God knows they were lining up for a shot at the king. □ about fifty per cent of the blues away, but there were always those nights with the full moon lighting up the catspaws on the Pearl River when Vern thought about making a move on a female alligator. Still, it got lonely being the last dragon. A guy had plenty of time to meditate floating around the swamp’s little feeder tribs. He often did, but mindfulness helped with that. He also wa sn’ t feeling suicida l just at the moment. And if that was the case, then he owed it to his species to stay alive as long as possible. After all, Ve rn was the last of h is kind, far as he knew. And his opinion was the only one that mattered, in his opinion. Shining a spotlight on your own head was the behaviour of an idiot, in Vern’s opinion. But putting the heat on tourists would bring the heat on him, and Vern hadn’t got to the age he was now by drawing attenti on to hi mself. So he spent his days in the bayou blending in with the locals, staying downwind of the swamp tours, though there were days he longed to cut loose and barbeque a barge full of those happy snappy morons. And it was truly amazing what common gators could achieve with the right motivation. , Vern often told them in not so many words.
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