 |  |
As George stepped from the hillside onto the People Town outskirts, the prospect of getting his hummus was making him very peckish indeed.
He descended a grassy slope and soon picked up a road that led into a well-to-do residential district. All seems quiet, he thought, cringing slightly as the sound of cracking tarmac came from beneath him for the third time in under a minute. No one screaming yet or making a scene. Could today be a turning point?
George kept on going, admiring the neatly-sculpted hedges and painstakingly-maintained front gardens of the large houses that had begun to appear. As was always the case – and in this part of People Town in particular – the more George saw, the more he felt at home. Entrances flanked by marble pillars and adorned with blooming hanging baskets. Driveways longer than his entire vegetable garden. Pristine white fences – just like his had once been, but double the height so you couldn’t see anything beyond it. Adorable. This was the life he wanted – to be surrounded by nice, aspirational sorts who didn’t need to concern themselves with price tags, household chores, or their own offspring. Perhaps today I’ll manage to have a pleasant conversation with someone, George told himself. Show them I’m just like them; a good sort, a decent chap, a—
VROOM!
SCREECH!
George spun around just in time to see a white van reversing at speed. Zig-zagging from one kerb to the other, the battered vehicle sideswiped a parked car, bumped up the pavement, and then disappeared around a corner in a cloud of pollution.
For a second, George stood gathering his thoughts. Had the tradesman – a rough-of-hand, pure-of-heart cheeky chappie, no doubt – merely gotten a whiff of the taxman? It was, of course, a possibility. However, despite his optimism, the obvious could not be ignored.
Looking down at the deep pothole now beneath his heel, George groaned. He was no idiot. Nothing had changed. It was going to be another one of those days.
–––
BANG!
SLAM!
CLUNK!
As George plodded along, doors and windows banged on all sides. Spiked iron gates electronically folded closed. Terrified cleaners and gardeners fled for their lives over back fences. Double garages swung shut.
With an exasperated sigh and an emerging tear, he pressed on, now most despondent. Ok, so maybe he did look stereotypically terrifying – to those who allowed prejudice and basic survival instincts to determine their decisions. But underneath he was a nice guy. If only people would give him a chance; was that really too much to ask? He took a deep breath. He was doing his best here; his best in difficult circumstances. It wasn’t easy to put yourself out there; to try to meet new people. But if everyone insisted on focusing on the perceived likelihood of being killed, of dwelling on the imagined probability of some sort of blood-thirsty rampage then in all fairness, what the ruddy hell was he supposed to do about it? He prickled. Actually, thinking about it, their conduct was rather irksome. Rude, even – not to mention, discriminatory – and it was perfectly normal that he should now be grinding his teeth and having highly detailed, vexatious thoughts about exactly what he would like to do when he did finally collar one of the disrespectful, intolerant cowards. Seriously, this whole ‘gaining-acceptance’ guff was a complete and utter massive pain in the ar—
BUZZ! BUZZ! BIPP! BOPP! BIPP!
From within George’s dragon bag, a vibration followed by a beeping caught his attention. That was odd. Cautiously, he opened the fastener and was immediately greeted by a strange white glow. It was the phone; the one he had forgotten he even had! The one he had inadvertently acquired two weeks ago on his last visit to People Town due to it being carelessly left in the bottom of the abandoned jute shopping bag that he had ‘borrowed’ to carry home his wholefoods shop ‘purchases’. And it had just come to life!
Despite their popularity in Dragonville – with a certain demographic, at least – George didn’t own a mobile phone. Isolating oneself from society seemed a bit of a waste of time if others could simply call up and insult you in the comfort of your own home. And even if the potential for abuse was ignored, George had always found the bleeping devices to be rather crass; not the sort of thing an intelligent, cultured individual would concern oneself with.
But this phone was completely different! This was a ‘people phone’ – no doubt a sophisticated and useful tool intended for high-level communication and the facilitation of important social interactions. And because of this, George had spent over an hour at his kitchen table trying to get it to work. Unfortunately, his efforts had been to no avail. After being constantly informed there was ‘no network available’, George, bitterly disappointed, had given up and had been intending to quietly return it to Farmer Fred’s when he next visited so he wouldn’t be accused of stealing. However, now the phone was doing something! Now on the screen, there was a picture of an envelope and the words, ‘New message’. Most intriguing!
As gently as he could, George used the tip of his smallest claw to tap the ‘Read’ icon, leaving only a medium-sized gouge on the display as he did so. Instantly, a block of text appeared: ‘Welcome to People Town Supermarket-brand Mobile. For conditions, visit...’ “Aha!” gasped George. “We’re in business!” This was a perfect opportunity and straight away, George knew exactly what he was going to do. He would do what any civilised, right-minded, non-cretin did before making any sort of visit – he would call ahead and alert his intended host to expect him!
This could solve all his problems.
The unforeseen appearance of a giant, green dragon might well be completely petrifying – to those who felt the need to allow their gut reactions to reinforce out-dated, regressive views – however, the scheduled arrival – allowing adequate time for preparation and planning – of a civilised, erudite vegan might be far more palatable. It could make all the difference between a hostile response and a glowing welcome. Quite simply, it was the decent thing to do.
George began to rummage in his dragon bag and soon pulled out a promotional flyer he had collected previously from Farmer Fred’s which listed in bullet-points, the virtues of lentils (high fibre, delicious, versatile, high fibre, environmentally friendly, tiny and therefore tiny carbon footprint, high fibre) and included a coupon offering a one and a half percent discount on all orders in excess of twenty kilograms. And there at the top, beneath the huge ‘PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER WHICH WAS SOURCED BY HAND FROM A 100% SUSTAINABLE FOREST SUSTAINED BY INDIGENOUS IMPOVERISHED ETHNIC TREE GROWERS’ was the shop’s phone number.
His claws trembling slightly, George began to dial, shuddering as additional gouges split the screen. He actually felt really nervous. After all the years he had been visiting their town, he was about to have his first real conversation with people – not just their screams as they tore off into the distance. And not just with any people, either – with the people from his absolute favourite shop. The legendary Farmer Fred himself, possibly – if he ever answered the phone.
The dialling tone continued and George took a deep breath. What was he going to say? For a second, he thought about hanging up and preparing a short speech. Something succinct yet memorable; something which would make him come across in a positive—
CLICK.
********
“Hello, Farmer Fre... WOOAH!” Julian almost toppled off the swivel chair that he had now balanced on the filing cabinet which was still shoved up against the door inside his office. “...sorry! ...fair-trade, organic etcetera wholefoods store.” Grabbing the top of the door frame, he steadied himself. “The owner, speaking. What can I...?”
“Yes, hellooo!” came George’s voice. “Mr Fred! So good to speak to you at last!”
“Mr Winterburn?” Julian frowned towards his phone’s display. “Mr Winterburn, is that you?” Suddenly he focused on the wall. He covered the microphone. “I CAN HEEEARRR YOU OUT THEEERRRE!” he sing-songed. “AND NO, YOU WON’T WRESTLE ME OUT. I KNOW I HAVE THE PHYSIQUE OF A STEREOTYPICAL VEGAN – BUT LET ME ASSURE YOU, I’M LITHE, I’M LEAN, I’M FOUR PERCENT BODY FAT. PLUS I’M WELL AWARE IT’S MORE THAN YOUR JOB’S WORTH TO LAY A SINGLE, CARNIVOROUS FINGER ON ME, YOU CAPITALISTIC, CORPORATE SELLOUTS! I’VE GOT SEVEN YEAR’S WORTH OF DRIED FOOD IN HERE AND A TAP AND A KETTLE. I’M GOING NOWHERE!” He uncovered the phone. “Sorry, Mr Winterburn—”
“Hmm, what?” replied George. “No, like I just explained in great detail, I’m not Mr Winterburn. My name is George and—”
“Are you sure?” pressed Julian. “The number you’re calling from is Mr Winterburn’s. It’s programmed into the phone here.”
“Um... n... no,” stuttered George, “definitely not Mr Winterburn. I um... found this phone... in a... bus shelter?”
Julian let out a deep groan. “Look, Mr Winterburn,” he said flatly. “I know it’s you. And I know you’ve faked your own death to avoid paying your monthly tab. Or possibly to run off abroad with all the jewellery from your shop in the robbery everyone thinks you staged? Or maybe even to escape from your leathery... lovely wife? All three sound equally plausible. Sorry, one second.” He covered the phone. “DON’T YOU DARE DAMAGE THAT DOOR! IT’S HARDWOOD! THE RAINFOREST MADE A CONSIDERABLE SACRIFICE TO PROVIDE ME WITH A QUALITY ER... SECURE INTERIOR.” Julian removed his hand from the mouthpiece. “Ok, I’m back. All go in here today! Right, Mr Winterburn—”
“No!” protested George. “For the seventh, eighth time now, perhaps, it is not Mr Winterbur—”
“Shh!” Julian lifted the phone from his ear.
“I’m sorry!” came George’s voice, only just audible. “Did... did you just shush me?”
“I CAN SEE YOU OUTSIDE THE WINDOW!” yelled Julian. “Sorry, not you, Mr Wint... YOU KNOW I WON’T GO DOWN WITHOUT A FIGHT. THAT’S THE THING WITH US VEGANS, WE’RE ALL PEACE-LOVING AND IN HARMONY WITH NATURE AND WHAT ELSE? UM... SPIRITUAL AND ZEN AND... EQUAL OPPORTUNITIES AND THE REST OF IT – UNTIL YOU CHALLENGE OUR BELIEFS! AND THEN WE’RE ABOUT AS REASONABLE AS THOSE MINK WE RELEASED ER... THAT GOT RELEASED UM... ESCAPED FROM THOSE FARMS TWENTY YEARS AGO – YEAH, OK FINE, BUT OUR UM... THEIR HEARTS WERE IN THE RIGHT PLACES. WE... THEY WERE YOUNG, OK?”
Julian looked back to the phone and realised he hadn’t covered the right end. He shrugged. “Mr W, just come in and we’ll sort it out,” he continued. “Fancy thinking we’d all believe you’d been dragged out of the shop and eaten by that fat, goofy dragon! How long have you been in hiding for now, about a fortnight? It’s a bit extreme for three one-hundred gram bags of premium, organic, fair-trade, pepper-coated cashews. It’s only thirty-nine pounds and seventy-five pence you owe. Come on, I won’t tell the police or your missus I’ve seen you. Our security camera footage can stay lost. Vegan shopkeeper’s honour.”
From down the line, there was now a lot of crackling and incomprehensible muttering.
Julian looked towards the bits of wood from the boxes of mangos that he had sticky-taped over the window, then shook his head. “Mr Winterburn!” he finally announced. “I need to go, I’ve got a lot to do. I’ve got to um... draw a convincing picture of an aubergine on the sandwich board for the ten-for-nine promo – always a challenge. Get it wrong and we get no end of complaints. And this,” he put his hand over the phone to have a quick listen to the goings-on outside, “um... community noticeboard isn’t going to tidy itself, is it? Just come in, today – before five – with the cash.” Again, he covered the phone. “LOTS AND LOTS OF CASH! BECAUSE I DO HAVE LOTS AND LOTS OF CASH COMING TO ME REALLY, REALLY SOON WHICH I WILL USE TO PAY OFF ALL MY DEBTS, RENDERING ANY REPOSSESSIONS REDUNDANT.” He uncovered the phone. “And then I won’t have to send the filth around. Ok?”
“Sorry, stop!” George’s voice returned, sounding strained. “Now listen because I absolutely refuse to repeat this yet again! I am not Mr Winterburn, nor do I know anything about him. My name is George and well, there’s no easy way to put this, I um... am a dragon. And I’m calling to let you know that I’m currently on my way to visit your establishmen—”
“DRAGON?!” Julian plummeted from the filing cabinet, landing in the basket of macadamia nuts that he had now eaten four packets of. “THE DRAGON?!” Quickly, he pushed his mouth towards the keyhole. “THE SAME DRAGON THAT KILLED AND THEN ATE SOMEONE HERE TWO WEEKS AGO? AND YOU’RE ON YOUR WAY NOW, TO EAT SOMEONE ELSE? ARRIVING IN ABOUT... FIVE MINUTES? OH NO! HELP! HELP! WE’D BETTER ALL GET OUT OF HERE REALLY, REALLY QUICKLY AND NOT WASTE ANY TIME CARRYING AWAY ANYONE ELSE’S POSSESSIONS WHICH MAY OR MAY NOT BE COVERED BY A SECURITY INTEREST. AAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAARGH!”
Julian paused and, as if on cue, a van engine spluttered into life, followed by a squeal of tyres.
He looked towards his Len-til shrine and raised a thumb. Thank you, oh mighty fibrous one.
CLICK. He hung up.
********
Feeling very disheartened, George put the phone back into his bag. That hadn’t gone quite as he had intended. Should have prepared the call in advance. Obviously, on the plus side, at least the people were expecting him this time – there wouldn’t be the embarrassing awkwardness of an unannounced arrival to contend with. Unfortunately, however, if the rumours of the recently-demised Mr Winterburn were anything to go by, what the people were actually expecting was probably for him to turn up and rip somebody limb from limb before making off with some of their personal property. Once again, a glowing reception did not seem to be on the cards.
Incredibly, however, that wasn’t even the worst of what lay in store for George this afternoon.