Secrets of the Dragons

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

Up until recently, the worst anyone had to worry about in San Fernando was paying for their ten-dollar latte or occasionally outmaneuvering a flashing homeless man. The most vicious creatures on the streets were studio executives on the hunt for growing talent with dreams ripe for the crushing.

Then the sightings started.

The first dragon sighting was on July 4th. It fit the bill — everything you’d expect a dragon to be — making a bigger bang than any firework that night. A whole block was levelled trying to contain it but miraculously no lives were lost. Nobody knew where it came from, or where it went, but sightings escalated from there. In a month, there were over six-hundred unique sightings.

I wasn’t unfortunate enough to set my eyes on one until today.

My day started the same way any Monday would, reluctant to go to a job that I hate. I’ve got nothing but respect for people who spend their lives in the service industry, but I lost my love for it after the third time someone threatened to sue me for accidently putting oat milk in their Macchiato instead of almond milk. Let’s face it, I won’t be missed. My calling is somewhere else.

But I haven’t figured out where that somewhere else is yet, so my morning was filled with your average amount of coffee slinging.

My lunch break was a different story.

“Excuse me?! I’ve got somewhere to be,” huffed some yoga mom from across the shop. She chose to ignore that I was clearly mid-panini, so I chose to ignore her.

While she spoke to my manager, I enjoyed my last moments of peace. Read up on the conspiracy theory that dragons are related to radioactive crocodiles. Insane, and makes absolutely no sense, but an immersive read and learned some fun facts. Did you know crocodiles can’t stick their tongues out of their mouths?

Anyway, before I donned my apron to join the frontline for another shift, I looked back to my manager and she wasn’t there anymore. In fact, most of the shop had filed out, with only a few meerkatting for a better view of outside from their seats. Everyone else was stood on the sidewalk.

Naturally, I joined them.

“What’s going on?” I asked. Got a taste of my own medicine when nobody responded. I asked a few more times, but didn’t get a straight answer. Before long, I didn’t need one.

A huge fiery bang rumbled through the street from only a couple blocks away. Sent half the observers into a jog in the other direction. Most of the other half were filled with worried whispers about what the noise was and whether or not we should call the cops. Anyone else had their phones out to record what came next.

The closed Forever 50 across the street was instantly turned into rubble. As if out of nowhere, a wrecking ball built of two interlocked dragons barrelled through it, sending white slacks and golf clubs 30 feet into the air. They unravelled right in front of the coffee shop. Two hulking masses of muscle — each bigger than a bus — facing off right in front of me.

I did what anyone else would: I got the hell out of there.

Problem with dragons is, me running for two minutes is their version of flying for ten seconds.

It seemed wherever I ran, their fight followed. The bigger of the two, covered in vibrant purple scales, appeared to be winning as it seemed to be the only one capable of spewing fire everywhere. You can understand why I was rooting for the red one. The only clear loser was the road beneath their feet which turned into a black slop of molten asphalt.

They knocked me off my feet every time they crashed into each other. The sheer force of their bodies meeting felt like I was about to have a heart attack. And if it wasn’t their titanic clashing that would give me one, it would be their flailing tails that, on multiple occasions, I watched cleave through palm trees and buildings alike without a hint that they’d even crossed paths until the aforementioned crumbled in on itself.

In short, I was nearly collateral damage a dozen times in what I can only assume was a territorial dispute…between dragons.

But my day managed to get worse.

When I was finally out of breath, when I thought I could run no more and was going to become a red stain on the sidewalk, the purple dragon was launched into the local DFC I was using as cover. I stood by its door when the ceiling and two floors above were peeled back into the building behind.

I remember freezing. A whiff of fried chicken pulled me out of it. I turned around to inspect the dragon after a few moments of not hearing any movement. It wasn’t there anymore. Just an immense cloud of steam.

I checked for the red dragon in the street too. Also gone. They’d disappeared faster than they’d arrived.

That could have been the end of it.

I could have left there and then. Never seen a dragon again. But I made possibly the worst decision of my life.

I went into the back of the DFC, walking through the steam and sprawled out chicken, looking for any sign of where the dragon was, all because I had a stupid question in the back of my mind: ‘I wonder if dragons can stick their tongue out of their mouth.’

What I saw in the rubble of that kitchen questioned everything I knew.

Standing in the midst of the mist was a man. Mostly nude, with the exception of some very flattering jean shorts. He was lathered in sweat, had muscles for days, and was posing like a body builder with the biggest grin on his face until I walked in.

“Hey…you’re not who I thought you were,” he said.

I said the only thing that came to mind: “You’re not a dragon.”