By me, with art by Sam Messerly/Kaiju Kid.
Click here to read from the beginning.
I didn’t meet with Warbell until later that evening, wherein I escorted the huge lug to a dinner party of sundry celebs. As I cruised up on my bicycle, I thought it would probably be best to discourage Warbell from finding the job he wanted. At least, I figured I should do what I could to stop him until I could find out if his objectives were not at all sinister. Of course, I had no idea how I might begin to stop the beast given that so much of his daily schedule as dinosaur royalty and as object of scientific curiosity was to meet and greet with endless people.
Indeed, he was meeting a lot of folks that evening at the dinner party with the local rich snobs. I had never attended such an event myself, and I immediately felt underdressed because I had come in my sparky outfit after work. No one warned me that all the local rich would be competing for “most expensive wardrobe.” As I wandered through the crowd and introduced Warbell to people, I got an earful of bragging about this or that pair of gloves, that watch, this bag, those shoes, and the thousands of dollars spent on each. I mean each shoelace, for heaven’s sake.
The mayor was at the event, too, and she gave me the evil eye when she saw my electrician’s work clothes.
“We really need to get you an official set of ambassador threads,” she said. “Like a uniform.”
“Couldn’t I just carry a badge?” I asked.
Apparently that was out of the question.
“We are still learning how to live with a king in our midst,” said Mayor Pilky. “But clearly proper attire is very important. Look at the British. The staff at the palace. Those charming guard uniforms.”
“I will not wear a hat that looks like a Bride-of-Frankenstein vertical afro,” I said. “Oh, but the rex is looking for a job now. What if we made the dinosaur wear the hat, and then made him stand completely still all day, no talking, so people could take pictures with him?”
Before Mayor Pilky could respond, Warbell tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up at him. He was holding a dinosaur-sized cup of champagne and a scrunched-up expression of disgust.
“This stuff tastes awful,” he said. “Let’s go home. The discussions here are among the most inconsequential I can imagine, and there is something very important I want to talk with you about.”
My ears perked up.
“What is it?” I asked.
Before Warbell could reply, a celebrity couple—Pluck and Cake Wringler, the owners of the Brr-Eat-Toe chain of toe-shaped ice cream burrito snack cafes—stumbled up half-drunk to take a picture with the resident dinosaur celebrity.
“Take a sip from your cup, would you, and be a peach?” asked Pluck. “We are collecting sip-picks with all the stars, and you’re the biggest star on the scale—or maybe the biggest star WITH scales!”
A burst of tipsy giggles sprayed from the couple. Warbell looked visibly annoyed, but he put his champagne glass on a nearby table and then placed his claws on the couple’s shoulders.
“If you would like something better than a simple and boring photograph, and a unique experience as well,” he said, “then you should sign up for a dinosaur massage from your king. I will be starting my job as a masseur as soon as possible, and I can pencil you in as advance customers.”