When a dragon decides to board a plane instead of flying solo, bureaucracy catches fire.
(A Field Report from the Sky Serpent Desk)
Picture this: I’m early again. Story of my life. Always early, always forgotten. My mind’s going berserk from boredom while I wait for my flight. You should read my essay about the day I turned into a statue in a doctor’s clinic (Oh wait — that one’s still unpublished. I keep glaring at the Publish button and it’s practically glaring back). But I digress.
When I get bored, my brain starts making short films to entertain itself. This one opens with a dragon strolling into the airport, ready to board a plane. The irony isn’t lost on me. A dragon boarding an airplane? Why not just fly? Because, obviously, it’s easier to deal with airline clerks than with air-traffic controllers.
I can almost hear the exchange on dispatch:
Official-sounding voice:
“Identify yourself, unknown flying object; you are entering controlled airspace.”
Airports are where humanity proves it hasn’t evolved, just learned to pack lighter. Everyone’s flapping about in synthetic feathers, hissing at boarding zones, clutching coffee like talismans. You can smell the jet fuel and despair. It’s glorious.
And then a dragon joins the line.
No fanfare. Just seven feet of indifference and a carry-on that probably counts as an ecological hazard. He waits behind a man arguing with the gate agent about seat upgrades and personal destiny. The scanner beeps. The dragon exhales a small puff of smoke that smells faintly of toasted peanuts and dominance.
“Sir, you’re setting off the alarm,” the TSA agent says, gripping the wand like it’s Excalibur on lunch break. “I’m mostly metal,” the dragon replies, voice low enough to vibrate the moving walkway.
Soul buffering… please wait.
The line doesn’t move. People pretend not to stare. Someone mutters, “I hope he’s not in Group B.”
The dragon lifts his arms for the pat-down. Scales clink like chain mail. A toddler nearby drops her juice box in holy reverence. The wand beeps again, louder this time. Probably at the sword-length toothpick in his pocket.
“You’ll have to remove your belt, sir.”
“That is my belt.”
One clawed fingernail points at the plastic tray now resembling a mud puddle. The belt is still glowing like a sizzler plate. The agent pauses, soul briefly buffering.
Eventually, the dragon is cleared for boarding, though the belt tray is now molten art. He thanks no one, collects his boarding pass between claws, and shuffles toward Gate C14; the irony of C for charred not lost on him.
He sits. He waits. He scrolls. He sighs a curl of smoke shaped like ennui.
Around him, the rest of us are still scrambling: phones dying, tempers flaring, humans trying to fly without wings or patience. The dragon just folds his boarding pass into origami and mutters, “At least the luggage burns before it’s lost.”
When his group is called, he rises slowly, tail coiling like a power cable, and steps onto the jet bridge. The scent of ozone follows. Proof that even ancient fire learns to stand in line.
The dragon didn’t breathe fire; he just waited his turn. And that, is somehow sadder.
Ancient fire, modern patience, and a TSA agent with a death wish.
Then my flight crackles over the intercom. “Flight 224, Delta Airlines bound for Narita, please proceed to Gate B.” I stand up and heft my carry-on, the laptop digging into my shoulder.
“I wish I was the dragon,” I mutter, and sigh an imaginary smoke.