Everyone had been hounding me relentlessly about imagining dragons, and I reached the point where I finally had to say to myself, “You’re fighting a losing battle, old friend. Join them, before it’s too late. Welcome to the new age. Also, we should get something to eat. Korean BBQ, maybe.” So I went and hopped on the hype train, joining millions who had already been imagining dragons and were seemingly enjoying it. But now I have no idea what to do with them.
I decided to only imagine two dragons, thank Christ. I don’t even want to begin to think about what would happen if I had imagined three, four, ten? I’d probably be playing ping pong in Heaven by now. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
It all started out nicely. I imagined a blue one and a tan one, for variety, and their names came easy enough: Dradragon and Lilizard. Sick names, I know. I thought it would be cute if I imagined baby dragons, so I could rear them and teach them to obey, but holy Halloween, they grew faster than a round trip Concorde jet flight from New York to London. And by that I mean they reached full dragon maturity in seven hours. I’m talking the size of prison bus, people. What the fuck.
The next day, I woke up to ash and dust and looked around me, thinking, “This is it, the apocalypse.” They had burned my house down, but luckily, I was sleeping outside in a tent to guard my marijuana plants, so I remained unscathed, and high as a kite.
Their then-adorable bursts of teeny flames had apparently turned into forty yard jets of hell-fire that reigned chaos down on my small town during the night. I could feel it in my bones: the death, the destruction. Their first night in existence left over four hundred dead, thousands more wounded, and the complete incineration of our downtown Friendly’s. The smoldering remains smell sticky and sweet; it’s hard not to breath in the chemicals.
What little control I had over them has now completely vanished, just like they did. I reckon they’re both in some other town, setting everything on fire and eating it. Or setting things slightly on fire and waiting till they die on their own. Lilizard apparently did that to Shelly’s Samoyed, yikes.
I couldn’t help but think, “This is all my fault. I have to do something.” So, after a brief visit to the hospital revealed that because I was touched by dragon flame I’m radioactive and likely to die in a month, I grabbed one of my backup American flags and raised it onto the only pole they hadn’t melted. Then I donned some military clothes I found on a dead general in the street, ready to fight to the last breath against the demons of mine own creation. It’s a revolution, I suppose.
And so, I ask you all, to join me, and to sing our battle cry so that we may strike fear into the hearts of the dragons and take back our planet!
Whoa, oh, oh, oh, oh, whoa, oh, oh, oh!