The Tough Crowd

Grandfather Cinder blinked slowly. The process took several seconds, the heavy lids descending like castle portcullises.

"Is it Tuesday?" the dragon rumbled. His voice was less a roar and more the sound of a landslide happening in slow motion. "I specifically asked for a virgin on Tuesdays. You smell like... turnips."

"I am Barnaby the Bold!" Barnaby scrambled to his feet, striking a pose on the dragon’s snout. "And I am not a snack! I am an experience!"

Cinder crossed his eyes, trying to focus on the red-and-yellow speck dancing on his nose. "An experience? Are you crunchy? The last experience I ate gave me heartburn for a decade."

"I am a jester, you overgrown gecko," Barnaby said, offended. He did a quick cartwheel, nearly slipping on a patch of scales. "I traffic in wit! In satire! In the high art of mockery!"

"Jester," Cinder repeated, tasting the word. "Ah. The ones with the bells. I haven't eaten a jester since the Second Age. They usually taste funny."

"I see you have jokes," Barnaby sniffed. "Well, two can play at that game. Why did the knight cross the road?"

Cinder stared at him. The silence stretched out, vast and uncomfortable.

"To get to the other side!" Barnaby yelled, throwing his hands up. "Get it? Because he's chickens! Cowardly! It’s a subversion of expectations!"

"Why would a knight be a chicken?" Cinder asked, genuinely baffled. "Knights are usually metal cans filled with meat. Chickens are feathers filled with meat. They are distinct taxonomical categories."

Barnaby felt sweat prickling under his cap. This was going poorly. He pivoted. "Okay, tough room. How about magic? Observe!"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, colorful handkerchief. He tugged. It kept coming. He kept tugging. Yards of fabric piled up on the dragon’s nose.

Cinder sighed, a puff of grey smoke drifting from his nostrils. "You are just pulling fabric out of your sleeve. I can see the lump in your tunic. My eyes are old, little turnip, not blind."

Barnaby stopped pulling. He stuffed the handkerchief back in, his face flushing hot. "It's about the suspension of disbelief!"

"I am bored," Cinder declared, shifting his massive bulk. The movement sent an avalanche of gold coins clattering against the walls. "If you cannot entertain me, I will simply go back to sleep. And since you are standing on my nose, I will likely inhale you by accident. It has happened before."

"Wait!" Barnaby cried. "A riddle! Dragons love riddles! It’s in the handbook!"

Cinder perked up slightly. "A riddle? I haven't heard a good riddle since the Sphinx retired to Florida. Very well. If you can solve the Riddle of the Ages, I shall let you leave."

Barnaby puffed out his chest. He was excellent at riddles. "Hit me."

"What," Cinder rumbled, his voice dropping an octave, "is the sound of a mountain changing its mind?"

Barnaby froze. "Excuse me?"

"That is the riddle," Cinder said, closing his eyes again. "You have until I fall asleep to answer. Which is usually about... four minutes."