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Smogg, the greatest of the crimson dragons, wheeled in the skies above Pondtown, belching impenetrable clouds of smoke and showers of white-hot sparks. A band of treasure-hunting dwarves had driven it out of its lair, and their fastest messenger had raced into town bearing the sole arrow capable of killing it. Burt the bowman drew the arrow back to his cheek and waited patiently for his target to present itself. He had a reputation for unfailing accuracy, and it was well deserved. “His entire underside is coated in gems from his hoard,” said the messenger, hurriedly, “but there's a gap on his left breast. It's the only way to kill him.” “No!” protested the mayor, waving his arms blubberously. “If you kill it now its body will crush half the town! Aim for its eye – drive it back to its lair!” Smogg swooped low, flaring its wings to impose upon them the full majesty of its impervious glittering armour. Still, Burt held off, the perfect opportunity apparently not yet perfect enough.