“Welcome to my land,” the Dragon boomed, spreading his wings out wide. “What do you think?”
“It is a very beautiful place,” Diane said.
The Dragon growled. “The place is beautiful, is it? The place!?”
“Yes,” Diane said. But as she spoke, the mountains in the distance began to whittle away, crumbling chunk by chunk. The trees, grass and flowers were sucked back into the ground, as if through a drinking straw. The rivers and lakes turned to acrid sludge, dotted with the corpses of two floating fish and five loaves of mouldy bread. And in the wake of it all, a great stone cathedral rose in its place, all soaring spires, flying buttresses and vaulted ceilings. The magnificent church rose up on a road paved of gold. The parapets were lined with sculpture after sculpture of the Dragon in various poses, and in the center of the façade was a stained-glass mural of the Dragon, resplendent in all his glory.
“Well, what do you think of me now?” the Dragon asked smugly. “Give me your body, and I shall give you protection. I shall give you purpose. I shall give you a share of my great wealth.”
Diane was very impressed by the church. But when she turned back to the Dragon, she saw that her first impression, and the depictions in the art, were not quite right. The Dragon’s scales had looked mighty as any metal, and thick as plate-mail. Diane now saw that they were hollow plastic, and very nearly falling off, as if held in place by cheap glue. There was a Fisher Price logo on each one.
“And you promise not to eat me?” Diane asked.
The Dragon smiled a toothy grin. Those teeth still looked plenty sharp.
It seemed like a good idea to leave, so Diane carried on. Over her shoulder, she watched as the Dragon flew into a rage, huffing and puffing, preparing to roast Diane with its fiery breath. But instead of a gout of hellfire, only a single plume of impotent smoke chased Diane from the Dragon’s mouth. The beast roared angrily, demolishing its own cathedral as it threw a cataclysmic tantrum, leaving itself all alone in a pile of rubbish, on its road paved of gold.
Soon after, the road began to narrow once more. Again, the guitars closed in, but Diane hiked along a walkway of clouds. Sounds drifted back to her from up ahead; blown of fife, strummed of harp and beaten of drum. There was sweet rhythm here, and it guided Diane’s feet over the clouds, step by step like a metronome.
Diane arrived in Paradise. Youthful Elves frolicked here amongst the clouds without a care in the world, dancing and chasing each other about with the unbridled joy of children. Stolen kisses. Shared wishes. Basking in the rays of the ever-looming Sun. And there were the instrumentalists: woodwind, string and percussion, providing the rhythm that fuelled this divine garden.
