goofy dragon

par Bill Tiepelman

Squeaky Clean Scales

The Bath Time Rebellion Dragons, as you may know, are not typically creatures of hygiene. They’re more “roll in ashes and singe your eyebrows” than “minty fresh and sparkling clean.” But then there was Crispin, the hatchling with scales the color of caramelized sugar and an expression permanently stuck between “evil mastermind” and “gleeful toddler on a sugar rush.” Today, Crispin had declared war… on dirt. Or maybe it was soap. The jury was still out. It all began when his keeper, a half-asleep wizard named Marvin, tried to dunk Crispin in a copper basin full of bubbles. “You’ll enjoy it!” Marvin promised, stirring the frothy water like he was mixing a witch’s brew. Crispin, however, was unconvinced. Bath time had always been a source of great drama in the lair—tantrums, tail-thrashing, and one incident where the curtains had to be replaced because the hatchling had tried to flee mid-suds and accidentally set them ablaze. But then Crispin spotted something—bubbles. Shiny, rainbow-glass globes floating upward, popping with tiny kisses of sound. His pupils widened. His wings twitched. And before Marvin could lecture him about soap-to-scale ratios, Crispin lunged straight into the tub with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for bacon-wrapped griffin wings. He erupted out of the foam like a champagne cork, sending suds flying in every direction. Marvin sputtered, soaked, and muttered something about “regretting his life choices.” Crispin, meanwhile, was in ecstasy. He discovered the joy of clapping his tiny claws together and making bubbles leap like startled pixies. He practiced blowing on them, which resulted in singed froth and one very offended rubber ducky. His reflection warped and shimmered across each bubble’s surface, turning his grin into monstrous, goofy caricatures of himself—something he found absolutely hilarious. For once, the little terror wasn’t interested in setting things on fire, hoarding shiny objects, or gnawing on Marvin’s spellbooks. He was just… celebrating the sheer miracle of soap. And in that moment, Marvin, dripping and annoyed, realized something profound. Life wasn’t always about conquering towers or memorizing spells or repairing scorch marks on the ceiling. Sometimes, life was about watching a dragon discover joy in a bubble bath. Crispin wasn’t just squeaky clean—he was teaching Marvin that delight can be found in the simplest, sudsiest corners of existence. Still, Marvin prayed fervently that Crispin wouldn’t sneeze while submerged in foam. Nothing says “spiritual life lesson ruined” quite like igniting an entire bath’s worth of bubbles in a single fiery hiccup. The Suds Uprising By the time Marvin had mopped up the first tidal wave of foam, Crispin had gone full renegade. The dragonling discovered that when he slapped his tail just right, he could send geysers of suds rocketing into the air like celebratory fireworks. He shrieked with laughter, spraying the walls with wet streaks of soap and bubbles that clung to the ceiling like glistening cobwebs. It was less “bath time” and more “foam-fueled riot.” Marvin, towel draped around his shoulders like a defeated gladiator, sighed. “You’re supposed to be a fearsome beast one day, Crispin. You’ll terrorize villages, scorch kingdoms, demand tribute.” He waved a soggy hand at the dragonling. “Not… this.” Crispin, of course, ignored him. He was busy building a bubble crown. Each sphere balanced precariously on his spiky horns, creating an absurd, regal headpiece that would’ve made any monarch jealous. He puffed out his tiny chest, narrowed his eyes in mock seriousness, and gave Marvin a look that clearly translated to: Bow before your Squeaky Majesty. “Oh no,” Marvin muttered, massaging his temples. “He’s invented monarchy.” The rebellion escalated quickly. Crispin discovered that he could bite the bubbles without consequence. POP. POP. POP. He snapped at them like a cat in a sunbeam chasing dust motes, wings flapping wildly. Soon, he’d cleared a small patch of airspace, then leapt out of the tub—suds still dripping from his belly—declaring himself Champion of All Things That Burst. He roared (more of a squeaky hiccup, but the sentiment was there) and promptly slipped on the tile, landing in a splat that sent Marvin into uncontrollable laughter. For once, the old wizard wasn’t annoyed—he was cackling like a drunk at a comedy tavern, because seeing a dragon crown himself with soap bubbles only to skid across the bathroom like a greased piglet was just… priceless. And then came the philosophy, as bath-time chaos often inspires. Marvin realized that Crispin wasn’t just rebelling against dirt—he was rebelling against the expectation of being serious. Society told dragons to be terrifying, wizards to be wise, and bubbles to pop silently without purpose. But Crispin was rewriting the script. He was bratty, yes—he dunked his head into the suds and blew out his nostrils like a fire-breathing walrus—but he was also showing that joy was an act of defiance. To laugh at the absurdity of it all was to thumb your nose (or snout) at the very weight of existence. “Lesson of the day,” Marvin announced to no one, raising a dripping finger like a lecturer. “If life hands you soap, crown yourself King of Bubbles.” Crispin rewarded him by spitting foam directly into his beard. Marvin sputtered, but even he had to admit—it was well-deserved. The bubbles had become something greater: not just toys, not just soap, but symbols. Crispin wasn’t merely playing—he was staging a revolution of simplicity. Each bubble was a tiny manifesto, iridescent declarations that screamed: we are fleeting but fabulous! And though Marvin knew this was probably just his sleep-deprived brain overanalyzing, he couldn’t help but feel moved. The bratty little beast was teaching him to celebrate things that lasted mere seconds before popping. That maybe the point wasn’t permanence—it was the sparkle before the end. Crispin, meanwhile, had decided to test the boundaries of physics. He flapped his wings furiously, scattering soapy droplets like rain across the room, and tried to take flight. The effort launched him a glorious six inches into the air before gravity yanked him back into the tub with a KER-SPLASH that flooded half the floor. The dragonling poked his head out of the foam, eyes gleaming, grin wide, and let out a satisfied burble. Marvin just stared at the flooded chaos around him and whispered: “This… is my life now.” And yet, he wasn’t angry. He was weirdly grateful. Grateful for the mess, the noise, the bratty energy of a creature too young to care about dignity. Crispin was chaos, yes—but he was also a reminder that even wizards needed to loosen their robes once in a while and laugh at the suds sticking to their noses. Life, Marvin realized, is basically one long bubble bath: foamy, ridiculous, and gone too soon. The Gospel of the Bubble Dragon By now the bathroom looked less like a place of hygiene and more like a battlefield where the gods of Foam and Chaos had fought an epic war. The walls dripped with suds, the ceiling wore a frothy halo, and Marvin’s slippers had vanished somewhere under a swamp of soapy water. Crispin, however, was unfazed. He perched proudly on the rim of the copper tub, suds clinging to his horns, tail flicking like a metronome set to “trouble,” eyes gleaming with bratty triumph. He had conquered bath time, rewritten the rules, and crowned himself emperor of everything bubbly. Marvin sat cross-legged on the wet floor, soaked to his knobby knees, beard sparkling with soap residue. He had officially given up trying to control the situation. Instead, he leaned back against the wall and watched, part of him wondering how his life had come to this, another part weirdly thrilled to witness the spectacle. Somewhere between the suds in his ear and the dragon spit in his beard, the old wizard realized he’d stumbled into something rare: a teaching moment. Not the kind found in dusty grimoires or scrawled on parchment scrolls—no, this was the messy, hilarious gospel according to Crispin. The dragonling cleared his throat (a dramatic little “hrrrk” noise that sounded suspiciously like a toddler about to demand apple juice) and began strutting along the tub’s edge like a king addressing his court. His tiny claws tapped the rim, his wings flicked theatrically, and his bubble crown wobbled but somehow stayed intact. Marvin swore the little beast was giving a speech. “Pop, pop, pop,” Crispin chirped, punctuating each sound by biting at bubbles that drifted too close. Marvin couldn’t translate dragonling chatter exactly, but the meaning felt obvious: Life is short, so chomp it while it’s shiny. The more Marvin watched, the more the philosophy unfolded. Crispin splashed deliberately, soaking himself anew, as if to say: Cleanliness is temporary, but joy is renewable. He piled foam into ridiculous sculptures—mountains, castles, what looked suspiciously like Marvin’s bald head—and then gleefully smashed them, cackling with dragon giggles. Marvin found himself laughing too, realizing Crispin was showing him the joy of impermanence. You didn’t cling to bubbles. You played with them, loved them, and let them go. There was no tragedy in their popping—only the memory of sparkle. Of course, Crispin’s bratty streak wasn’t about to let the evening stay purely philosophical. Once he sensed he had Marvin’s attention, the dragonling doubled down on the mischief. He leapt from the tub with a wild squeal, wings flapping, and landed squarely on Marvin’s chest. The impact knocked the wizard backward into the puddled floor with a splash. Marvin wheezed, “I’m too old for this!” but Crispin just curled up smugly on his robe, leaving streaks of soap and little claw prints all over the fabric like a wet signature. Then came the grand finale: Crispin’s fire sneeze. Marvin saw it coming too late—the dragonling’s nose crinkled, his eyes crossed, his cheeks puffed. “No, no, no!” Marvin shouted, scrambling to grab a towel. But the sneeze erupted with a WHOOSH, igniting a cluster of bubbles into a brief, glorious fireball that shimmered across the bathroom like a dragon’s disco ball. Miraculously, nothing burned. Instead, the flames fizzled into rainbow smoke that smelled faintly of lavender soap. Marvin collapsed into helpless laughter, wheezing, tears streaming down his face. Even Crispin, startled, blinked once before bursting into shrieking giggles. It was official: bath time had become both rave and sermon. Later, when the chaos subsided, Marvin sat with Crispin curled up in a nest of towels. The hatchling, worn out from the suds rebellion, let out a little snore that sounded like a hiccup wrapped in purrs. Marvin stroked the damp scales on his head, reflecting. He’d always thought wisdom came from solemn rituals, from silence, from discipline. But tonight, wisdom had come in the form of bubbles, bratty tantrums, slippery floors, and a dragon that refused to do anything without making it fun. And maybe—just maybe—that was the greater lesson: that joy itself is an act of rebellion against a world too obsessed with being serious all the time. “Squeaky clean scales,” Marvin whispered with a chuckle, glancing at the glistening hatchling in his lap. “You’re not just clean, Crispin. You’re holy. A prophet of play, a tiny philosopher of foam.” He shook his head and smiled. “And you’re also the reason I’ll need to buy a mop.” Somewhere in his sleep, Crispin burbled happily, a bubble popping on his nose. And Marvin, exhausted but oddly renewed, decided that the simple things—the bratty, goofy, messy, fleeting, soapy things—were the ones worth celebrating. After all, no kingdom, no spell, no treasure could rival the miracle of a dragon who found enlightenment in a bubble bath.     Epilogue: The Legend of Squeaky Clean Scales In the weeks that followed, Marvin noticed something strange. Crispin began demanding regular baths. Not because he cared about hygiene—his bratty grin made it clear he just wanted more bubble chaos—but because bath time had become ritual. Every splash, every crown of suds, every fire-sneeze into foam became part of the dragonling’s growing legend. Neighbors whispered that Marvin’s hatchling was not just any dragon, but a mystical beast who glowed brighter than treasure after a bubble scrub. Of course, the truth was far less glamorous. Crispin still slipped on tiles. He still spit soap into Marvin’s beard for fun. He still staged miniature rebellions against bedtime, vegetables, and anything that didn’t involve sparkle or snacks. But in the oddest way, the little creature had changed something fundamental. Marvin, once stoic and grumpy, now found himself chuckling in the market, buying lavender soap in bulk. He even started greeting people with the phrase: “Find your bubble and pop it proudly.” It confused the townsfolk, but Marvin didn’t care—he had bubbles in his beard and joy in his chest. As for Crispin, he wore his title proudly: Squeaky Clean Scales. A dragon who would one day grow massive wings and fiery breath, but who, for now, was perfectly content to be small, goofy, and dripping with foam. His kingdom wasn’t of gold or jewels—it was of laughter, suds, and life lessons disguised as bratty fun. And in some quiet corner of the world, where dragons and wizards and bubbles all existed together, the simple miracle of bath time became a reminder that sometimes the greatest magic isn’t fire or flight—it’s joy. Pure, ridiculous, fleeting joy.     Bring the Bubble Dragon Home If Crispin the hatchling made you smile, why not let his bubbly antics brighten your own space? Squeaky Clean Scales is more than a story—it’s a celebration of joy, silliness, and life’s simplest pleasures. And now you can carry that magic into your everyday world with beautifully crafted products featuring this whimsical artwork. Dress up your walls with a stunning Framed Print or a luminous Acrylic Print—perfect conversation starters that capture every bubble and sparkle in vivid detail. Or make bath time legendary with a playful Shower Curtain that turns any bathroom into Crispin’s kingdom of foam. For cozy nights, wrap yourself in the warmth of a Fleece Blanket, or bring the dragonling’s bratty charm on the go with a versatile Tote Bag. Each piece is crafted to celebrate the joy, play, and laughter that Crispin reminds us to embrace. Because sometimes, the greatest treasures aren’t gold or fire—they’re bubbles, giggles, and the reminder to celebrate life’s little sparks.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Juicy Guardian

A Dragonling with Too Much Juice Long before kingdoms rose and fell, and even before humanity figured out how to weaponize wine into bad karaoke, there existed a lush orchard where fruits reigned supreme. Mangos glistened in the early sun like golden gems, pineapples stood tall like spiky fortresses, and watermelons lay across the grass as if they had been plucked straight from a fruit god’s imagination. In the middle of this overripe paradise lived a creature no one expected, a dragonling so cheeky and unruly that even the bananas tried to peel themselves just to get away from his speeches. He was known, in a title he gave himself after exactly zero votes, as The Juicy Guardian. This dragonling was small by dragon standards—hardly bigger than a beach ball—but he compensated with attitude. His scales shimmered in shifting tones of citrus orange and leafy green, and his stubby wings flapped like a drunken butterfly when he was excited. His horns were tiny, more like decorative ice cream cones than menacing spikes, but don’t tell him that unless you’re ready to be pelted with lime wedges at alarming velocity. Worst of all—or best, depending on how much chaos you enjoy—was his tongue. Long, wiggly, and constantly flopping out of his mouth, it was the sort of tongue that made you wonder if evolution had overcorrected somewhere around the amphibian era. “Hear me, peasants of the orchard!” the dragonling declared one morning, climbing atop a pineapple with the solemn dignity of a child trying to wear their dad’s oversized shoes. His stubby claws gripped the spiky surface like it was a throne built just for him. “From this day forth, no kiwi shall be stolen, no mango bruised, and no watermelon sliced without my express permission. I am the sacred defender of juice, pulp, and fruity honor!” The audience of fruits was, naturally, silent. But the villagers who worked the orchard had gathered at a distance, pretending to be busy with baskets, all while trying not to choke on their own laughter. The Juicy Guardian, undeterred, believed they were basking in awe. He puffed out his tiny chest until his scales squeaked and stuck his tongue out in what he believed was an intimidating display. It was not. It was adorable in a way that made grown men giggle and women mutter, “Oh my gods, I want ten of him in my kitchen.” Now, here’s the thing about The Juicy Guardian: he wasn’t exactly a fire-breather. In fact, he had tried once, and the result had been a mild burp that caramelized half an orange and singed his own eyebrows. From that day on, he embraced his true talent—what he called “fruit-based combat.” If you threatened the orchard, he’d sneeze pulp into your eyes with sniper-like precision. If you dared to insult pineapples (his favorite fruit, obviously, since he used them as makeshift thrones), he would waggle his sticky tongue until you were so grossed out you left voluntarily. And if you really pushed your luck, well, let’s just say the last raccoon who underestimated him was still finding tangerine seeds in uncomfortable places. “Oi, dragonling!” shouted one villager from behind a basket of mangos. “Why should we let you guard the fruit? All you do is slobber on it!” The Guardian didn’t even flinch. He tilted his head, narrowed one massive eye, and replied with the bravado only a creature under a foot tall could muster: “Because no one else can guard fruit with this level of flair.” He struck a pose, wings flared, tongue dangling proudly, drooling nectar onto the pineapple he was standing on. The villagers groaned in unison. He took it as applause. Obviously. The truth was, most of the villagers tolerated him. Some even liked him. The kids adored his antics, cheering whenever he declared yet another “sacred fruit law” like: All grapes must be eaten in even numbers, lest the gods get indigestion, or Banana bread is holy, and hoarding it is punishable by public tickling. Others found him insufferable, swearing under their breath that if they had to hear one more proclamation about “the divine juiciness of melons,” they’d pickle him alive and serve him with onions. But the dragonling, blissfully oblivious, strutted around as if he were the king of tropical chaos, which—let’s be honest—he kind of was. It was during one particularly loud morning announcement that things took a turn. The Juicy Guardian was mid-speech—something about enforcing a fruit tax payable in smoothies—when the orchard fell strangely quiet. Even the cicadas stopped buzzing. A massive shadow rolled over the grove, blotting out the warm sunlight. The fruits themselves seemed to shiver, and the villagers froze mid-basket, staring upward. The Guardian, tongue wagging dramatically, froze in place. His pineapple crown tilted sideways like a drunk sailor’s hat. “Oh, great,” he muttered under his breath, his smugness cracking into genuine irritation. “If that’s another oversized banana slug trying to eat my melons, I swear I’m moving to the desert.” His wings twitched nervously, his tiny claws digging into the pineapple throne. The villagers gasped as the shadow grew larger and darker, spilling across the watermelon patch and swallowing the rows of citrus. Something huge was coming, something that didn’t care about fruit laws, smoothie taxes, or sticky tongues. The Juicy Guardian narrowed his one open eye, gave the shadow a wobbly salute with his tongue, and whispered, “Alright then… come and get juicy.” The Shadow Over the Orchard The shadow slithered across the grove like a spilled smoothie, blotting out the juicy glow of the morning sun. Villagers scattered, clutching baskets of fruit to their chests like they were rescuing sacred relics. A few less committed villagers shrugged, dropped their harvest, and ran—better to lose a few lemons than their heads. Only one tiny figure did not flinch: The Juicy Guardian. Perched atop his pineapple, he tilted his oversized head, narrowed his cartoonishly large eye, and let his tongue dangle defiantly like a warrior waving a very pink, very gooey flag of battle. “Alright, you oversized mood-killer,” he called out, his little voice carrying farther than anyone expected, “who dares trespass on my orchard? State your business! If it involves melons, I want a cut. Literally. I’ll take the middle slice.” The villagers gasped. A few of them muttered that the dragonling had finally lost the last marble he never had to begin with. But then the source of the shadow revealed itself: a massive airship, creaking like a wooden whale, descending with ropes and sails flapping. Painted along its hull were crude depictions of swords, grapes, and—for reasons no one could explain—a suggestive-looking carrot. The flag snapping above it read, in bold letters: “The Order of the Fruit Bandits.” “Oh, come on,” groaned The Juicy Guardian, dragging his claws down his snout. “Fruit bandits? Really? Is this my life? I wanted epic battles with knights and treasure hoards, not… organic theft on a flying salad bowl.” The airship docked itself awkwardly on the edge of the orchard, crushing three lemon trees and half a papaya grove. Out tumbled a ragtag crew of bandits, each dressed in patchwork armor and fruit-themed bandanas. One had a banana painted across his chest, another had kiwi seeds tattooed across his forehead, and the apparent leader—tall, muscular, with a jaw that could crack coconuts—strode forward carrying a watermelon-shaped mace. “I am Captain Citrullus,” he bellowed, flexing as if auditioning for a very sweaty poster. “We are here to claim this orchard in the name of the Fruit Bandits! Hand over the harvest, or face the consequences!” The Juicy Guardian tilted his pineapple throne back slightly, waggled his tongue, and muttered loud enough for the villagers to hear: “Captain Citrullus? Really? That’s Latin for watermelon. Congratulations, pal, you just named yourself Captain Melon. How threatening. I feel so intimidated. Somebody call the salad bar police.” The villagers tried not to laugh. The bandits scowled. The Captain stomped forward, pointing his mace at the dragonling. “And who are you, little lizard? A mascot? Do the villagers dress you up and parade you around like a pet?” “Excuse me,” the Guardian snapped, hopping down from his pineapple to strut across the grass with the exaggerated swagger of someone six times his size. “I am not a mascot. I am not a pet. I am the divinely appointed, absolutely fabulous, disgustingly powerful Juicy Guardian! Protector of fruit, ruler of pulp, and wielder of the most dangerous tongue this side of the tropics!” He flicked his tongue dramatically, slapping one bandit across the cheek with a wet slorp. The man yelped and stumbled backward, smelling faintly of citrus for the rest of his life. The villagers erupted into laughter. The bandits, however, were not amused. “Get him!” Captain Citrullus roared, charging forward with his fruit-mace raised high. The bandits surged after him, swords glinting, nets waving, baskets ready to scoop up melons. The Guardian’s wings buzzed nervously, but he didn’t flee. No—he grinned. A bratty, self-satisfied grin. Because if there was one thing this dragonling loved, it was attention. Preferably the dangerous, dramatic kind. “Alright, boys and girls,” he said to himself, rolling his shoulders like a boxer about to step into the ring, “time to make a mess.” The first bandit lunged, swinging a net. The Guardian ducked, darted under his legs, and whipped his tongue around like a whip, snagging an orange from a nearby branch. With a flick, he launched it straight into the bandit’s face. Splurt! Juice and pulp exploded everywhere. The man staggered, blinded, shrieking, “It burns! IT BURNS!” “That’s vitamin C, sweetheart,” the Guardian called after him, “the ‘C’ stands for cry harder.” Another bandit swung a sword down at him. The blade hit the ground, sending sparks into the grass. The Guardian leapt onto the flat of the sword like it was a seesaw, bounced high into the air, and belly-flopped directly onto the attacker’s helmet. With his claws gripping the man’s face and his tongue slapping against his visor, the dragonling cackled, “Surprise smooch, helmet-boy!” before hopping off, leaving the bandit dizzy and smelling faintly of pineapple. The villagers were screaming, cheering, and throwing fruit of their own at the invaders. It wasn’t every day you saw a tiny dragon wage war with produce, and they weren’t going to waste the chance to hurl a few grapefruits. One old woman in particular launched a mango so hard it knocked out a bandit’s front tooth. “I’ve still got it!” she cackled, high-fiving the Guardian as he zipped past. But the tide began to shift. Captain Citrullus waded through the chaos, his melon-mace smashing aside fruit like it was made of air. He stomped toward the Guardian, his face red with rage. “Enough games, lizard. Your fruit is mine. Your orchard is mine. And your tongue—” he pointed the mace straight at him—“is going to be my trophy.” The Juicy Guardian licked his own eyeball slowly, just to make a point, and muttered, “Buddy, if you want this tongue, you better be ready for the stickiest fight of your life.” The villagers fell silent. Even the fruit seemed to hold its breath. The bratty little dragon, dripping pulp and sass, squared off against the massive bandit captain. One small, one huge. One wielding a tongue, the other a melon-mace. And in that moment, everyone knew: this was going to get very, very messy. Pulpocalypse Now The orchard stood still, every mango, lime, and papaya trembling as the two champions squared off. On one side, Captain Citrullus, a towering slab of muscle and melon obsession, hefting his watermelon-shaped mace like it was forged from pure intimidation. On the other, The Juicy Guardian: a stubby, bratty little dragonling with wings too small for dignity, a pineapple crown slipping over one eye, and a tongue dripping nectar like a faucet in desperate need of repair. The villagers formed a loose circle, wide-eyed, clutching fruit baskets like improvised shields. Everyone knew something legendary was about to happen. “Final chance, lizard,” Captain Citrullus growled, stomping forward so hard the ground shook, dislodging a peach. “Hand over the orchard, or I pulp you myself.” The Guardian tilted his head, tongue dangling, then let out the most obnoxious laugh anyone had ever heard—a high-pitched, nasal cackle that made even the parrots flee the trees. “Oh, honey,” he wheezed between gasps of laughter, “you think you can pulp me? Sweetie, I am the pulp. I’m the juice in your veins. I’m the sticky spot on your kitchen counter that you can never, ever scrub clean.” The villagers gasped. One man dropped an entire basket of figs. Captain Citrullus turned purple with rage—part fury, part embarrassment at being out-sassed by what was essentially a lizard toddler. With a roar, he swung his mace down in a crushing arc. The Guardian darted sideways just in time, the melon weapon smashing into the ground and exploding in a shower of watermelon chunks. Seeds sprayed everywhere, pelting villagers like fruity shrapnel. One farmer caught a seed in the nostril and sneezed for the next five minutes straight. “Missed me!” the Guardian taunted, sticking his tongue out so far it smacked Citrullus across the shin. “And ew, you taste like overripe cantaloupe. Gross. Get some better lotion.” What followed could only be described as fruit warfare on steroids. The Guardian zipped around the battlefield like a sticky orange bullet, launching citrus grenades, slapping people with his tongue, and sneezing mango pulp directly into the eyes of anyone foolish enough to get close. Bandits flailed and slipped on fruit guts, falling over one another like bowling pins coated in guava jelly. Villagers joined in with gusto, weaponizing every edible thing they could grab. Papayas flew like cannonballs. Limes were hurled like grenades. Someone even unleashed a barrage of grapes via slingshot, which was less effective as a weapon and more as an impromptu snack for the Guardian mid-battle. “For the orchard!” bellowed one elderly woman, dual-wielding pineapples as clubs. She bludgeoned a bandit so hard he dropped his sword, then stole his bandana and wore it as a victory sash. The villagers cheered wildly, as if centuries of repressed fruit-related rage had finally found release. But Captain Citrullus would not be undone so easily. He charged at the Guardian again, swinging his melon-mace in wide arcs, knocking aside bananas and terrified villagers alike. “You’re nothing but a snack, dragon!” he roared. “When I’m done with you, I’ll pickle your tongue and drink it with gin!” The Guardian froze for half a second. Then his face contorted into pure bratty offense. “Excuse me? You’re gonna what? Oh, honey, NO ONE pickles this tongue. This tongue is a national treasure. UNESCO should protect it.” He puffed his tiny chest and added with a glare, “Also, gin? Really? At least use rum. What are you, a monster?” And with that, the fight escalated from silly to mythic chaos. The Guardian launched himself into the air, stubby wings flapping furiously, and wrapped his tongue around Citrullus’s mace mid-swing. The sticky appendage clung like sap, yanking the weapon out of the captain’s hands. “Mine now!” the Guardian squealed, spinning in midair with the mace dangling from his tongue. “Look, Mom, I’m jousting!” He swung the mace clumsily, knocking three bandits flat and accidentally smashing a melon cart into oblivion. Villagers roared in laughter, chanting, “Juicy! Juicy! Juicy!” as their ridiculous protector rode the chaos like a carnival act gone horribly right. Citrullus lunged after him, fists clenched, but the Guardian wasn’t done. He dropped the mace, spun in the air, and unleashed his most secret, most dreaded weapon: The Citrus Cyclone. It began as a sniffle. Then a cough. Then the dragonling sneezed with such violent force that a hurricane of pulp, juice, and shredded citrus peels erupted from his snout. Oranges whirled like comets, limes spun like buzzsaws, and a lemon wedge smacked a bandit so hard he re-evaluated all his life choices. The orchard became a storm of sticky, acidic chaos. Villagers ducked, bandits screamed, and even Captain Citrullus staggered under the onslaught of pure vitamin C. “Taste the rainbow, you salad-flavored meatloaf!” the Guardian shrieked through the storm, eyes wild, tongue flapping like a battle flag. When the cyclone finally subsided, the orchard looked like a battlefield after a smoothie blender explosion. Fruits lay smashed, juice ran in sticky rivers, and the villagers were covered head to toe in pulp. The bandits lay groaning on the ground, their weapons lost, their dignity even more so. Captain Citrullus stumbled, dripping with mango mush, his once-proud melon-mace now just a soggy rind. The Guardian swaggered forward, tongue dragging in the juice-soaked grass. He hopped onto Citrullus’s chest, puffed out his tiny chest, and bellowed, “Let this be a lesson, melon-boy! No one messes with The Juicy Guardian. Not you, not banana slugs, not even the smoothie bar at that overpriced yoga retreat. This orchard is under MY protection. The fruit is safe, the villagers are safe, and most importantly—my tongue remains unpickled.” The villagers erupted into cheers, hurling pineapples into the air like fireworks. The bandits, defeated and embarrassed, scrambled back to their airship, slipping on orange rinds and tripping over mangos. Captain Citrullus, humiliated and sticky, swore revenge but was too busy trying to get papaya seeds out of his hair to sound convincing. Within minutes, the ship lifted off, wobbling into the sky like a drunken balloon, leaving behind only pulp, shame, and a faint smell of overripe cantaloupe. The Juicy Guardian stood tall atop his pineapple throne, juice dripping from his scales, tongue wagging proudly. “Another day, another fruit saved,” he announced with dramatic flair. “You’re welcome, peasants. Long live juice!” The villagers groaned at his arrogance, but they also clapped, laughed, and toasted him with fresh coconuts. Because deep down, they all knew: as bratty, goofy, and insufferable as he was, this tiny dragonling had defended them with sticky, ridiculous glory. He wasn’t just their guardian. He was their legend. And somewhere in the distance, parrots repeated his chant in perfect unison: “Juicy! Juicy! Juicy!” echoing across the tropics like the world’s silliest war cry.     The Juicy Guardian Lives On The villagers may have wiped pulp out of their hair for weeks, but the legend of The Juicy Guardian grew juicier with every retelling. His tongue became myth, his pineapple throne a symbol of sass and stickiness, and his battle cry echoed through markets, taverns, and the occasional smoothie stand. And as with all legends worth savoring, people wanted more than just the story—they wanted to bring a little piece of the fruity chaos home. For those bold enough to let a bratty dragonling guard their own space, you can capture his juicy glory in stunning metal prints and sleek acrylic prints—perfect for giving any wall a splash of tropical whimsy. For a softer touch, the Guardian is equally happy lounging across a colorful throw pillow, ready to sass up your couch. If your home craves a statement as bold as his fruit-fueled battles, nothing says “long live juice” quite like a full-sized shower curtain. And for those who simply want to spread his sticky legend everywhere, a cheeky sticker makes the perfect sidekick for laptops, bottles, or anywhere that could use a splash of dragonling attitude. The Juicy Guardian may have been born of pulp and sass, but his story is far from over—because now, he can live wherever you dare to let him. 🍍🐉✨