[ 97 ]

QUEST FOR MIRACLE

So that was three months ago.

And we’re still up here on the mountain. We’re well into spring now. I’ve recently taken up the hobby of lying on my back in the grass and staring up at the sky while getting drunk on the smell of newly bloomed flower buds. Fribby teases me and says she wouldn’t have fallen in love with my scaly green ass if she’d known she was going to have to share me with a bunch of flowers. She doesn’t really mind, though. Sometimes she’ll even lie down alongside me in the grass and take a couple deep snorts of this luscious mountain air and then sigh. And if you’ve never heard a robot giggle drunk on flower musk, well it’s an awful pretty sound. Yes sir.

What can I say? After seeing my mom in the Prophecy like that, well my fiendish and demented plans for the Great War against the man-creatures just evaporated. My big heart just isn’t cut out for that line of work. Conquering and enslaving and whatnot. My destiny lies in the other direction. Helping folks and extending a friendly talon to those who are different from me. My destiny is a place where there are no capes, and a fella with small horns is free to live as he chooses. Ranking systems and power indexes be damned.

Most of the animals have wandered off. Surge hung around, but in a friendship capacity. Turns out that old grizzly bear was mighty relieved when I called off our battle plans for the Great War. Wolf still stays by my side, nagging me about if I’m ready to give him a proper name. Privately he tells me he doesn’t want any name other than Wolf, though, and that his sassing me is more to prove to himself that I haven’t domesticated him. Other than those two, there’s the she-hawk who goes by the name Lucy. And then there’s this wily bobcat named Garth, who’s a bit of a loose cannon. He’s a former rabies addict.

We still call ourselves the Doomsday Squad. Fribby says we oughta change the name to The Order of the Red Rose, and I reckon that’s the name we’ll end up with. We fill our days reading our newest poems out loud to each other. And practicing tongue-fu. And at first the critters were easy to defeat, because of how tiny their tongues were. But Fribby fixed them up with the Evolution Machine and now they can shoot their tongues a good fifty feet, same as me. And to watch that grizzly bear and that she-hawk throw down in a legit tongue-fu battle, well it’s pretty darn majestic.

And I’m pleased to report that Fribby laid her first clutch of eggs. We got a real nice nest fixed up here in the back of the cave. I’m actually sitting on the nest right now and let me tell you, these giant eggs are some of the most gorgeous things you could ever hope to see. The shells have these boss silver streaks and swirls running all over the place, because of how they’re half Normal and half machine. Every few minutes I lift a wing and peek down at them and get a giddy feeling in my belly.

Meanwhile Fribby is out there patrolling the mountaintop, keeping watch for intruders. The other night she found some dragon tracks at the base of the mountain, and she said it looked like Rexro and his goons were still trying to hunt us down.

So while sitting here keeping these eggs warm for hours on end each night, well that’s when I got to thinking about Dean Floop and Dr. Terrible. And ATHENOS. And Trenx. And Metheldra. And all those scaly DataHater cadets back at WarWings. And my home planet Blegwethia. And about how the love that binds me and Fribby persevered through it all. And how our love is a miracle. And about how these eggs are the living proof of that miracle. Or maybe it’s more like these eggs are extra miracles stacked on top of that first miracle. I don’t know. Anyway, the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It almost drove me crazy. And so finally I decided to write down my story and put it in a book. But now I’m almost at the end of my tale.

And if you’re a man-creature here on planet Earth, well don’t be scared none if we happen to bump into each other. I mean say you find yourself traipsing ’round a mountain and you stumble upon a big old scaly green dragon. Well all you got to do is call out: “Red Rose, Red Rose, oh you immortal Red Rose!”

And if that scaly bastard calls back: “I sing to you from the bottom of the claws on my toes!,” well that’s when you know it’s me. Gork. And that you’re safe.

Because this much I can promise you. Nothing in the world can hurt you as long as I’m around. On that, I give you my solemn word. Nobody’s going to harm a hair on your head as long as old Gork is nearby.

THE END. YOURS TRULY, GORK.