her paw quickly.
"Yes!" Lukey asserted, "Come on now, Kadasha. Leave the tooth to a
trained professional."
Together, the two walked from Kadasha's castle toward the town. At
first, Kadasha was still reluctant to go to a dentist when her tooth
felt fine. A simple visit couldn't hurt, of course, but she could just
as easily make her own appointment. She was just about to tell Lukey
this when they passed the first house on the east side of the
neighborhood.
This was the home of Millie the washerwoman. If Kadasha had a best
friend among the townfolky, Millie was it. She shared tea with the
washerwoman on the odd Tuesday and often heated wash water for her.
Millie, for her part, liked the dragon better than most of her
relatives. ("She works harder than my no-account husband," Millie liked
to say. "And she smells better, too.")
Millie had been among the townfolky when Pastafashool outlined his plan.
The plan to make the dragon rich and famous sounded good to her. This
explains why she looked at the mayor and the perfectly healthy dragon
and ran toward them crying.
"Ah, you poor thing," she choked between sobs, "Your poor, poor tooth.
You look like you've got a watermelon in your cheek. You haven't touched
it, have you?"
"Tried to," Lukey said, "I stopped her just in time."
"Thank goodness," Millie exulted, "I just wish there was some way I
could ease your pain, dear. Can I give her a poultice, Mayor Lukey?"
"No, Millie," Lukey shook his head, "We'd have to touch the tooth with
it. Kabooom, you know."
"Perish forbid!"
Lukey patted Millie's shoulder. "Take heart, Millie. I'm taking her to
Dr. Pastafashool right now. He'll soon set things to rights."
"Courage, Kadasha dear," Millie said, gently. Then, turning to the
Mayor, she barked, "Well? Why are you hanging about talking to me? Get
this poor thing to the dentist!"
With that, she turned and strode back into her house. Kadasha, who was
beginning to think that her jaw did feel a little tender, continued
onward with the mayor. The two of them encountered more townfolky on
their way. Each had something to say about Kadasha's tooth. The Baker
sympathized with her pain. He promised to bake especially soft, easy to
chew loaves for her that afternoon. She could pick them up after her
tooth was pulled. The plumber tsk-tsked at her swollen cheek and
promised to make sure her water pipes delivered lots of warm, fresh
water. The village idiot asked if she was taking up chewing tobacco and
ran for the hills when Lukey aimed a kick at him.
As they reached the middle of town, Kadasha was starting to feel
stiffness in her jaw. After three different shopkeepers offered her ice
("to stop the terrible swelling," they said) she could feel the
beginnings of pain. So many
townfolky called words of sympathy or encouragement to her that, by the
time they approached Pastafashool's hastily set up dentist's office,
Kadasha was moaning in agony.
Lukey walked into the office and opened a window so Kadasha could stick
her head inside. Then, he turned to the receptionist's desk where Jenny
Fensterwald was sitting and looking terribly official. He winked at her
and asked if the dentist was in.
"Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist asked with a frown. She
had seen Lukey wink and she thought he should be more serious. After
all, you didn't try to trick a dragon every day.
"C'mon, Jenny," Lukey said, "You know me. I haven't had a toothache in
years. I just brought Kadasha in."
"Does she have an appointment?" Jenny said, looking at her (empty)
appointment book.
"No," Lukey responded, "But just look at the poor thing." He pointed
toward the dragon's misery-twisted face.
"Oh, my," Jenny said, "Worst swelling I've ever seen! Ordinarily we
couldn't get her in on such short notice . . . " A low groan rumbled
through the office.
"...But she must be in such terrible pain that I'm sure we can make an
exception. I'll talk to the doctor myself." She pressed a button on her
intercom.
"Doctor?" she said.
"Yes, Miss Fensterwald," the voice over the intercom buzzed with
importance.
"We have a patient suffering here."
"Suffering? Suffering? We can't allow that. I'll be right there . . .
Sorry, Gomer, the root canal will just have to wait . . . "
"Iggs aww wite doggah"
"Spit."
"It's all right doctor . . . "
Jenny released the intercom button. "He'll be right . . . " The door to
the dentist's inner office flew open and Pastafashool rushed out." " . .
. here." Jenny finished.
"Miss Fensterwald, where's the pa . . . Oh my goodness!" he said as he
saw the dragon's head.
"Quick, Miss Fensterwald! We haven't a moment to lose! Get my tools and
the anesthetic! We have to prep this dragon for surgery at once!" She
fluttered from the room. He turned toward Lukey. "You," he shouted.
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Did you bring her in?"
"Well, yes."
"You certainly took your time about it, didn't you?" Pastafashool
snarled, "Why didn't you wait another day or so and let her jaw explode?
Oh, never mind" he continued, as Lukey sputtered to defend himself. He
turned toward Kadasha. "Now just you wait, dear. We'll get that tooth
out of your head in a moment."
.Miss Fensterwald bustled into the room with a large, two-wheeled cart.
On the cart was an enormous canister marked "Sleeping Gas."
"Help me with this mask, you" Pastafashool growled to Lukey, "It's the
least you can do to make up for your delay." Lukey, still protesting his
innocence, seized one side of the gigantic mask. Together, they
approached the dragon.
"Wait!" Kadasha shouted, frightened, "Won't strapping the mask to my
face blow up the tooth?"
"There, there, dear," Pastafashool soothed, "I've done this hundreds of
times. Never blew up a patient yet," he pressed the mask to her face and
began to connect the straps. "Of course," he murmured, snapping the last
strap into place, "there's a first time for everything . . ."
Kadasha's eyes flew open wide.
"Just kidding," Pastafashool said, "A little dentist humor.
Nitey-nite!" He opened the valve on top of the sleeping gas canister . .
.
Plenty more where he came from, she thought as her dragon dolly
cha-cha'd on the last of the knight dollies. She was just about to fly
her dragon dolly back to her beloved when she heard her mother calling
her: "Kadasha," she heard, "Kaddy." She hated that nickname. "Kaddy,
honey, time to wake up."
Wake up? What?
"Kadasha," her mother's voice began to change, to become deeper and a
bit harsher, but a lot less loud. "Kadasha, wake up!"
The pleasant scene began to fade. Her dragon dollies disappeared and all
the knight dollies jumped at her face. They began poking their lances
into her jaw.
"Kadasha," they hollered, really digging their lances in, now. "Wake up,
Kadasha."
She popped her eyes open to see Mayor Lukey and Miss Fensterwald smiling
at her. Her jaw felt swollen and sore and a bit less heavy. She realized
that she had been dreaming and, a minute later, remembered where she
was. She said:
"Verble graoobble ka?"
"Don't try to talk yet, dear," Miss Fensterwald said, patting her claw.
"Your jaw will be a bit sore for a day or so now that your tooth is
gone."
"Yes, but the soreness will be worth it," Lukey said. "As soon as it
goes away and the swelling wears off, you'll start your singing career!"
And, believe it or not, that's just what happened. Remember, we said
earlier that Kadasha was gullible. When Pastafashool explained to her
that they had removed her sour tooth so she could sing, she believed
him. She also believed that she could be a star. She believed these
things so completely that she and the townfolky recorded her first
song--Dragon Dollies- -less than three months after her jaw
stopped hurting.
.Working through Daydream Believer Talent Agency, they sent the song to
a big record company. It went platinum in a little less than a year and
the new MonstaRap record label was born. Kadasha changed her name to
Kaddy, sang more hit songs, and married a mousy little dragon from her
old home town. She tossed him out on his scaly tail a few years later
and started to make tabloid headlines with her antics. She'd never been
happier in her life.
As for the townfolky, they invested the money from the initial record
sales in long-term, tax-free, mutual funds. Residuals from the songs and
interest from their investments meant they never had to worry about bad
times again. Lukey became Mayor-for-Life (until a scandal involving Miss
Fensterwald drove him from office) and Gomer got a job doing back-up
vocals with Kadasha's band.
Pastafashool? He left the Talent Agency business and tried his hand as a
knight errant. He disappeared briefly during the Quest into Somebody
Else's Business: the most dangerous quest of all. He resurfaced later as
a TV evangelist crusading against "Monsta Rap." Kadasha dedicated an
album to him.
Part 1
Why, Kadasha wondered as she swept dust and old bones out
her door, do other dragons insist on living in wet, smelly old caves?
She shrugged at their foolishness. Kadasha had lived in her castle for
almost 300 years. Oh, at first she'd had to make some minor changes.
She'd knocked down a few walls, ripped out the ceilings between the
floors, and enlarged the doors and windows. But the castle was still
mostly as she had first seen it: a perfect home for a large, fussy, and
rather suggestible dragon.
Part 2
"Anybody here know if the dragon's home?" the stranger
asked as he stepped into the local store. Several of the townfolky were
gathered around the old stove watching as two other townfolky played
checkers. They all looked up slowly as the stranger approached.
Daydream Believers Talent Agency
We'll make your dreams come true.
--Pastafashool, Chief Talent Scout
"I'll cut right to the chase," Pastafashool said, "One of
my clients is a big recording company that specializes in producing
albums by fantasy characters. These are the same guys that gave you
songs by candelabras, teapots, crustaceans, and mermaids. Well, one day
I'm sitting in my office when an idea hit me. Maybe the public is tired
of all the cutesy-pooh. Maybe there's a real market out there for some
'bad guy music.' So I put together a plan and ran it by the bosses at
the recording company. They told me I was nuts, but I figured, why not
give it a try? If it works, it might even start a whole new style of
music. I'll call it: 'Monsta Rap.'"
Part 3
Kadasha was vacuuming her front room when the knock came
to the door. It never fails, she thought, The house is a disaster and I
get company. She turned off the vacuum and reached out a claw. Opening
the door, she saw one of the townfolky on her step. It was Mayor Lukey.
Part 4
Kadasha was playing with her favorite dollies. Her brave,
noble girl dragon dolly was stomping merrily atop the squished bodies of
icky old knight dollies. Soon, she would finish them off and fly back to
her cowering -- but very cute -- boyfriend-dragon dolly. They would then
live dragonly ever after in a beautiful castle on an enchanted hill.
Never again would she have to wash the dishes, dust the furniture, or
vacuum the carpet. Her devoted boyfriend-dragon would wait on her claw
and talon or she'd boot him out on his scaly tail.
XXX
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