Dear girlfriend (that is, if you don’t mind),
I am now writing to you from the Smocza Jama, the Dragon’s Den under Wawel Hill. Sightseers keep asking me for assistance, and I suspect it’s because of my overalls: they think I work here. Why can’t I successfully co-opt this blue-collar fashion item? You have yet to see me launch a serious attack on dressing norms, that’s why. I’ll update you when I have news on this front.
Years of heavily perfumed tourists have flushed out the dank of ages, but I can still feel the mustiness crawl over my skin. The stalactites have been broken clean off the ceiling, yet I can sense where their pointy tips would be. Too much light. Philistines and their halogens.
There’s no question: the Smok Wawelski lived here. Dorota, this is the only fairy tale I believe in, and I’ve collected scientific evidence to back it up.
The tour guide is yapping about the history of this cave, but as you can understand, I’m not listening. We subscribe to the alternate histories, which are far more fascinating (not to mention accurate).
Allow me to continue The Legend of the Smok Wawelski. I’m sorry if my retelling lacks imagination, but the Soviets were much better in that department.
Chapter 2
No longer was the great dragon satisfied with young virgin girls slathered in apple butter. Through a series of clandestine communications, he demanded to have the Princess—the King’s daughter—as his next meal. The Smok threatened that if the King declined this wish, he would burn Kraków down in a single exhalation of fire.
That day, the King sent prince after knight after hero to kill the dragon, but they were either cremated, or the dragon sent them back with the words ROYAL HYMEN, PLEASE carved neatly into their chests with a claw. What could the King do?
[Illustration of the Smocza Jama. This one is drawn in fine HB pencil, not in crayon like the last image. At the edges, the recesses of the cave are shaded with cross-hatching, quadrants of lines that get closer and closer until they blur into underworld black. In the middle, the Smok is about to swallow the reader, with tonsils the size of pyzy coming right at ya.]
Real-world update. I just licked the cave wall. It’s definitely limestone.
A thermal analysis performed at Kraków’s Institute of Inorganic Chemistry and Technology has revealed that limestone and platinum, when found together, can fuse as a result of sulphation.
Kryptozoologists point out that dragons could’ve easily created fire by grinding platinum in their back molars while belching methane. Kaboom. It’s not so far-fetched; cows flame-fart over cooking fires all the time.
It’s the fire tetrahedron—which sustains all life on earth—manifested through the mouth (and sometimes ass) of beasts. Can this be a lie?
Lick that. (Not you, girlfriend, and not that.)
Someone just asked me for a
flashlight, and I nearly strangled them. Of course, you don’t
believe me. We both know I wouldn’t hurt a lecie
.
Chapter 3
Just when the King had lost all hope and was dressing his daughter for destruction, a ten-year-old boy named Dratewka appeared. He presented a wizytówka that read “Shoemaker and Amateur Dragon-Slayer, Esq.” He promised the King that he would be able to kill the Smok and save the Princess. The desperate King decided to give the runt a try.
Dratewka, wizard with a needle and thread that he was, took the skin of a dead sheep and stuffed it with sulphur, curry, chillies, and peppercorns. He gave krypto-sheep a set of maple legs and propped it up in front of the Smocza Jama. (Dorota, I am now standing in the very spot where he placed it.)
The Smok was expecting the Princess, but couldn’t resist this plump appetizer. He swallowed the sheep whole. Instantly, his belly rioted against such strong spice, and he was overtaken by thirst. The dragon ran to Kraków’s Wisła
River and took huge gulps of water. Still, nothing would quell the burn, so he drank and drank until the river was empty. Finally, with the entire Wisła in him, his stomach popped like a balloon and he died instantly. The elated King gave the prepubescent Dratewka his daughter’s hand in marriage.
Now, hold on. I’m a firm believer in the Legend, Dorota, but there’s no way I’m buying that last bit. The water would’ve shot out of the Smok’s ass, for sure.
I remain unconvinced of his death.
Faithfully yours,
Radeki