Ridley's Dragoning For Dummies

There weren’t always dragons in the valley.

The little shits tumbled in here, all flappy wings and drunk from the Eastern methyl pits. A small swarm, just a few years ago, is now a full infestation. Thousands of them, starting fires, eating through fences, getting stuck in chimneys and air vents. And Christ-on-a-kebab, they shit everywhere, their digestive systems made of cast iron, letting them eat anything and everything imaginable. The only other creature I know with such an indiscriminate appetite is my best friend Toby, who everyone has taken to calling Tubby, for obvious reasons. They don’t do it when I’m around. I’ve smashed a few faces. I’m not so good with words, but my fists. Let’s just say, my fists are multi-lingual.

I’m not really complaining, though. The day they opened the methyl pits, the day the dragons found that watering hole for whatever unresolved trauma was plaguing their little species, was the day my circumstances changed. 

Until two years ago, Toby and I weren’t the most popular guys. Toby’s no looker, and I’m no poet, no sports jock. The only thing about me that swaggers is my Sunday morning salute as I roll out of bed. That bed, up until two years ago, was in my mom and pop’s basement. It’s not like I didn’t have a job. I worked at old lady Fletcher’s stables, three days a week. Her husband was dead and she needed someone to clean the stalls, stack the dry hay. We got along, in the way two people who never speak to one another might get along. Fucking peacefully.

Anyway, the paycheck she sent in the mail every other Tuesday, wasn’t much. At least not enough to pay for rent. So I’d give half to my parents and spend the other half fixing up Delilah. Delilah was my truck. She was a steel blue, 1950s Chevy, with so much junk in the trunk, I never needed a girl. Delilah was my first love, love at first sight. And when those little shits rolled in here, two years ago and ate through her chassis and half her engine, well, it was the first time I ever felt real heartbreak.

And like any vengeful lover, the only right thing to do was go to war.

Folks were always saying crap like, “Find a job you love, Ridley.” “You’ll never work a day in your life, Ridley.” Hillsborough isn’t a place where the brightest and best come to live and there never have been too many original thinkers here. I never took any of it to heart. Work was always going to be work, you know. You weren’t supposed to like it.

But then I went to war!

And just like that, I killed a few dragons, and people started noticing me. I’d walk through town and heads would turn. People would say, “Hey Ridley.” It was ridiculous. I didn’t even know their names. Miss Kathleen, down at the Subway on Jervis Street, even gave me a free teriyaki sub after I cleared out her driveway one morning.

Then people started stopping me in the street, asking if I could come over, get rid of their infestations from their driveways, their backyards. One guy had a bunch of them living in his pool, eating his kids’ floaties. When I hacked the fuckers up every way from Sunday, he didn’t much care that I left little pieces of wings floating in his pool. He even offered to pay me. That was when I realized, I could make some cash doing what I loved. I had, as the scholars would say, a lightbulb moment.

Now I make a pretty decent living exterminating dragons. I even registered myself a company, got a couple employees. Well, Toby and my little sister, Drumstick (her name’s really Drew, but no one’s called her that since she was in diapers). In any case, those folks were right. A guy can make a living doing what he likes.

That’s how I feel, every morning, as I walk into our little office behind Mr. McLeavy’s Convenience Store. I love seeing Drumstick sitting at her desk, feet up, like she owns the place. I’m the kind of boss that empowers his workers. This morning, Toby’s packing the truck out back. We made enough money last year that we bought ourselves a panel van. Now, instead of Ubering to our clients, having to wait for Gavin (the only Uber driver in Hillsborough) to drop off whoever he’s got in the car, cross town to get here, and then loading all our equipment into his Yaris, we can pack for the day and move out fast. I’m not ungrateful or anything, Gavin’s a good guy. Everyone’s got to start somewhere, right. I’m just saying, we’re a growing small business, focused on superior customer care now.

As I settle into my chair behind my desk, Toby comes in the back carrying a box of industrial-strength garbage bags. We nod at one another, the way good co-workers do and he slips out the door into the store. It’s a great arrangement we have with Mr. McLeavy, getting all our cleaning supplies right where our head office is based.

The phone rings, and I snap to high alert. Drumstick picks up the receiver, all her professionalism on full display.

“King Arthur’s Dragon Extermination Company. How may I assist you today,” she says. I’ve never been fucking prouder to be her brother and her boss. That girl is going places. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s no one here named, Arthur. Do you have a dragon infestation, sir?”

I roll my eyes. Every time. No one in this town has a lick of imagination.

“I see sir. Yes, that sounds very unpleasant. We’ll send a team over right away. Can I get your address?” she asks, and then after a few moments, “Well, sir, you can pay by credit card or debit card. We don’t accept personal cheques though.” And that right there, is why I pay her the big bucks.

As soon as she’s off the phone, Toby and I load ourselves into the van and head out. The first call of the day is always the best. We’re fresh, energized, ready to rip some wings off, bag ourselves some vermin. Toby’s mainly riding along for clean up, but it’s an important job. Customers want good service, and I can’t leave dragon bits in pools and backyards anymore. That just won’t do, you know. People have kids and pets. There’s nothing worse than a dog or cat getting into leftover dragon. The things have glands full of flammable fluids, and no one’s going to pay you if their dog blows up. We learned that early on.

It’s only when we arrive at the gate, that I recognize the farm as old lady Fletcher’s place. I haven’t been back here in two years. I heard that her son had flown in from some big city job, to take care of the old woman. It must have been him on the phone to Drumstick. I’ll admit, it feels good to show up at a previous employer when they’re now your customer. It’s a sure sign that a guy's moved up in the world.

In the driveway, I leave Toby to unpack the gear and head up the porch. I can see all the signs, scorch marks all over the garden, a few dug-up spots, half-eaten plants, nothing too major out here though. A man opens the door and steps out. Immediately, I roll my eyes. It’s twenty-eight degrees out already, the middle of summer and this guy's wearing a turtleneck and slacks.

Big City Joe sizes me up before he sticks his hand out to shake.

“Are you Arthur?” he asks.

“Christ-on-a-kebab,” I say under my breath. “No. I’m Ridley. I’m the exterminator. Used to work for Mrs. Fletcher a while back.”

“Right, right, yeah. I remember you. I’m Tobias. So I guess you know your way around then?”

“Yeah. I know my way around. You gonna be doing the walk through?”

“Walk through?”

“Yeah Joe…”

“Tobias - the name’s Tobias.”

“Hmm, Tobias. You seem more like a Joe to me, but I ain’t your mother,” I say as I turn to start heading down the steps. “Anyways, I’m going to need you to sign a few papers, show me where the main damage is.”

“Sure thing, Radley,” he says, following me into the yard. I don’t correct him. This guy's petty and he looks like an ice cream cone left on a hot pavement. “So you seen any big ones around here yet?”

“Bro, I seen all shapes and sizes.” What a preen. Does this guy even know how to change a tire?

We walk through the yard, where there’s not much to look at. When we get to the barn, Big City Joe points at the door and I guess this is as far as he goes. I get it, not everyone’s cut out for this kind of work. And fair enough, because inside the barn, shit’s gone sideways. There are at least a couple dozen of them in the rafters, a few are making Chicken McNuggets out of old lady Fletcher’s tractor, which is now basically a giant cheese grater. There’s a small fire going in a haystack but nothing else has caught yet.

I close the barn door behind me, pulling out my clipboard. Drumstick is a bit of a tech-whiz and she did up some forms, for liability and insurance purposes. I mean, the words are in a sort of purple-pink colour but I’m not a guy’s guy or anything so I don’t mind. I hand the form to Big City Joe, asking him for his John Hancock while he reads every line like I’m trying to steal his property or something. I roll my eyes and wait. 

“Right. Well, let me know if you need anything.” He hands back the clipboard and looks around again like there’s something he might be able to do. I don’t see this guy swinging anything bigger than a nail clipper, so I start walking away.

“Not to worry, Tobias. My guy and I, we’re professionals.”

Toby’s pulled out the essentials. We’ve built up our supplies over the last few months. I’ve invested in some steel net traps. Doesn’t hold the little shits for more than a few minutes, but it’s enough. We have a large metal barrel for clean-up after. The real prize of my collection though, are my axes and industrial power-washers.

In the early days, I’d just charge in there, hacking away. It was messy and I got burned more times than not. Lost an eyebrow once. Now, I’m more strategic and more prepared. I spent a little on a softball helmet and one of those really fancy Rawlings Catcher’s Chest Protector with Leg and Arm Guard sets. It looks great, though it’s a little worn in, a cross between Babe Ruth and Mad Max. I mean, I didn’t buy it brand new exactly. I got it off the Hillsborough High Softball Coach at one of those garage sales. Just because I own a business doesn’t mean I’m above saving a few dollars here and there. That’s how the rich stay rich, you know. They’re thrifty as fuck.

Anyway, once I’m all geared up, I grab a couple of the axes and head out.

I make another sweep of the grounds, identifying the spots with the most infestation. The barn is the worst, but the backfield where old lady Fletcher used to run the stallions, has a small nest, close to the pond. I start in the field, setting the steel net traps. 

These shits will eat anything, but they do like live catches. I tie mice into the traps, and leave the gates open. They always go for the live food. Stupid flying lizards. They trip the trap and I come along, power-hose them so they don’t get their little fiery snoots charged up and then, I put them away nice and quiet, no mess, no stress.

Well, there’s always a bit of a mess. The little shits have a nasty habit of exploding.

I leave the traps in the field and head into the barn. Everything goes to nuts when I let the power-washer rip. These things hate me, they know another predator when they see one, I guess. They start to screech and flap, throwing little gyres of fire everywhere. It’s like music to my ears. I aim the nozzle, virtually water riffling them right out the rafters. They thump to the ground, all stunned. That’s my cue. I drop the washer, pulling out my axe. And let me tell you, if you’re the kind of guy with a need to spend some energy, to let out a bit of what the Millennials call Toxic Masculinity, well, you can emasculate yourself every way from Sunday, right here.

It’s not the most precise job, is the thing. Dragons aren't like other animals, so I’ve never really figured out what’s a good kill-shot, you know. It’s more of a swing until the little shits stop moving. You never get them on the first try, they just keep popping back up and it takes a good few swings to get them good. That’s what I do. I keep at it, my axe flying through the air like a thing of beauty. 

The problem is, I can get a little caught up, and dragons have their numbers. While I’m down here hacking the shit out of Little Becky and Poor Johnny, Cousin fucking Billy comes out of nowhere, slamming into my side. He’s all claws and leather and loud. I get it. I’m his Boogeyman. Cousin Billy’s got my left hand in a pretty painful talon-grip, and it’s moments like these that I really tap myself on the back for getting the arm guards. I reach for my belt and grab the drilling hammer. I swing, but Cousin Billy won’t stay still, he’s yanking on me, flapping this way and that. I swing again, catching the edge of my own arm. I yelp in pain and Cousin Billy squawks like he thinks it’s the funniest thing. Then, like he finally grows a pair, he’s pitching that long neck of his, about to blast me.

I admit.

I panic.

It happens to the best of us. I like a face full of propane about as much as the next guy. I slam him straight in the chest, hard. It gets him loose, but here’s the thing. If you’re going to slam a dragon in the chest with a drilling hammer, you better get the hell out of Dodge faster than you can say, “Bubba loves trucks.”

It’s seconds but it feels like minutes. I turn, throw myself under the tractor, clawing at the dirt, to get myself deeper under there. It’s not graceful. And still, I’m only halfway through when Cousin Billy blows. 

For an average-sized guy, he sure packs a bang too. He takes out half the back wall of old lady Fletcher’s barn and the left front tyre of the tractor. I can feel the burn on the backs of my legs, the teeter of the tractor as its weight shifts. Now, I’m crawling backwards like a lunatic on fire. I can't help but notice that my trusty side-kick, best friend since we stopped shitting ourselves, and employee of the month, Toby, hasn't shown up. I mean, it's not like there was a huge explosion or anything. It's not like I could have died down here, rolling about, rubbing myself in the dirt. I never said this job was pretty. It’s not the first time this has happened either. I’m not exterminating mice, after all. These are mythical monsters that probably landed here from another world or something. I don’t really know where they come from. I just send them back. 

Anyway, as I crawl out from under the wrecked tractor, the place is trashed. But! Cousin Billy would get a cut of my commission if he was still alive. The only fire that kills a dragon, is dragon fire. Cousin Billy took out his entire crew for me. My work in this barn is done.

It takes me another hour to clear the field traps, and Toby’s packing the barrel with the last batch. I’m helping clear the barn, because I’m not above doing a little grunt work to help a co-worker out. We’re a team, Toby and I. At least, I think so.

There’s a spot down in the back of the barn, all charred. I was pretty caught up with the exploding flying lizard on my first pass but when I spot it, I’m glad I came back in here. I grit my teeth at the gaping wound in the back, but it’s really a stroke of luck these things didn’t take down the entire barn. There’s been a lot of loss of property over the last two years. Anyway, I head over to the pile of burnt straw, now ash mostly. I can tell, from experience, it’s been packed, and that’s a sure sign that I’ll find what I’m looking for. Right enough too, I push about in the ash and down at the bottom of the heap, I find it. They’re always so small, but it’s the colour that gets me every time. I don’t have one in this colour and I mentally hi-five myself. Today’s a win on every front.

I wipe the pale blue stone on a piece of fabric. It’s about the size of a chicken’s egg and about as heavy. Rubbed clean, the soft blue is even prettier now. It glows slightly like the others I have at home. I have seventeen in total, each one unique. Some guys collect cars, some guys collect baseball cards and apparently I collect dragon eggs. I’m not sure why I keep them, maybe one day I'll just whip myself up a dragon egg omelette or something. The one in my hand though, there’s something about it, something different.

It’s only after we’ve signed off on the job, heading through old lady Fletcher’s gate, Toby in the driver's seat, that I notice the egg’s getting warmer in my pocket. When I pull it out and turn it over in the palm of my hand, it starts the wobble, little cracks forming all along the surface. I hold it, sort of entranced by the whole coming-into-the-world thing, like maybe this is what parents feel when they see their kids for the first time. The cracks get bigger, a piece of the blue stone flakes off, and a little snout starts poking through. Okay, this is going to sound weird, since I know I’ve just spent a whole lot of time telling you about how I kill these things and make a great living off it, how much I love my job, blah, blah. But here’s the thing. I’m looking at this lizard head with the cutest little blue eyes, and those cute blue eyes are looking at me and this dragon baby and I, we’re having a moment. And all I can think, is shit, I’m a fucking dragon dad. 

Well, ain’t that a plot twist, am I right?