Bentwhistle the Dragon in A Threat from the Past

  * * *

  Across town, it was a very different story. Manson sat at the bar of 'Ye Old Ale House', high up on a cherry red bar stool. Behind him, his fellow first team players were amusing themselves with a very silly drinking game about bunnies. Most of them were now very drunk indeed. Manson was not. That's not to say he hadn't been drinking, because, oh, he had. It was just that the drink, much like for Tank, had absolutely no effect on him at all.

  He had, up until five minutes ago, joined in with all the different drinking games... the one with the matchbox, the one with the coins, the one about aliens, all of them, but now he sat, elbows propped on the dark wooden veneer of the bar itself, nursing a tankard of ale, consumed by anger, hate and rage. Mulling over events in his mind, blocking out the rowdy revelry that ensued behind him, loathing and disgust rolled off him like an angry sea in a violent storm.

  'That sap Bentwhistle has no idea. No idea at all. His friends are just as clueless. Ohh... look at us, we're really useful little dragons doing just as the Council demand with our little human pets. Ohh... we're untouchable because we're smarter than all the humans. Ohh... the humans are our little darlings, we must look after them for the future of the planet. Huh! Boy, are you all in for a big surprise. Yes, that's right, not everything's gonna go your ever-so-laid-out dragon way. When the time comes, you're all gonna be punished for what you did, ohh and your little human pets are gonna suffer like they've never suffered before, while all of you stand by, helpless to intervene, you... smug... self righteous... sanctimonious... spineless... lackeys.'

  Manson looked up from the beer-stained bar, straight into the terrified face of the bartender, a middle aged, bald, pot bellied, snivelling weasel, if appearances were anything to go by. He couldn't understand why the idiot of a man had such an expression on his face. He was certain he hadn't blurted any of that out loud. Looking down at his hands, however, he soon realised why. The metal tankard that he had been drinking from looked like a child had crafted it from play-doh. In his rage, his hands had quite literally squeezed it into something unrecognisable. Delving deep into his right pocket, he pulled out a crisp, clean fifty pound note and tossed it on to the bar in the direction of the tender.

  "Sorry about that. Don't realise my own strength sometimes. I hope that about covers it."

  Nodding frantically, the man nervously picked up the note and headed swiftly down the other end of the bar to continue polishing glasses. Manson shook his head and sneered as he did so.

  'Another one for retribution,' he thought.

  Looking around, he could see the drunken antics of the pesky humans he called teammates were getting more out of hand with each minute that passed. He even heard the word 'curry' being mentioned, and knew that it was time to make his excuses and leave. Dropping down off his stool, he added a slight wobble as he staggered to the nearest corner beside the dart board, dropping the misshapen tankard into a filthy looking bin that stood there. It made a resounding THUD as it skittered through all the crisp and cigarette packets, before hitting the bottom.

  Adding a slight stagger to his limp, he carried on over to his teammates, walking stick in hand. Feigning a smile, he told them he had to go, using his age as an excuse for not being able to keep up. While everybody jeered and made sarcastic comments, nobody thought anything more about it as he was the oldest member of the squad by some way. After slurring his goodbyes, he gingerly walked to the door and headed out into the cold air. Turning left outside the main entrance to the pub, he walked along the badly paved footpath past the windows, all the time exchanging rude gestures with his teammates inside, while putting on another bout of staggering.

  Once clear of the pub, he straightened up and walked briskly to the adjacent car park, where he promptly jumped into his black Mercedes. As he tossed his walking stick onto the back seat and settled back against the soft leather seats, he thought about what a day it had been. He'd been more than a little reckless. Deep down he knew he shouldn't have risked revealing himself like that to that berk Bentwhistle, but he was pretty sure he would end up having to deal with him one way or another, whatever happened, and he wasn't about to let a jumped up little jerk like that get the better of him at anything, let alone hockey. It wasn't just the fact that he couldn't have Bentwhistle, a bloody dragon, getting the better of him, he also needed to keep up the appearance of being a prolific hockey player for the other part of the plan to fall into place.

  Turning the key in the ignition, it was only now, as the perfect purring engine thrummed into life, that he realised just how risky the day had been, vowing next time to be more... clinical and not let his emotions get in the way. What would the others say if they knew how... rashly he'd acted? Thoughts of terrible recriminations ran through his mind, that is until he forcibly pushed them away.

  'Oh well', he thought, 'it's not like they're going to find out any time soon.'