B'Ass ackwards

Bubba the slothful, overweight, rideshare dragon dropped off his last human fare of the evening and flew to his girlfriend Tanya’s house. He had clocked out early and wanted to surprise her with the new scale polisher she had been wanting.

As he approached from above, a masculine and buff dragon stood with her on the portico in an intimate embrace. Her scales were freshly polished and brilliant in multicolor. Enraged at the betrayal, Bubba changed course and flew to the nearest dragon bar, Corsairs.

“I should burn her house down,” forgetting that Dragons hadn’t made fire in centuries.

Corsairs was known for its cheap grog and hot chicken marinated in Dragon’s Breath peppers. Their slogan, We will light your ass on fire, was not to be taken lightly, even for a dragon.

Four drums of grog later, Bubba’s server, a chunky motherly type, advised him to slow down and eat something. Buzzing from the grog and feeling impotent, he pointed his short arm at the signage,

Barbary Challenge – Consume one hundred Dragon Breath’s Chickens in one hour and win one hundred gold coins.

With the gold coins, I can leave town and start over somewhere else. I hate this town, he thought.

“I’m taking the Barbary challenge,” and belched a plume of sulphury smoke.

The manager came to his table with a set of documents and releases.

“Bubba, you need to know that the challenge is a gimmick. No one has ever succeeded though a few have come close, god rest their souls.”

“Whatcha mean, it killed them?”

“One spontaneously combusted and another is a debilitated vegetable at Dragon Palliative Care. To proceed, read these disclaimers and sign the indemnification documents.”

“What does it matter? I’ve got nobody to care anyway. If I do it I will leave my mark on this slime ball town before escaping it. Bring on the chickens,” and he signed.

Word spread through the establishment and into the street that the Barbary Challenge was on. A Corsairs regular customer tweeted the announcement and hundreds rushed to witness the spectacle.

The first ten chickens burned as he gulped them down, but he could handle it. He reached for a drum of grog, but the manager pointed to the fine print of the agreement, No beverages allowed during the challenge.

“What other rules did I miss?” as his massive stomach rumbled in protest.

No puking and all one hundred chickens must be retained. No trips to the bathroom are allowed. Belching and farting are allowed.

The crowd had grown to several hundred people cheering, “Bubba, Bubba, Bubba.”

Gray smoke spewed from his snout as he belched.

“Bring the next ten,” and the crowd went wild.

Eighty chickens later, with bloodshot eyes, sauce-laden dribble ran out the side of his mouth and scorched the table. The manager concerned that Bubba might succeed, ran back to the kitchen. “Do something, add something, anything, make them hotter, he must puke. We cant afford one hundred gold coins.”

The cook searched the storeroom and found two gallons of charcoal lighter and sopped it on the chickens.

Rivulets of sweat beaded on Bubba’s face as his breathing became labored. Through blurred vision, he saw Tanya in the crowd with her new dragon. Convulsions rippled his massive frame and remnants of chicken erupted up his long neck. Tanya clapped and laughed with her new partner. By sheer will, motivated by anger, Bubba stopped the rise of the chicken vomit and swallowed hard.

“I will show them. I can do this,” and spewed a long fart that left the observers behind him in misery. Two fell to the floor unconscious, several puked, and others rushed away gagging.

The servers brought the final twenty spiked chickens and spread them across the table. “Fifteen minutes remain,” cried the manager.

Bubba gobbled the first five and stopped cold. “These chickens taste different.”

“Thirteen minutes to remain,” cried the manager and the crowd cheered, “Bubba, Bubba, Bubba.”

He belched a plume of yellow-green gas and refocused. The gassy cloud accumulated and hovered along the ceiling like the back room of an opium den.

Two chickens remained and Bubba’s abdomen pulsated with a heartbeat of its own. He stuffed another in his mouth barely feeling anything.

“One-minute remains.”

Black spots and stars alternated in his vision, curtains closed from the sides and Bubba thought he would pass out.

Tanya’s voice cut through the noise, “You can do it Bubba.”

Anger-generated adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he pushed the curtains of unconsciousness back, grabbed the last chicken, and crammed it in his mouth.

The crowd went wild. The manager hung his head and resigned himself to the coming payout. Bubba collapsed across the table in misery. Tanya ran to his side with her new beau.

“Bubba, you did it. I’m so proud of you. Oh, this is Magnus, my nephew visiting from England.”

“Good job, ole chap. Don’t think I’ve seen anything quite like that,” as he pulled his smoking pipe out, loaded it with tobacco, stuck it in his mouth, and lit a match, and Bubba farted in response.

The gaseous cloud above Magnus ignited, and the crowd screamed in fear. Fire exploded across the ceiling and found a trail to Bubba’s ass. Out of control, Bubba farted again, and putrid green gas shot out from under his tail and ignited. The flames reversed up his ass with a low-frequency thump. In pain, fear, and panic he ran for the entrance with fire shooting out of his butt and jetted into the sky at a speed never before attained by a dragon.

The next day the newspaper headlines read,

Fourteen dragons injured at an eating contest gone wrong. Corsairs Closed Permanently.

A week later, an ad appeared in the same paper.

Bubba’s Dragon Jet Service

Call to make your non-stop coast-to-coast reservation today.

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