Hike and the Dragon

Hike cursed the lack of circulation in his hindquarters as he rode his flying door.

Once upon a time, when he was still on the Czar's payroll, Hike had a fine flying carpet. It was imported from Ostralahk and had been reportedly woven by a sultan's wife. It was large and deep-piled and comfortable, and Hike had loved it. Then Hike had foolishly made the Czar angry, and he lost a great many things he valued, including his sister. In the grand scheme of things the carpet was a relatively small thing to lose, but Hike still missed it.

With his horse dead, Hike needed transport. Flying magic requires a flat surface to work upon, and all Hike had available was a door. It wasn't even a very nice door; it came off a weatherbeaten barn, and a corner was rotted off. Several square-head nails still protruded from one side where the hinges had been; these tended to catch on Hike's duster in an irritating way. Hike hated the door, but it got him places and the price was nil, which was what he could afford.

The door's transit was anything but even, but not because of its inherent instability or Hike's poor piloting. The problem was that the ground was on fire, and Hike was doing his best to dodge the rolling clouds of greasy smoke that turned this section of the Badlands into an inferno.

Stupid dragons, thought Hike. Not wanting company was understandable. Taking active measures to avoid unwanted company -- also understandable. But making one's lair in the middle of miles of locoweed, and then setting the fields on fire -- that was just wrong. Hike could avoid the worst of the smoke, but he could feel his head swimming, and his temper was on slow boil, which meant the weed was starting to get to him. Smoking locoweed did that to men -- made them happy, then ornery, and then dead. Of course, sorcerors aren't exactly the same as men, but they're pretty close.

Locoweed does nothing to dragons. Stupid dragons, thought Hike. Hate 'em all. Too bad I need this one's help.

Hike held his Stetson on his head with one hand and kept his .415 handy in the other. Shooting a dragon with a pistol would only irritate it, but Hike always felt better with a gun in his hand. He guided the carpet with his extra pinky, waving his gun around as he pointed which way to go, dipping and weaving through the labyrinth of smoke columns.

Something impacted the door from below. It was very strong and the door wasn't; Hike's ride separated into three large pieces and a number of splinters and rained itself down on the fiery fields below. Hike cursed as he went flying headlong through a pall of smoke, hit the blackened turf hard on his shoulder, and rolled several times to a painful stop.

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He had lost his gun. It didn't matter, Hike told himself. He staggered through the smoke holding his bandana over his nose and mouth. It didn't help much. That didn't matter either. The dragon was waiting for him.

He felt the roar before he heard it. It was a rumble that made one's innards jiggle around. The dragon's roar started as a low growl, sputtered to a deafening crescendo and tailed off. Simultaneously, twin beams of light stabbed through the haze and threatened to blind Hike.

"SORCEROR!" snarled a voice like a buzzsaw. "YOU'RE MINE!"

"Ah, stuff it," grumbled Hike, his voice muffled behind his bandana. "Let's skip the formalities and talk."

The dragon loomed out of the dark. Its wheels were each as tall as Hike, with claws buried in the rubbery matrix. Great exhaust pipes flared over rollbars, spewing noxious vapors to join the locoweed clouds. Over the impeccable chrome of the front grillework, the dragon's cruel teeth curled impetuously. And under the forward canopy, the infernal fires of its powerful engine caused a baking heat to radiate out from the dragon. All this was wrapped in a hide covered with woolly brown fur, as soft as any teddy bear's.

"A young dragon, eh?" smirked Hike. "When's your molting coming up?"

"I'LL HAVE MY TREADS IN SHORT ORDER, SORCEROR," spat the dragon, a small gout of flame curling from one of its incinerators. "YOU, ON THE OTHER HAND, ARE GOING EXTINCT. THERE ARE, WHAT, THIRTY OF YOU LEFT?"

That took Hike by surprise. There had been fifty-nine sorcerors left in the world when he last left Fort Nixon. He had been in the Badlands too long. Hike struggled to clear the locoweed out of his head and recover.

"Can we skip the threats and the chit-chat?" asked Hike. "I've got a business proposition."

"NOT INTERESTED," refused the dragon flatly. "I'M HUNGRY."

"I'm talking about a lot of gold here," Hike lied.

"NOPE," said the dragon, gunning its engine.

"I could point you toward the grave of a saint," offered Hike, lying again.

"NO YOU COULDN'T," replied the dragon, rolling forward slightly.

"Magic? virgins? magical virgins?!" shrieked Hike, as the dragon's bumper knocked into his knees. It smelled of sulphur and small animals roasting alive.

"COULD YOU REMOVE THE SHADES?" asked the dragon. "THEY'RE INEDIBLE."

"All right!" shouted Hike. "All right, you leave me no choice!"

"OH GOOD," said the dragon. "AND THE BOOTS TOO? I DON'T...."

Hike drew himself up. "Dragon," he intoned formally, "I challenge you to a contest of riddles."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

"OH NO YOU DI'INT!" admonished the dragon a bit mournfully.

"Shut up," advised Hike, sitting down and crossing his legs. "Me first."

Friend assignment: photograph me covertly

Several things have occurred to me:

1) I don't have any recent photos of myself. We haven't had a camera in the house for some time, and usually the photo subjects are the kids anyway. I have also spent a lot of my life shying away from attention, so I'm apt to exit rooms when cameras appear.

2) I'd like some photos of myself. I'm envious of my friends who have pictures of themselves as user icons. I'd like the projection of myself onto the net to be fairly representative of me.

3) The attempts I have made in the past at self-photography or posed photos have been disastrous failures. They always seem fake, or stilted, or just look off. Probably this is partially because I'm not a professional photographer. Probably, also, I just plain prefer spontaneous or spontaneous-appearing shots.

So -- I want my local area friends to do me a favor. I want you, in the weeks to come, to take pictures of me when I least expect it. At parties, at poker, at lunch, whenever. It's not so important that I'm ignorant of your shutterbuggery; it's more vital that you capture me in a genuine moment. I don't need world-class pictures -- just shots of me, being me. And if you can get one that's genuinely hilarious, I'll post it here.

I'll be ever so grateful for whatever efforts you make. And whatever shots you get, even if it's just one blurry exposure, send it my way. You never know what will grab me.

Thank you thank you thank you!