Prologue
I dreamed I was a huge dark bird, drifting the thermals above the world. With my raptors sight I saw the suffering and horror covering the earth below, and it broke my heart; I heard her shatter. Tinkling shards fell like snow, my heart forever gone. But a monstrous power filled the void, and flushed me with towering anger. A voice poured from the raw wound where my beautiful heart once beat, and pumped its hot acid throughout my body. This screaming, silent wave of reason uncloaked the future. And as the rolling vision blossomed, I watched as the death covering our world burned away like wildfire until nothing remained but light.
When I woke, the Truth was mine and I dedicated my life to it. I was ten years old.
--The journal of Theodora Smith - May 2020 NYC
“The Earth is not dying, it is being killed, and those who are killing it have names and addresses.”
--Utah Phillips
“It’s all about the fucking dragons, Mickey.” I called him Mickey; his name was Michael. I knew it annoyed him. It was part of the tension I maintained between us. Michael was like a dog. He stuck around for the promise of a treat. He’d get more attentive if he thought I might dump him. A little tension is like glue – it keeps things attached.
We were in bed. Seems like all the important stuff gets said in bed. Important stuff gets done in bed too. We had just finished a lunch break-long cunelingual session. I was smoking, he was watching my tits. I said, “You know how all those stories go, right. The dragon has been terrorizing the town for centuries. The scaly old fucker is fat and ugly.”
He took a long drag on my vape and inserted it back between my fingers. I continued, “Fat, ugly and mean as a one-eyed snake. And you know dragons right? That fat fucker has been stealing from everybody for so long, they think it’s normal. They even send a vagrant up to the cave once a year for Christmas or Beltane or some such shit, as a sacrifice to satisfy the greedy bastard’s lust with a tribute. To them it’s worthless blood, but maybe he’ll leave them enough food to make it through the winter. They’ve even made it a holiday tradition; there’s a huge pile of bones in the corner of his cave to prove it. And what do you think ‘ol Draco’s been doing with all that shit he stole? Is he spending it? Reinvesting it? Is he buying himself new caves or helping less fortunate dragons? Shit no. He’s just sitting on it, sleeping on it. He’d be fucking on it if he could get a date. But he’s a pathetic old dragon. He ain’t doin’ shit with it, Buckko, except maybe building bigger walls around himself or buying more guns and hiring armies to protect all that shit he ain’t using, Damn…”
I was sleepy, stoned and satisfied. I closed my eyes and said, “I might take a nap.”
Michael said, “Is there a point you were making, Dory? Or was that some sort of post coital deflation, like the last air escaping a tire with a hole in it?”
“Fuck you,” I said, but he was kissing me then, with his hand under my breast and his thumb on the nipple. I said, “Do you want to hear more or what?” but it came out sounding like gargling mouthwash. I broke away and repeated it. We sat back against the wall.
“You get the picture, right? The dragon is stealing all their shit. They blame it on the weather or the town council or the gods of E-CONO-ME, but even if they did realize that the hole in their bucket is living in a cave outside of town, they can never do anything about it. The only way to solve the fucking problem is to kill the fucking dragon, and it’s been there so long they’ve grown attached to it.”
He was rubbing my shoulder; I slipped under the sheets and snuggled into my pillow. He massaged my hand. Typing cramps my fingers. I moaned.
I said, “Now, to be sure, the myths have been laid-on hot and heavy for years: ‘You can’t fight anything that big. Better appease it or it’ll get worse. We’ll rise up against it when we are stronger. Quiet! You’re going to piss it off.’ Fucking lame-ass excuses.
“The old timers tell them the dragon is everyone. That he lives in the hearts of men. ‘We can’t slay the dragon without slaying ourselves,’ they say. Blaa, blaa, blaa, it’s always the same bullshit. They’re afraid, but they can’t admit it. The dragon has them trained to oppress themselves; it’s easier for him then keeping them under his claw. He works smarter not harder, knows if he eats a kid once and a while, he can sleep the rest of the time. A cow here, a sheep there. Just enough to be sure they don’t forget about him.
“Well, Mickey, the dragon ain’t some immortal beast. The biggest obstacle to slaying that motherfucker is making the decision to do it. Once decided, the doing is easy.”
Michael had disappeared and was creeping up my thigh leaving a cool wet trail. When he got to the top I grabbed his ears and repositioned him dead center. I was pretty wet and didn’t mind him going directly for my soft gooey center. I guessed lunch wasn’t over yet; even though I still had a thousand lines of code to write. It’s tough being self-employed. Besides, Michael loved my cunt, and I could never deny a man with a strong tongue.
fin
See more at https://theodorasmith.wordpress.com/