The Dragon's Eulogy

The boy started to talk, mainly about when he and Sir Michael first met. The dragon wasn’t terribly interested in this and idly picked his teeth until he became aware that the boy had stopped talking and was glaring at him.

“What?” the dragon asked, a bit self-consciously.
“It’s bad enough that you eat people,” the youth told him, scowling, “you don’t need to sit around picking bits of them out of your teeth during their memorial service.”

The dragon looked down at the talon he’d been using. It had a bit of helmet on it. “Oh, right,” he said, and wiped it on a rabbit who was passing, “Is that it then? Are you done?”

“I’m done, yes,” said the youth. There was a slightly pregnant pause.
“Well,” asked the boy, “don’t you have anything to say?”
The dragon felt slightly embarrassed. “Not really, no,” he told him.
“I thought you might like to say a few words.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Anything.”
The dragon looked at the boy. “I really don’t think I should have to,” he declared, “I’m sure it’s not really the done thing you know, eulogising someone whom you’re currently digesting. Not really cricket, and all that.”

The boy put his hands on his hips and glared at the dragon. “Look, Sir Michael is dead,” he stated.
“I know,” replied the dragon, somewhat testily, “I ate him.”
“Yes, so you can bloody well say a few kind words then, can’t you?”
The dragon sighed, a tricky operation when you consider that he breathed fire and all. “I suppose so,” he replied, then stopped to gather his thoughts. When he looked down again, the boy was standing with his head bowed, so there wasn't really any backing out now.

“Right. Well, I suppose I should say right up front that I never really knew Sir Michael as a man,” the dragon declared in the hope that this was a good start, “I only ever knew him…as an hors d’oevre. However, um…well look, I wasn’t going to say this but what he hell, spirit of the moment and all that, I mean to say that frankly, as an hors d’oevre, he was jolly good.

“Now, I’m not one who is overly given to eating humans, as a general rule. There’s the clothing for a start. Sticks in your teeth, you see, and it's a bugger to get out. And don’t get me started on the shoes! I mean, you eat them, you’ve got no idea what the stupid sods might have trodden in.”

The dragon paused to collect his thoughts. His stomach rumbled ominously. “In any case,” he continued, “I really don’t know what it was that made Sir Michael so delicious. Perhaps it was his courage in the face of adversity which, I must admit, didn’t do him a whole lot of good; or perhaps it was the fact that he tasted a bit like horseradish. Who can say? I know I can’t, and I flatter myself that I am something of an expert.”

He paused, right at the wrong moment, and into the silence came the sound of a violent gaseous emission.
“I say!” the dragon declared, going a bit red, “I do beg your pardon."
He thought again. "Although, perhaps I should really end this here. I’m sure we would all like to remember good old Sir Michael like that, er, going out on a high note, as it were.” He lapsed into silence.

“How was that?” he asked the boy after a few moments.
The boy looked up at him. “I’ll admit,” he said drolly, “I’ve heard better.”