Kristin E. Andersen's Word Studio

“Cough, cough.”

Would you listen to that? Even his cough was off.

He dragged his tail out of bed, muttering that he couldn’t smash a fly today, let alone a castle wall.

And he felt a great weight on his shoulders. He could barely hold his head up.

He shuffled into the kitchen to make himself breakfast.

“Achoo!”

Great. Now, he was getting a sneeze.

“Gesundheit,” he said.

His stomach growled. Well, something did. But he was all out of crumpets. He decided to go to the store.

Outside, he waved to a neighbor who promptly fainted.

Odd, he thought.

He smiled at some children playing in the park, but their mother snatched them up, crying, “Run! Run for your lives!”

“Do I look that bad?” he wondered. Whatever it was, he hoped nobody at the store would notice.

If he could get to the store, that is. The police went by, sirens blaring. They blocked the street ahead of him with yellow tape that read, “Do Not Cross.”

And here came the police chief, out into the street with his hand up.

“Stop!” shouted the police chief.

Who was he talking to? Maybe one of the people in the crowd that was gathering, Desmond decided.

“I mean it,” shouted the police chief. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Who me?” said Desmond.

“Of course he means you,” said someone snidely.

“But officer, I was just – ” Desmond sputtered.

“Quiet!” shouted the police chief.

“Momma! Momma!” said a youngster in the crowd. “What IS that?” She pointed at Desmond.

“Haven’t you ever seen a dragon before?” the same snide someone said.

“Of course she’s seen dragons,” said the police chief. “We’ve all seen dragons. Just not one with – well, with a condition like THAT.”

“Condition?” said Desmond. “I haven’t been myself today, but honestly it’s just a mild malaise.”

The police chief was horrified. “I’m a mustard man, myself,” he said.

“Really, officer,” said Desmond, “It’s nothing. I’m a little under the weather is all.”

“That’s not all you’re under,” said the police chief.

“Nothing?” said someone. “What am I, chopped liver?”

“Oh, wouldn’t that go nice on a slice of rye?” said Desmond. With a little onion. He really was hungry now.

But the police chief wouldn’t let him go.

“Not until we get a second opinion.”

While they waited for a doctor, Desmond tried to explain to everyone he was just fine, really.

“After breakfast, I’ll be right as rain,” he assured them.

Nobody believed him because, of course, rain is simply the worst thing for dragons.

“See, Mabel,” said one wrinkly in the crowd to another. “I told you – he’s sick in the head. He ought to have it removed.”

“No way,” said someone. “I can see Cleveland from here.”

“Who said that?” asked Desmond. The voice was strangely familiar but off the top of his head he couldn’t place it. He could only assume it was his affliction talking.

Finally the doctor arrived.

After giving Desmond the once over, the doctor told everyone it wasn’t contagious.

Big sigh of relief from the crowd.

“Okay, Doc,” said Desmond, “level with me. Is it a hangnail?”

“No.”

“Droopy eyelid?”

“No.”

“The heartbreak of psoriasis?”

“No. You have a prince on your head.”

“What?” Was his hearing going now too? “Did you say I have a … prince on my head?”

“That’s right,” said the doctor.

“A prince? On my head? Are you sure?”

“Well, it’s right there,” said the doctor.

“Plain as day,” everyone else said.

“You can’t miss it,” they said.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” said Desmond. “It’s inconceivable. I can’t possibly have a prince on my head.”

“Oh, come on,” someone said. It was that snide person again. “Get him a mirror, already.”

A helpful beautician in the crowd just happened to have one.

“How long has that THING been there?” cried Desmond, as soon as he saw himself.

“Hey, I resemble that remark,” said the prince.

“Why didn’t anybody tell me?!” said Desmond.

“Oh, get over yourself, dragon,” said the prince. “Most people would be honored.”

“Just what are you doing up there?”

“Well, duh, I’m a crown prince.”

“You mean – ?” gasped Desmond.

“That’s right,” said the prince. “I’m potentate of the pate, nawab of the noggin, duke of the dome and I’m here to stay, so you’d better get used it.”

What a terrible fate! Desmond thought. To live your life with a prince on your head. Oh, the shame. The horror. How could he go on?

“Is it true, Doc?” said Desmond. “Is there no cure?”

But suddenly there was a blast of trumpets.

The prince wanted to know what was up.

“You are,” said the police chief.

“Shh, I think someone’s here,” said the helpful beautician.

She was right. It was a messenger.

“I have a message,” said the messenger, handing the police chief a scroll.

Everybody wanted to know what it said.

“Do you mind?” said the police chief, “I’m reading.” At last, he sighed and handed the scroll back to the messenger. “All right everybody, listen up. The message is from someone called Writer.”

“Writer?”

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s Writer?”

“I don’t know – some bigwig or other, some royal fancy pants.”

“And?” everyone said.

“I guess there’s been a mistake. It was a false alarm. There never was supposed to be a prince on Desmond’s head.”

“Oh?” they all said.

“No. There was supposed to be a PRICE on his head.”

“Oh,” they said.

“So, there’s going to be a re-write. That’s all for today. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

Of course, the crown prince didn’t go quietly. He liked being head man, after all.

But when he was finally gone, Desmond felt much better. He bought some new apricot jam to go with his crumpets and went home. After breakfast, he decided to take a nap. It had been an awfully trying day.

As he drifted off, a thought occurred to him.

It made him sit bolt upright in bed.

“Price? Why would anyone put a price on my head?”

THE END