I was awakened by the irate Director's bone call before dawn one morning and subjected to a numbing diatribe about the state of morality in Conflagration City. He bemoaned his decision to me, the big one where he changed, some say contaminated, our way of life under the influence of alien Earth technology. He was obtuse and deliberately gave no clues to his meaning, only to insist that Captain Sparks would provide the details. Before I could begin to marrow the message, the bone dried out leaving me perplexed.

The captain was more specific:"Rumblefang, hop to it!" he demanded mere minutes later. "I don't pay my detectives to sleep when there's mayhem about. Nake, are you ignited?"

"Burner's up. What is it?" I asked, not daring to mention the Director's call.

"Get over to Hearthstone now. Take Clasp along. You'll need help on this one. Looks like a murder. Keep the reptiles out as long as possible."

By that I knew the captain was warning me about the sensational nature of the case, that Clasp and I should avoid the carnivorous media. He was also telling us to keep our steam to ourselves, that the story was likely to explode without our assistance. I had no luck arguing that it was All Hell's Eve or that I promised Carbon to decorate the volcano for her and the kids. Again the bone dried. Using the private spine-vine to avoid the spam hackers, I alerted my partner, Clasp Undersnort, and we flew.

Hearthstone Apartments, #310, early Wednesday morning

We jumped off the travel el and made our way through the hallway throng of curious onlookers that cluttered the passage to the police barricade. An officer, spotting our badges, separated the crowd so that we could enter the scene.

"It must be a murder," whispered a mane curled neighbor to her husband. "The detectives are here."

"Looks like it," answered the hubby, tweaking his nostrils. "Wonder if it's that hissing bitch next door? Gotta be on the fang of it."

"There goin' into 310," interjected an overly scale-clad female from down the hall. "If its Therma, she only got what she deserved."

"Enough," commanded the officer. "Keep it down. We've got serious business inside."

Clasp and I were immediately accosted by a milling array of police technicians, hovering hurriedly around the prostrate form of the deceased, a brass-red female dragon, marked out by an immense chalk-line on the living room's coal fiber carpet. She was curled and shriveled as though burned from the inside, yet retained distinctive marks of identification. All the necessary teams were busy with forensic, documentation, medical and chemical tasks gathering evidence. I saw the coroner and pulled him aside.

"What have we got, Flenser?"

"Don't know yet, Nake. An odd one. Doesn't fit any of the patterns."

"Who was she?"

"Name's Therma Cupboard. Worked at the Steam Pit as a bottomless hostess."

"Oh yeah," interrupted Clasp. "Me and the missus had wok griffin there two weeks ago. Nice place. Good atmosphere, but I don't recall a hostess."

"You'd never know it to look at her now. All wrinkled up. Could be 500 to 1000 years old. Strange, considering her occupation. Not well liked by the residents but never caused trouble. Typical snore-saur, I'd guess. It happens."

"Got the dope on her job?" I inquired.

"She was after hours," said Flenser. "Catered to late night clientele. Like I said, she didn't look her age. See those accumulations of grease under the head? Cosmetics, about fifty melted pounds worth. Heavy disguise."

"Why the chalk-line? I don't see any blood or wounds."

"Just in case. You know the captain. He wants it to go by the script. Has to answer to the Director, the same as the rest of us."

"Sure, if you need to determine the direction of a missile," I commented.

"Nothing medieval hanging around, no spears, arrows or bullets. Stupid to use chalk. Damned Earth serials. Has the body been moved?"

"Just enough to verify no external entrance wounds," answered Flenser.

"The internal examiners can't find anything either. It's a mystery at the moment."

"They've already crawled around inside her?"

"Yep. Lizard pup squad. Nothing so far, except for the way she's curled up. Nothing anal, but there's a whole mess of egg particles."

"Looks like she's regressed kinda. Like she was trying to burst out of her own egg. What would make her cringe like that? It's a fetal position."

"My guess is poison. Think about the necromancer videos given to us by the Director. They're full of alchemical weapons. See those claws? Ever see that shade of polish before?"

"Can't say that I have," I replied. "Dark purple? Is that indicative?"

"I'm working on it. Let you know when I have something. You two better check the restaurant and pick up some leads. The captain will crisp your tails if you don't find something quick. He's in a descaling mood."

"That's all you've got for us?"

"That and the tongue print. Rather unique."

"How so?"

"Four prongs. When you consider that and the red streak along her jaw it touches off a match, but I can't remember where I lit it."

"It does seem familiar. Some kinda accent stripe. Damn, I know I've come across it before."

"Right on the edge of my memory," added Flenser.

"Let's go Clasp. Nothing for us in here. We'll get the neighbors later after the excitement dies down."

The media was already pushing its cameras and microphones through the door into the face of the beleaguered coroner as we departed.

"This ain't no typical barbecue," said Clasp quietly. I told him about my mysterious wake up call from the Director. Neither of us understood its implication.

Steam Pit Management Office - Mr. Burny 'Red' Glowworm

"Yeah, she worked here for about two months. Did real good on tips. Can't believe somebody killed her. No idea what the reason could be."

"What about your clientele?" I asked. "Anyone specific?"

"Four or five regulars. You know the scenario." Glowworm shrugged. "She made a living. What can I say? She had the right to snap her jaws on any drake she had a mind to. That was her business."

"It seems that somebody objected. Any memorable incidents?"

"Naw. Just normal stuff. Oh, occasionally a jealous spark-mate might fly in and weld the place. For effect mostly, to get their beau-jacks to come home. Nothing ever serious happened that I know of. Not here, anyways."

"Any friends we should talk to?"

"She got along real good with Shell Tumbleskin. Works the blood counter most nights. Lot of old timers don't take to the Director's newfangled ways. Try to drown their concerns with plasma vats and clot berries. Therma was pretty handy to have around when a dragon started draggin' and needed a kind tongue or a helping windflap. Had that crazy four tine format that drove the customers wild. Nearly seduced me once. Always kept her scales trim and shiny. Really tragic to see her candle extinguished."

"Any other workers?"

"Well, come to think of it, I saw her with Lavalegs a lot. Had to discipline them for spending too many exchanges on my clock. Docked them a meal."

"Lavalegs?"

"Larry, yeah, one of my waiters. They were always snugglin', tryin' to cover themselves with wing and tail in the corners. I think he was doin' her privately, but I don't know that for a fact. Shell will probably know."

"Thanks, Red. We'll be back. Clasp, you check out Tumbleskin. I'm gonna question this Lavalegs drake." At least it was a lead. Both of us secreted vidicams in our hollowed out crest horns, the latest detective prerequisite.

Tumbleskin Residence - Gorge Condominium - Wednesday afternoon

"My wife's very upset right now, Detective Clasp. We just heard over the continental shred hopper. The news is everywhere. Terrible stuff about Therma." He was a rather nondescript male but I admired his eagerness to shield his mate. Inner strength is often more formidable than external boast.

"Yes, I'm sure. But I have to question her. Code and charter requirements."

"You can shove your Director's code where the fire doesn't catch," he started spewing but was distracted by a condescending voice from inside the door.

"All right! Honey, there's a policeman here to ask you about Therma."

Mrs. Tumbleskin came to the front door in withered drape. Tears streamed out from her eyes and smothered her flames. Wisps of smoke billowed from her nose and choked a response while she wrapped herself tightly in fragile wings.

"Poor Therma. Who would do such a thing?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out, Shell. How well did you know her?"

"Years. We told each other everything."

"What about the lounge lizards? Anyone special?"

"Never. A one night stand, maybe. She had to pay the rent. But no one that meant anything to her. Nothing incendiary."

"Any expensive habits, perhaps?"

"If you're suggesting ammonium blaze balls, you're way off base. She wasn't into anything like that. Cosmetics maybe, but not flagon dust."

"Talon polish, for instance."

"Not that I've heard of. She liked scale lotion. Had a collection to match her moods. Wing ointments, flame scents, that kinda stuff. The most she ever did with her claws was dip them in ........toad-wax." She began to cry unashamedly.

"What?" asked Clasp as tenderly as possible.

"I bought her a gift of toad-wax last week for her breakout celebration. Had it wrapped special in a silver ova. I'm sorry. I can't talk anymore."

"One more question, please. Larry Lavalegs?"

"He's a creep," she recovered with rapidity. "She knew how I felt about him."

"And what is that?"

"Just a jerk. Typical randyfly. Always lookin' for a hot quickie. Never did nothin' for her but cause backflash. Can't tell you how many times she swallowed fireballs for that no good furnace breath."

"What do you mean?"

"He'd promise her a singe and never deliver. I don't know what she saw in him, really. He's a snapdragon if ever there was one. Lotsa smoke but no concept of lingering fire, if you know what I mean. He brought her up to heat all right, but she certainly didn't light his torch."

"Yeah, but would he have a reason for getting rid of her permanently?"

"Could be," Shell theorized openly. "Had a new thing happening.

Somebody's wife, I've heard. Maybe he wanted Therma out of the way."

* * * * * * * *

"All right, Larry, so you were kelvin-bonded last night. Fine. Who with?"

"You tellin' me I need an alibi. Shit, I was with a ladybug. Can't give you her name, Detective Rumblefang. She's hitched, like it says in the movie."

"Well, Mr. Larry Lavalegs, it might just come down to your word in court. If you can't substantiate......."

"All right, all right. I get the big Earth picture. Stupid nonsense."

"What's stupid?"

"This whole thing about transmission broadcasts. I liked the old way better. What are we doin' anyway? Copyin' alien shit is crazy. Dragons ought to be able to fly around and trash things the way we've always done. It's downright non-evolutionary. Too dumb if you ask me. The numbing of Drakonica."

"That'll be enough of that. Any idea what the Director would do to you if he heard you talk like that?"

"We could have a duel like in the old days. Just me and him, flame to flame. Hottest flare wins. That's what bulls used to do."

"No such luck hotshot. You'd be charred in a minute. Circular field napalm and you'd be the central target for a team that doesn't overshoot. The name, idiot, or I'll hafta bring you to Stoker Precinct."

"I don't want this gettin' out. She's fairly well known."

"Only if it comes down to it, otherwise you're our number one suspect."

"Wanda Arsonage!"

"The pasty queen? No! Why, she's welded to Ironforge, the toughest dragon this side of Conflagration City. How could you do such a thing?"

"I did, OK? Why is my business. I didn't have a choice, actually. You ever been with a really demanding flamethrower? No, of course not."

"Is it true about her false scales? Just curious."

"Yeah, I was too. Got me attracted, you know. Had to find out if her wormshanks were really bare underneath."

"Well, were they?" I couldn't resist.

"Most of 'em. I think I knocked the last few off. She's worried about Ironforge finding out. C'mon, do me a favor. I'll even help you with Therma if you keep it unflossed. I may know something."

"You expect me to hide behind my teeth? What is it you think you know?"

"An oddball package."

"Flame again, I didn't catch that ignition." I was getting angry and let it show. Unprofessional, of course, but I needed something igneous.

"At the Steam Pit! We get lots of deliveries, but never one from that place."

"What place?" I frothed and steamed like a novice.

"Balthazar's Apothecary Shop. Not exactly normal for a restaurant."

"Interesting," I said with instant simmer. "What was it and who signed for it?"

"Not a clue. But, if I were you, that's where I'd look."

Stoker Precinct - Wednesday afternoon

"Give it to me straight," shouted Captain Sparks. "I'm getting pressure from the higher ups. Fairly weird for a nonentity like Cupboard."

"Either of 'em could have done it," I said. "Clasp thinks Lavalegs is being truthful. I think Tumbleskin knows more than she's letting on."

"What would be her motive?"

"Jealousy. She was goin' on about Lavalegs. Maybe she had a thing for Ms. Cupboard herself. Not exactly unheard of."

"Doesn't make sense unless there was a direct threat," reasoned Sparks.

"Another female rival. Any evidence of bi-flame? Besides, everyone knows she did dragmales for perks. Any chance the Arsonage nightmare was involved any more than with Lavalegs?"

"No," answered Clasp. "Strict hetero according to my records. One of these days, Ironforge is gonna crisp her all the way to the tail end."

"Fine! Give you some more work. What about the invoice?"

"Glowworm gave it to me," I replied. "Signature's been burned completely off the skull. My next stop is Balthazar."

"You'd better both go. That drake is heavily into the Director's latest idea. A new series called Dragonet. It's getting disgusting and Balthazar is sinking major gems in the project. There's nothing he won't do to grab attention. Wants to be a fucking star. Thinks his backwind doesn't burn like the rest of us."

"We'll be careful."

"You'd better be. You ash-holes have got us mixed up with Ironforge. Remember what happened to the last investigation? I've got a cellar full of dry bones for you to look at for inspiration. Now, perk up! See what used to pass for my tail? Chewed off, isn't it? Director has sharp teeth. If you don't wanta drag your leaking scrotums in ice, better find something useful. Now git!"

Balthazar's Apothecary Shop - Wednesday evening

"Yes, there was an order and it was delivered to the Steam Pit," said Balthazar, a silver dragon with overly bright scales and a leering visage. "No, I don't know who placed it or actually received it. Read the receipt."

"No good, I'm afraid." I disliked this drake's manner immediately. "Someone erased it. Maybe someone who knew its importance."

"Then I can't help you, can I?" his triple forked tongue licked his lips while he stared at us with an intense, challenging disposition.

"What was the order?"

"You expect me to remember that? Do you have any idea how many

thousands of tonics I mix every day? What exactly are you looking for?"

"Something purple, actually. Or something that turns purple."

"No. I don't recall anything like that. Of course, there could be something, but I don't remember anything special."

"Anything that could mix with toad-wax?"

"Give me a break. Shit, everything here can mix with that crap. That's what I do, make potions for the elite. The Director knows all about it and supports me all the way. 100%. It's all about ratings."

"We're looking for something that would turn claws purple. You'd get a lot of publicity if you could be of assistance."

"Publicity? Me? Well, I can look in my records, if that's what you want."

"Please. We'll wait." Balthazar disappeared behind an enclosure, leaving me and Clasp alone in the shop with his pet phoenix, a leather rainbow bird chained to a post, one of the squawking, inquisitive types.

"Purple claws, purple claws," it said. We looked at each other with raised eye

plates.

"Purple claws," repeated the phoenix. "Breakin' eggs."

"We didn't mention eggs, did we?" I said to Clasp. "What eggs you talkin' about, Hot Roc?" His name was etched on a slate.

"Powerful eggs," said the phoenix. "Balthazar's kegs."

"Now it thinks it's a poet," I suggested, smoking a laugh.

"You speak very good Drakonica for a bird," said Clasp.

"Good speak. Better see. Hot Roc. Hot Roc!"

"What did you see?"

"Purple claws! Hot Roc. Breakin' eggs."

"Whose eggs?" asked Nake.

"Heavy drake. Steam Pit."

"Was she brood spawned? Therma?"

"Cupboard's bare. Crushed shells. Purple claws."

"Silence," said Balthazar returning. "Don't be misled by my bird, detectives. He has a tendency to put words together that don't make sense. Anything he hears gets mixed up."

"That's very interesting, Balthazar. Do you have anything for us?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Nothing that turns purple. I'm wasting your time."

"You are under arrest. Anything you say may be held against you in a court of charter. Fold up your wings, druggist. You're coming with us. You and your talkative bird."

"APOTHECARY CHARGED IN MURDER CONSPIRACY," read the headline of Conflagration City's Daily Snaggle. The indigenous were shocked. Clasp and I transferred our evidence and reports to the prosecuting attorney, Ragtooth Ringworm. Captain Sparks made us continue the investigation, seeking links to the murder so that the trial would be an open and shut case. The Director was immensely pleased with our work, commending us for ingenuity, speed and a huge rise in the media coverage and broadcast ratings.

Public dragonry discussed little but the upcoming trial, especially since Balthazar and Shell Tumbleskin were defended by none other than the scourge of police detectives, Harry Hotmouth, who built his reputation by exploiting the media's need for sensational copy. He took on the lowest of the low. Winning didn't matter. Exposure counted. In this case, everything jelled together in his boilerplate mind, especially the possibilities of fame and flame.

Office of the Judge Advocate - Marsh Witherweed

"Your'e going to need something more than innuendo and a bird," said Witherweed to the three of us. "I'm assigning Judge Overbite the bench. What else have you got besides the circumstantial stuff?"

"Nake and Clasp here have uncovered the poison," answered Ringworm.

"Small stone of chalcedony can hold it forever. Tincture of dream flexure. Potent stuff. Definitely came from Balthazar's shop. I'm preparing a demonstration to show how it works in court."

"OK, what about motive?"

"Balthazar was in it for the excitement," I offered. "I think he wants to write a movie script. Looking for ideas I guess. Tumbleskin was definitely in it for jealousy, probably because of Lavalegs."

"You need more than probabilities, especially against that charnel Hotmouth."

"Mrs. Tumbleskin and Cupboard had a secret relationship. The husband is devastated now that he knows. Tore off his wings when we located the Nostrum Cave pebbles where they had their little trysts. He'll never fly again."

"Sad! What else?"

"The eggs were destroyed by the poison, except for remnants. It drew inward from the claws. That's why she ended up looking like a wrinkled fetus. The DNA is confusing."

"How so?"

"Apparently Ms. Cupboard was bi-flame. Definitely not the aggressive type. Mrs. Tumbleskin retains male hormones. Some of the eggs were hers."

"Wow. Anything else?"

"Ironforge! He's involved."

"Oh no! You don't want to bring him in. He'll burn the courtroom down and create mass havoc. You'd better be sure. Couldn't Arsonage also retain male hormones? That might dim the old war chariot."

"It's possible. That would also give Mrs. Tumbleskin a stronger motive. The eggshells are damning evidence."

"You'd better be sure, otherwise the Director will think it's a fiasco."

"Nake and Clasp are still on it," insisted Ringworm. " Lavalegs is pretty much out of it. No traces."

Court of the Superior Charter - One month later

Every dragon of consequence was in attendance. The media covered the event live for national hookup. Judge Overbite was in charge of the proceedings and was careful to observe protocol in the presence of so many dignitaries. The Director winked at him from the spectator gallery after the jury was sworn in. It

was straightforward with witness after witness. The evidence chained beautifully together until Ragtooth introduced the phoenix.

"Objection!" shouted Harry Hotmouth. "Witness is not a dragon."

"True," answered Ringworm, "but he understands and speaks Drakonica. His testimony will show crucial features of this case that will answer some of its most difficult questions. Without this testimony, your honor, we cannot arrive at a proper conclusion."

"I will allow it," decided Judge Overbite, privately coerced by the Director to permit something spectacular for the cameras.

"In that case, your honor," said Harry Hotmouth, "I ask for equal consideration pending appeal."

"What consideration?"

"I also have a non-dragon witness."

"We'll get to that question later. Proceed." The Judge knew he was trapped by the clever attorney, but deferred his anger.

Ringworm skillfully questioned the phoenix, decked out in regal plumage for the charter circus. It was shown how Balthazar concocted the poison and contained it. He demonstrated the effect for the jury, using an untrained sandwich griffin to show how its claws were dipped in toad-wax. In seconds, the griffin cringed, crumpled, wrinkled and died before the astonished, gasping audience. Technicians were then summoned to dissect the creature. Telltale eggs were displayed, showing how they dissolved and corroded in the presence of the poison. From the shell fragments, Ringworm explained how DNA could be traced to various sires.

"Now, phoenix, tell the jury about the eggs. Whose were they?"

"Heavy sires. Purple claws. Eggs crushed."

"Who sired?" asked Ringworm patiently as every dragon in the courtroom craned their necks to hear the bird's answer. So did I.

"Tumbleskin," answered the phoenix, drawing a sigh of satisfaction from the prosecution. "Hot Roc!" The spectators burst into yellow appreciation with the dramatic display and it took some time before the judge's hammer crushed enough skull weights to retain order.

"Your witness," suggested the prosecutor.

"You are saying," said Harry Hotmouth with deliberate care, "that Shell Tumbleskin had an alliance with Balthazar? That she wanted to kill Therma Cupboard because she was spawned by someone else?"

"Kill Cupboard," answered the phoenix simply.

"And you want us to believe that Shell Tumbleskin made Therma Cupboard equally pregnant? They were among her eggs?"

"Objection!" said Ringworm. "Witness has already testified to this question."

"Correction," argued Hotmouth. "Your witness has identified Tumbleskin. We don't know which one, do we? What about the husband?"

"This is ridiculous, your honor," screamed Ringworm with real invective. "We know the defendant and the victim had a relationship. The husband is in a bad way. Hospitalized for this very travesty. I see no need to bring him in on this."

"Answer the question," said Judge Overbite. "Were they Shell's, yes or no?"

"Cannot answer," said the bird.

"Why not?" asked Hotmouth.

"Dragon truth. Whole truth. Nothing but. Cannot yes. Cannot no."

"Your honor, this is getting us nowhere," complained Ringworm.

"Oath taken," insisted the phoenix, ruffling its leather folds.

"It's your own witness," taunted Hotmouth. "Like you said, we want to know the truth to make a proper decision."

"Tell it any way you want to," said Judge Overbite to the bird.

Suddenly, the phoenix went wide eyed, gagged on a squawk and fell dead on the floor. It was noticed by everyone that the bird's taloned feet had empurpled. The judge blanched with blood and ordered the spectators out. The remainder of the trial was to be closed, in spite of the Director's loud threats and

accusations. He stormed out of the court in a rage. Judge Overbite forced the police to surround the courtroom and keep it secure.

Daily Snaggle

Flashburn

In an eerie turn of events, the Cupboard case has caused chaos amongst the city's most scintillating gem

hoarders. Retired Devastator, Ironforge, along with his wife, the notorious former basking worm, Wanda Arsonage, have been implicated by DNA evidence from the scene of the crime. Eggs from both husband and wife were uncovered by the slab lab using Earth imported techniques. A conspiracy, involving numerous dragons, including Mr. and Mrs. Tumbleskin, Fryme Balthazar, an apothecary with ties to the Director and others, is growing into a maze of tangled firebraids that the best charter minds cannot unravel.

Confusing the issue is the incredible murder of a key witness, the phoenix 'Hot Roc' owned by Balthazar, as it was about to give significant testimony. In a further clouding of the mystery, Judge Overbite held a private conference in his chambers at the insistence of both attorneys. According to our sources, the prosecution has uncovered new sensational evidence as to the true identity of Therma Cupboard. The defense plans to counter with a surprise witness of its own, a non-dragon whom Judge Overbite is now forced to admit to the charter. In a rare condescension, he has permitted public access again to the proceedings.

Clasp and I sat in the back row with Captain Sparks. Our testimony was already entered in the record and we became transfixed with the events like everyone else. We watched with trepidation as Hotmouth rose from his white fringed coal bucket seat and approached the bench.

"Witness for the defense, your honor. It doesn't speak, of course. It nods and points. I have documentation that shows it passed a truth detector."

"Objection!" said Ringworm.

"On what grounds," asked Hotmouth. "If the phoenix was allowable, why not a griffin?"

"We don't toast birds, counselor," said Ringworm. "I had griffin for lunch."

"No," interrupted the judge. "The precedent is set. I have to permit it. This better be good, Mr. Hotmouth."

"Oh, it will be, your honor. I promise."

The griffin was sworn in and placed on the stand. It was a pugnacious sort and not intimidated by salivating courtroom personnel. It sneered at the judge and bared teeth until Hotmouth cautioned it to be more circumspect and placid.

"On Tuesday, the night of the murder, were you present at the Steam Pit?"

The griffin nodded affirmatively.

"You are the property of Red Glowworm? His pet overspy?"

Another nod. Glowworm had previously testified as to his membership in the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Griffins. Specifically, he made "pets" out of stray creatures left helpless to roam city streets.

"You knew the deceased, did you not? Good. Seen her with a lot of customers? Excellent. Ever watch her use make up? Wonderful. Did she use toad-wax on her talons? She did, of course. And you saw where she kept her supply? In her pouch purse in a silver egg? OK, good. So, the big question. Did you ever see anyone put something in the toad-wax? Yes? Please repeat that. Yes again!"

"Your honor," objected Ringworm. "I fail to see how this helps the case. The creature cannot tell us a name."

"On the contrary," interrupted Hotmouth, "I have a group of photographs for your inspection. This creature will point to the dragon involved. Here, take a look." He spread several pictures on the judge's bench. Clasp and I shrugged.

"I don't see how putting my face in front of a griffin is of use," complained Ringworm, sensing a bitter defeat.

"No problem counselor, I'll take it out. Everyone else is in the pile, including Ironforge, Arsonage, Balthazar, Mr. and Mrs. Tumbleskin, the Director and Larry Lavalegs. Will that be satisfactory?"

"Seems legitimate to me," commented Judge Overbite. "Let the griffin point."

"Hold on," said Ringworm desperately. "I want to include a few photographs of my own. Here they are." He held several snapshots of various female dragons, including the victim.

"That's perfectly acceptable to me," said Hotmouth. He approached the griffin, sworn in under the name of Roastamok. "You understand what we want you to do? Tell us who the real culprit is. Who is the dragon that poisoned Therma Cupboard?"

The griffin shook his head with understanding and looked at the photos. One by one he ignored the images until he came to a specific countenance. He put his foot on the image and punctuated the choice with pink slime. Hotmouth tore it away and handed it to the judge. Overbite turned it around so that the

prosecution could see for itself.

"Mr. Tumbleskin, not Mrs!" shouted Ringworm, staring with menace at me and Clasp, quivering in the back row. "Then he made her pregnant. Or was it both of them?"

In answer to this logic and revelation, Shell Tumbleskin rose heatedly from her side of the defense slates, swooned and passed out in front of the court, inadvertently crisping the charter's primary record keeper.

"I think, before we draw conclusions," continued Ringworm without so much as a snort, "we should know who it is we're talking about. Let the griffin identify the victim for us. He knew her intimately, working at the Steam Pit. Let's see if his eyes are as good as defense attorney says they are. Roastamok, why don't

you point out Ms. Cupboard for us."

The griffin took a long time to decide. Some of the photos were clever look-alikes, but the creature was sharp. The spectators, cognizant of rumors, hung in suspense as communal smoke permeated every portion of the room. Finally, it selected the obvious picture.

"We are agreed, are we not judge and fellow counselor, that this is the very image of Therma Cupboard?"

"Yes," assented both dragons.

"It took a lot of work to convince me, but I have been subjected to all the necessary proof. Look at the red, racing stripe that streamlines her perfect jaw, offsetting her precision dentistry. The molars are definitive and her tongue is a throwback to the now extinct Clankenshields. This picture of the victim is none other than Flair Gleam, born Therma Clankenshield in the Oven Coven when Conflagration City was little more than a gas marsh."

There was a hush in the courtroom. Guards stopped trying to revive Shell Tumbleskin. Harry Hotmouth was speechless. Judge Overbite thumped his chest to start it pumping. Clasp, Sharp and I literally fell out of our chairs along with Ironforge, Arsonage and Balthazar. The press went wild, especially after the Director made a hasty exit. Therma's final make-up had fooled everyone.

Daily Snaggle

Flashburn

FLAIR GLEAM STEALS THE SHOW AGAIN IN AMAZING END

In an incredible twist of irony, Ms. Therma Cupboard was revealed to be the aged stunning actress, Flair Gleam, once the hottest star to melt the silent screen, especially in her immortal, sentimental role as Cinderfall. In that long worshiped depiction, the neglected queen of the ancient fire-king, Flash-Buns, watched in agony as her mate publicly declared his preference for male drakes. She descended from

royalty to dragonass alley as viewers were clutch-branded. Ms. Gleam, according to all accounts, was more than a star, the hearth throb of many co-actors, directors, gem enthusiasts and the like.

Among those reputed to be ex-firelings were those in attendance at the trial, including the Director, Ironforge, Balthazar and a host of others, even some females. It is unlikely the real extent of the conspiracy will ever see the flame of truth. Mr. Tumbleskin has confessed to the actual murder and that of the strange witness, Hot Roc. In a mumbled statement, he claimed the complexity of the intertwined relationship between himself, his wife and Flair Gleam drove him to insanity.

In a truly bizarre event, dragon after dragon pleaded with Judge Overbite for leniency in Mr. Tumbleskin's behalf, citing his state of mind and brimstone, his deplorable lack of wings and the abandonment of his spark-mate, Shell, who did not shine particularly well in court. That so many spoke in his support had a profound influence on the judge's decision, considering the popularity of the deceased via her

legendary films and the reselling of tons of 'authenticated' tryst cave straw.

Steam Pit - the day after

"The Director is beside himself," I said to Clasp and Glowworm. "He really wanted a conviction to build a mini-drama."

"I think Overbite did the right thing," commented Clasp, sipping a Bloody Merlin. "Serves no purpose to punish Mr. Tumbleskin any further than he's already done to himself. I understand he's going to take advantage of his pardon to open a geyser spa. Probably a good idea for him to keep his wingless

shape inside the clouds."

"I agree," said Red Glowworm. "Especially since Shell left him for that exhibitionist, Balthazar. If I didn't know better, I'd say we're becoming disgustingly human."

"I didn't see him getting to the phoenix in court," I said with self criticism.

"Fairly sharp, that bit of trickery, but I suppose he was desperate. Too bad about the griffin blowing things apart. Tumbleskin almost pulled it off."

"Hotmouth was too clever," admitted Glowworm. "What about you guys?"

"Back on the pumice patrol beat, at least for awhile. There's always the new programs from Earth. Maybe the Director will relent and let us do something else. For awhile there, I thought he was the murderer. That would have been a twist. He's toying with the idea of sending them a transmission. Who knows, maybe Balthazar has the right idea. Acting seems fulfilling. Dragonet is beginning to appeal to me and Clasp."

"You guys wanna catch the 4:00 soap with me? Dentist uses sex on the couch to misdirect the pain."

"Not really. Clasp and I have tickets for a stage show. The wizard is gonna cut a dragon in half and break out of a locked stone jacket. That we've gotta see for ourselves."

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