The dragons were drunk again. What else was new. Ever since they realized they could get absolutely smashed out of their respective, scaly gourds by simply flying a few thousand feet higher than normal, things had gotten wild in the Kingdom of Grith. Well, wilder than usual.
Greg, an overweight, pink-winged, Orca-Dragon, was the worst. As everyone knows, dragons are tremendously jealous creatures. When a new trend takes over the community, not a single dragon can handle being left out. To be fair, Hilroy, the anorexic, red-winged, Omega-Dragon got a lot more drunk than Greg, as Hilroy was able to fly much higher and get drunk much easier. Trouble was, Greg would expend so much energy flapping his tiny wings to get his monstrous body up to intoxicating levels, that by the time he got there it would only take a few oxygen deprived breaths before he was sent spiralling back towards the Kingdom... a veritable missile.
Normally, dragons would get drunk, freefall back to earth, then play a popular game involving testing just how close to the ground they could get before regaining some semblance of motor skills, flapping their wings, then clumsily landing and laughing about it with other dragons. Greg would often fail miserably at this last part. On this particular occasion, his timing could not have been worse.
It was The King's Royal Jambalee. The celebration of The King's assured lack of cleanliness in which all of his subjects came to praise The King for his lack of bathing. Bathing was widely known as a horrible thing to do, and a savage practice. Only witches, warlocks, barbarians, savages and Orgs bathed regularly. All subjects would bathe at some point, and quite enjoyed it, but they would indignantly deny any such things, and quickly roll around in horse feces or rub themselves down with Wizard Farts in order to appear filthy and respectful.
"You stink of soap! And water!" Sir Staylish dismissively accused a local Blacksmith, waiting in line to smell The King.
"I swear, I didn't! I'd never think of it!" pleaded the Blacksmith for his freedom.
"Ugh! You reek of Lavendar and Rose oils. Take him away!" screamed Staylish as the poor Blacksmith was hauled off in chains.
"What did he do to deserve your wrath Sir Staylish? He'll be sentenced to seventeen years in Horrorland if found guilty in Bath Courts you know." queried Benjamin the Botanist silently.
"His wife threw herself at me last weekend when I merely stopped by the shop to threaten her with death if she did not throw herself at me."
"I see. Well I suppose he deserved it then."
"Suppose? Your skin is looking recently scrubbed as well Benjamin. Perhaps you'd like to join him in Horrorland?"
"I'd rather die than face the Horrific Horrors of Horrorland. Bathing every day? Eating fresh fruits and vegetables? Fornicating with skinny women?" He shuddered in disgust. "Disgusting!"
Just then, a tremendous darkness filled the room. It was Greg's gigantic body blocking out the sun as he plummeted to earth. The Court Dwellers became frightened indeed. The Watchtowerman screamed "It's okay! It's a falling dragon, but he'll miss us by a good 200 yards!"
He would have, to be sure, but for once Greg managed to regain consciousness, and flap his wings before he crash landed. The wings flapped just as he was on level with the top of the gigantic stone castle. One, strong, powerful flap. Just enough to stop his downward trajectory and send Greg, the fattest dragon alive, rocketing horizontally... directly into the side of the Castle walls.
The Castle of Trentonmere was smashed to pieces. The King, who only moments before had three peasants admiring the foul scent of his feet and armpits, lay dead under a mountain of rubble. Sir Staylish was never seen in the flesh again, presumed buried in the rubble like so many others. Pretty much the only person who escaped the catastrophe unscathed was Benjamin the Botanist. The hero of our story.
