The dragon and the woman were packing their gear in preparation for another day of travel. A faint jingling filled the air. The sound increased until the woman could see, galloping down the road, a group of the local militia/peace-keeping force. The contingent pounded by, their trumpeter gaily blasting out the “Bad Boys” song. As they passed by the dragon winced visibly.
The woman looked at him questioningly, “What’s the matter, you have something against the local militia?”
“It’s not that,” the dragon replied. “It’s just that I haven’t always been the fine figure of a law-abiding dragon that you see before you.” This speech was interrupted by the woman frantically trying to stifle an attack of the giggles.
“As I was saying,” the dragon growled, looking indignant. “I was a bit of a hellion in my youth and I had my share of run-ins with the local authorities.”
He continued, looking thoughtful, “Why I remember one time…”
The dragon was angry, angry at everything. He was full of the anger that can only be understood by the angst-ridden soul of the oppressed adolescent. He flew in crazy loops, careening dangerously close to the ground and performing last moment dodges of low-lying obstacles. The dragon seethed, how dare his parents try to tell him what to do, they didn’t understand him, nobody understood him! Suddenly, the dragon spotted an unguarded herd of sheep below him. Here, here was an outlet for his rage. The dragon dove and went on a sheep-eating rampage. Wool flew everywhere as he vented his anger on the defenseless sheep. And then he ate, and ate, and ate some more, gorging himself on the pile of sheep. He stopped only after he had stuffed himself to a point where he was practically round. At this point the dragon didn’t feel so well, and eating all that wool had made his throat scratchy and all of him incredibly thirsty. He looked around the ranch and spied a tub of tempting red colored liquid. Overcome with thirst, he chugged the entire tub. Unfortunately the dragon’s parents had failed to warn him about humans’ penchant for intoxicating beverages. The dragon had fallen victim to a tub of backyard wine. The dragon blinked a few times, gave a small burp and proceeded to fall over.
The dragon slowly woke up, nursing a splitting headache, and bound and surrounded by the local militia. The leader of the group swaggered over, proud to no end, and started to lecture him on why he was going to be stuck in a dungeon for the rest of his life. Trespassing, willful destruction of property, public drunkenness, and, of course, being a dragon where he wasn’t supposed to be, the list went on and on. Despite a general feeling of complete and imminent painful death emanating from his head, one clear thought penetrated the dragon’s fuzzy mind. How would he ever be able to explain this to his mother? The image of his mother’s face confronted him. “How could you do this, why do you hate me?” lectured the disapproving face. “No one who loved their mother would do such a thing, just wait until your father gets home!” The dragon had no choice, he had to escape. Thankfully the militia was high on bravado but low on high-quality equipment. The dragon was able to break his bonds and made a quick, if ungraceful, exit.
The woman looked amused. “Didn’t they come after you?”
The dragon shook his head, “Nah, I think they were happy to just have the distinction of being the first group of people to actually arrest a dragon successfully. The fact that I escaped on the way back to the dungeon is a mere detail.”