Laura Resnick - Fluff the Tragic Dragon.pdf - Laura Resnick - margozap

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Fluff the Tragic Dragon

by Laura Resnick

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First published in Dragon Fantastic, DAW Books, April 1992

Fictionwise Contemporary

Fantasy

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"Esther, dear, there's a dragon in the basement," said Mrs. Pearl.

I climbed up the rain-splattered steps outside the apartment building

on West 93rd Street as I perused the casting announcements in _Backstage_.

"Hmmm?"

"I said there's a dragon in the basement," Mrs. Pearl repeated.

"That's nice." _Backstage_ proved to be just as depressing as I had

feared. Since I couldn't type and I had already failed miserably at telephone

sales, I would probably have to go back to waiting tables again.

"I went down to the basement with a load of laundry," Mrs. Pearl said

excitedly, "and when I was putting my quarters into the machine, one of them

rolled away. Well, dear, you know that I always say if you watch out for the

pennies, the dollars will take care of themselves."

I looked up to see her standing in the doorway. Her little tote-cart

was full of groceries and took up whatever part of the entrance that her not

inconsiderable bulk didn't.

"Yes, you _do_ always say that, Mrs. Pearl," I said mildly. "Can I get

by?"

"So when my quarter rolled away, naturally I went after it."

"Oh, good, Mrs. Pearl. I'm glad you got it back. Now, could I just get

through here? My feet are killing me, and -- "

"But I _didn't_ get it, Esther. That's the point."

"I'm sure you'll find it tomorrow, then."

"No." She positioned herself in the doorway as if she planned to take

root there. "I'm afraid I may never get it back."

"Well, that's too bad, but you know what all the tenants say about the

greedy basement troll," I said lightly, trying unsuccessfully to get by.

Things were always disappearing from our basement -- coins, coffee cups,

articles of clothing. The washing machine had apparently eaten my favorite

T-shirt two months earlier.

"It's not a troll that's living down there," she cried, moving with a

pro basketball player's agility to block my way again. "It's a dragon!"

"Mrs. Pearl," I said, trying to maintain an even tone, "I've been

pounding the pavement since first thing this morning. I've spent the day

waiting in humid, stuffy, un-airconditioned rehearsal halls, auditioning

before casting directors with faces so stony they could grace Mount Rushmore,

and wondering how I'll pay not only this month's rent, but last month's rent,

too. Now I'm drenched from this charming summer shower we've just had, and the

one thing I want out of life is to go upstairs to my apartment, take off my

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shoes, and die in peace on my own couch. And if you will either go in or come

out so that I can accomplish that feat, I will _give_ you a quarter to replace

the one you lost. What could be fairer than that?"

Mrs. Pearl's doughy face looked disapproving beneath her blue hair. "No

wonder you're always having financial trouble. You'll never hang onto your

money by giving it away."

"I'm not _always_ having financial trouble," I snapped. The hell with

maintaining an even tone. "Just lately." After a six month regional tour and

lots of heady anticipation about our New York opening, the show I was in -- a

musical based on _Clan of the Cave Bear_ -- had folded after only four weeks

on Broadway.

I, like everyone else in the cast, had anticipated that it would be a

big success and that I could count on a pleasant interlude of regular income.

Unfortunately, _Clan_ had instead proved to be the greatest Broadway debacle

since _Shogun_. Considering that the New York theater community had given the

previous year's Tony Award to a show with singing cows, I had thought they

would welcome singing Neanderthals with open arms, but such was not the case.

So there I was, still out of work more than three months later and

completely broke. Having expected to be steadily employed for a while, I had

finally invested in some furniture for my one-bedroom apartment, some clothes

for myself, and even a motorcycle for my Significant Other after his had died.

He used the new one to pick up another woman. The next time I spend my last

fifteen hundred dollars on a man, someone should throw me up against a wall

and beat me with a lead pipe.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Pearl," I apologized wanly, trying to forestall a

lecture on how to run my life. "I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just that

things haven't been going so well lately. Summer is a lousy time to be in the

city anyhow, but it's a _horrendous_ time to be looking for acting work. And

when I got cast in _Clan_, I really thought that my table-waiting days were

behind me at last."

"Yes, and I'm sure that losing Lloyd to a younger woman hasn't helped,"

said Mrs. Pearl, whose sympathy is something of a double-edged sword.

I sighed. "Thank you for those comforting words, Mrs. Pearl. Now can I

go upstairs?"

"But aren't you concerned about the dragon in the basement?"

"The dragon in the basement?" I repeated. "Do you mean a member of one

of those gangs, like the Pell Street Dragons or something?"

"No, no, not a gangster. A large, fire-breathing lizard with wings. You

know." She made a bizarre attempt to demonstrate by imitation. "A _dragon_."

"In the basement," I said.

"Living down there, on a level below the laundry room, in caverns of

primordial darkness and gloom."

"A dragon? Living below the laundry room? What makes you think that?" I

asked, as if there could be a good reason.

"He spoke to me."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. My quarter rolled under the stairs. When I followed it, I found

an old, rusty, dusty door built into the wall. I thought my quarter must have

rolled into the crack under the door, so naturally I pried it open."

"Naturally." Prying has always come naturally to Mrs. Pearl.

"There's a series of steep iron stairs behind the door." She lowered

her voice, and it took on a dramatic intensity I might have admired in other

circumstances. "I started down the steps, and then..."

Hey, I'm an actress, I know a cue when I hear one. "What happened

then?"

"I heard a voice coming from far below me, from the bowels of the very

earth it seemed."

"Uh-huh." Subway tunnel, no doubt.

"I said, 'Who's there?'"

"And lo, there came a voice."

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"Yes!"

"Really?" A homeless person, perhaps? "What did it say?"

"I'm not sure. It was sort of muffled."

"I see."

"So I descended another step."

"Wait a minute! Are you nuts, Mrs. Pearl? You don't want to mess around

in old tunnels in this city. You could have been hurt."

"And as I continued downward, step by step, becoming enveloped in

darkness -- "

"Good God."

"Suddenly, there was a great heaving sound, and then a burst of fire

shot across the ceiling of this cavern -- "

"I'm calling the police," I said firmly, trying to push past her. "We

could all be murdered while sorting our colors."

She got a good stranglehold on me and kept talking. "And I saw his

shape outlined in the darkness, highlighted by the fire pouring from his

nostrils."

"What?"

"He had a great lizard-like head, with square nostrils and tiny,

pointed ears, a long, serpentine body, an enormous tail, vestigial wings,

claws..." She shuddered and released me. After a moment of profound silence,

she added wistfully, "He did have a certain strange, horrific beauty about him

though..."

Poor Mrs. Pearl. She was clearly the victim of too many episodes _of

Beauty and the Beast_. Taking one of her trembling, clammy hands into my own,

I asked, "What did you do then?"

"I went to the grocery store."

"You what?" It seemed rather anti-climactic.

"Well, we were out of a few things," she explained matter-of-factly.

"But... what about this fire breathing dragon you had just seen?"

She placed a hand on her bosom, which heaved alarmingly. I suddenly

wished I knew CPR. "Oh, Esther, what are we going to _do_?"

"I think you'd better tell this whole story to Mr. Pearl. I'm sure

he'll know what to do." If he had any sense, he'd have her evaluated

immediately.

I stepped past her at last and, finally free to go my own way, I

climbed four flights of stairs to my apartment, took off my shoes, and lay

down to die. A knock on my door interrupted my nap a couple of hours later.

"Who is it?" I called groggily.

It was my neighbor, Arnaud. His real name is Arnold, but when he opened

his own hair salon, he felt that _Arnaud! _ in red neon had a certain quality

that _Arnold! _ somehow lacked. Arnaud works out every day and is a damn

good-looking guy. His lover Scott, who's a model who's always off on location

somewhere, is even better looking.

I let Arnaud into my apartment and said, "Are you a weekday widow,

again?" When Scott is away, Arnaud practically lives with me. He apparently

has some kind of phobia about being alone in closed spaces. A therapist is

currently linking the problem to a past life experience.

Arnaud nodded with noticeable agitation before adding rapidly, "Did you

know there's a dragon in the basement?"

"You've been talking to Mrs. Pearl, haven't you?"

"No, I haven't told a soul!"

I stared at him. "You mean you've seen it, too?"

He stared back. "You mean you knew it was there and didn't tell me?

Esther, I might have been killed!"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me there really

_is_ a dragon in the basement?" I'd heard there were some pretty weird things

wandering around subterranean Manhattan, but _really_. "Did you lose a

quarter, too?"

"Quarter?" He pushed me roughly into a chair. "What are you babbling

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about?"

"Me, babbling? Arnaud, who came up here shrieking about a dragon in the

basement?"

"There _is_ one, I tell you!" He started pacing. "I took a basket of

laundry down, and I noticed some peculiar sounds coming from under the stairs.

Naturally, I went to investigate -- "

"Naturally?" I snapped. "In a building with no doorman and a front door

lock that wouldn't keep out a determined three year old? In a dank basement

where no one could hear you if you screamed for help? What's wrong with you

people who keep investigating strange noises? You _deserve_ to be eaten by a

dragon!"

"My God, you're vindictive," he said critically. "How long have you

know it's there?"

"I _didn't..." _ I stopped myself. "Tell me what you saw that makes you

think there's dragon down there."

I'll spare you the histrionics. He peeked under the stairs and saw the

rusty iron door that Mrs. Pearl had carelessly left open after her little

tête-à-tête with St. George's old foe. Unfortunately, his description of the

dragon living behind that door matched hers perfectly.

"Of course, everyone knows what dragons look like," I said rationally,

"so your mind naturally filled in the details it thought you should perceive."

"Come down and have a look," he challenged.

"Oh... My feet hurt."

"Ah-hah! You're afraid!"

Me, afraid? What was there to be afraid of?

"We could be murdered by some lunatic with a warped sense of humor. We

could be eaten by an alligator -- I've heard they're spawning in the sewers.

We could be run down by some kind of city-operated subterranean vehicle. We

could stumble upon a secret crack laboratory." I was still enumerating all the

things I was afraid of when we reached the door to the basement.

Mrs. Pearl and all the other tenants were standing there, peering

fearfully down the stairwell.

"Hey, man," said Ricardo, the bongo player who lived on the top floor.

"Do you know there's, like, a stinking, fat, hairy, dragon in the basement?"

"I thought he was scaly," I said repressively.

"You've seen him before?" Mr. Rivman demanded. "How long have you known

he was in the basement, young lady?"

"_Santa Maria_," cried Mrs. Castrucci, crossing herself fervently. "The

beast, he could have eaten us at any time. And you say nothing about it?"

"I _didn't_ know... Why am I trying to deny there's a dragon in the

basement?" I said in defeat. "This is crazy."

"Hey, man," said Ricardo. "This is New York. _Anything_ could be down

there."

"So let's call the police," said Fumiko, the sociology student who

lived in the studio apartment at street level. She shivered. "It gives me the

creeps to think of that thing being down there."

"We should call exterminators," said Mrs. Pearl.

"We should call the stinking, fat, hairy landlord," said Ricardo.

"If we ask him to deal with it, we'll be waiting till the Second

Coming," Arnaud said acidly.

"I say we call the police!" said Mr. Rivman.

"We must call a priest!" cried Mrs. Castrucci.

"Hey, man, this ain't no exorcism."

"I say we call the papers," said Arnaud, with an expression that

suggested he had thought of a way to turn this into a human interest story for

_Arnaud! _

"I say we take a little dose of reality," I snapped. "We can't call the

cops, the rodent man, or the _Times_ and say we have a _dragon_ in the

basement, for God's sake."

"No, but the _Inquirer_ would go for it," said Arnaud.

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"Maybe even the stinking _Post_," added Ricardo.

"All right, Miss Reality," said Mrs. Pearl a trifle snidely. "You go

down and see what's living in the basement, and then you tell us what to do

about it, you're so smart."

Everyone fixed their gazes unwaveringly upon me. Stalling for time, I

suggested, "Why don't we wait and bring this up at the next tenants' meeting?"

"Darling, nobody _ever_ goes to tenants' meetings. That's so Midwestern

of you," Arnaud chided.

"Look, Arnaud, the landlord may be slow, but this really is his

responsibility," I said, sounding mature and wise.

"That's so naive of you," he replied dismissively.

"Beside," said Mrs. Castrucci, fingering her rosary with one hand as

she gestured against the Evil Eye with the other, "whadda make you think he

gonna believe more than you believe, without you see with you own eyes?" Her

English, usually rather good, deteriorates sadly under emotional stress.

"Fine," I said, losing patience with the whole scene. "Fine! I'll go

and look at your dragon, and then I will make a rational suggestion. After

that, you can do as you please. I'm supposed to be lying on my couch right

now, dying in peace and comfort."

Fumiko bowed, and Ricardo made some sort of voodoo gesture. He added,

in the kindest tone I'd ever heard him use, "Hey, man, they gonna remember you

in this building for years to come. You gonna be like a saint on West 93rd

Street."

"Okay, okay," I said, descending the stairs.

"Those who are about to die salute you!" Arnaud cried.

"See if you can find my quarter while you're down there!" Mrs. Pearl

called.

"I'm going to move when my lease comes up," I muttered.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner to the laundry

room. It was utter chaos down there. The hastily dropped laundry baskets of

half a dozen tenants cluttered up the place. It was while I was wondering who

was stupid enough to wash a silk blazer in an industrial machine that I heard

the noises.

I froze when I heard the first heavy, echoing sigh. When it was

followed by a deep, primordial growl and the scent of smoke, I did everything

a good gothic heroine does -- I gasped, I pressed a trembling hand to my

heaving breast, the hair on the back of my neck stood up, and a deathly chill

raced down my spine. Believe me, it's not a routine a girl wants to go through

every day.

"Who's there?" I demanded, my voice squeaking in a manner that would

have appalled my singing coach but probably pleased my method acting teacher.

A low, forlorn, hollow moan answered me. It came, of course, from the

ancient, heretofore unnoticed doorway beneath the stairs. I approached it with

stiff legs and dragging feet, terrified, yet too fascinated to turn away, for

surely the moan was followed by a faint glow and another wisp of smoke.

I reached the doorway at last and peered into the stygian darkness

beyond. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I thought I perceived an

enormous, bulky shape about thirty feet away.

"Who's there?" I repeated, leaning forward as I tried to make out more

of that elusive shape.

"_Fluff!" _ came the answer a moment before all hell broke loose.

Flames shot forward, smoke clouded my vision, and the bulky figure moved and

took on the form of my childhood nightmares, a horrible, ferocious,

firebreathing, winged lizard at least fifteen feet high. Never having been the

most coordinated Neanderthal in _Clan_, I tripped clumsily in my terror and

pitched headlong into the subterranean cavern.

I nearly lost consciousness for a moment, and I was so winded that even

with the adrenaline pumping through me, I lay on the cold, damp floor for a

full minute, too stunned to move. I was sure I was going to die.

"Say, are you okay?"

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