In the town of Klein Lieping, a man and his dragon were in an unfortunate position. And you might think this to be a piece of fiction, considering my predilection for exaggeration is like an addiction. I understand your trepidation, but this tale, I swear, is horribly true.

You see, this dragon (named Agrim) had a huge ball bag, you know, scrotum, and he had to pull it like Santa, but Agrim’s sleigh was a wagon, a big ball bag wagon for it was much more demure for a dragon too lag ‘em in a wagon than to drag ‘em, but Agrim’s old wagon was rusted and worn.

And Agrim’s owner (named Homer) was a lovely old loner, who lived on the corner of Fourth and Verona, in a lovely old home, but a castle it was not. At two in the morning, deploring Homer’s snoring, Agrim crept across the flooring to go for a walk.

But Agrim’s wagon’s wheels squeaking, and his ball sack bouncing, sending the wagon a-clanging, awakened the sleeping people in Klein Lieping, which was not quite a city, but a village.

Before many mornings, the people held a meeting to put a stop to the ball bag wagon’s banging and clanging. It was the first meeting that Homer attended, horrified to have offended, and he appealed to the attendants to please sympathize. And to his surprise, he looked out to soft eyes of his neighbors, despite his predictions.

“Oil” cried Doyal, “And paint,” shouted Nate, “A CPAP machine,” “I’ll give it a clean,” “Count on me,” was heard from many a seat. Before the sun lowered that day, old Homer was no loner, but a bonifide owner of a brand new-looking wagon for his pet dragon Agrim to lag his ball bag quietly in the night.

And while the town of Klein Lieping was soundly sleeping, Agrim was strolling, and Homer was weeping with joy.