I started writing this when it appeared that JazzO's great idea had ground to a halt. I've kept adding to it, so it's a little longer than 200 words. But, having put in the effort, I thought I'd better inflict it on you all. [nya-nya emoticon] Don't flame me, please ... !
They all arose from the ground, joined hands and formed a ring, and began dancing, while singing, ""Who stole the meatloaf, who stole the meatloaf!" They were interrupted by a cavernous voice with a fruity, plummy Beeb accent, although a little croaky, which said brightly after the best style of Kenneth Horne, "Oh, helloooo, chaps. Bit of a clanger of a day, what!"
The churl and the churlish princess spun around to find before them what was previously behind them — a middling to largish dragon, more a serpent in their midst than a snark in the park. Truth to tell, it was rather tatty overall; scales loose, holes all over its wings, especially along the leading edges, generally a faded green in colour on top, but the hue had remained a little richer underneath. Which was, after all, the bit that the two callow castlepeople could see best - or at least most of. A wisp of smoke with the odour of ordure trickled from one running nostril and there were dull scorch marks around its muzzle. Its eyes were rheumy and a bit bloodshot, but very bright withall.
It had a natty silk scarf knotted neatly around its neck which had "St George was a Plonker" printed in felt tip marker on one trailing end. It also wore a pair of John Lennon specs and had an IBM Thinkpad under one wrinkled and partially chromatically-descaled forelimb.
Gunther shrugged and looked resigned. Gretschen looked angry and started tapping her foot. The churl was busy wondering if he had brought any spare under softwear along and the princess looked dumbstruck, mainly because she knew she hadn't. The sheep looked frightened, but that wasn't anything new. The Princess had mentioned Wales, after all, and it was a sheep, after all.
"The internet again?" Gunther asked, evidently rhetorically. He turned to the petrified princess. "Damned thing - owns the 'Do Drag Inn' in the middle of the forest, but makes all his money from writing bad comedy sketches for British TV. And always wants to access the Internet from our place." Gretschen nodded furiously, scowling. Scowling seemed to be her best feature.
The dragon arched one eyebrow, looked briefly from one to the other and said, in a hollow, cadaverous sort of a way, "Flippin' telco won't upgrade the exchange in Drown'emquik Swamp for halfway decent bandwidth. For some strange reason. What do you expect?" He shivered, showering everyone with whole scales and a varying number of tones from others.
"Well come along inside. This wind will be the death of me, damned if it won't!" And he sniggered, as at some inwardly-remembered joke, spraying sulphurous smoke and half-expended brimstone across the grass where it smouldered and stank to high heaven. Pushing the door open, he clattered into the house, talons tripping tinnily on the turquoise tiles. Our cast of idiots followed it in slowly. When they reached the parlour, they found that the dragon was already busily connecting its Thinkpad to a modem. "Don't you just love ADSL?" he asked heartily and without waiting for an answer he breezily waved one forelimb-thingy at easy chairs around the wall. "Please, sit down!"
A small pall of malodorous smoke was already gathering between the rafters. The Princess was the only one game enough to squeeze around the dragon to reach a seat on his other side. The serpent sniffed, screwed up its muzzle, wrinkled its nose and enquired innocently as she passed, "Anyone need to use the restroom? I'm sure Gretschen won't mind." Gretschen looked daggers at the dragon which blithely dodged them.
"Wha...what's your name?" asked the Princess nervously suddenly aware of the overall size of the dragon, "if you have one, and you don't mind my asking."
"Why, not at all and thanks for enquiring," the worm replied, plumily. "It's Monty Dipsas Python. Anyone got a drink?"
"But," protested the Princess, "you're not a python!"
"Try telling that to the marines," Monty snorted. A brief and very yellow gout of flame issued from one nostril and incinerated the flowers on the table, or rather, sprayed them liberally with soot. Then he laughed, the shaking of his rather ample belly dislodging a few scales which playfully tinkled on the floor in thirds. "One is not at liberty to choose one's name or one's species. That's the task and privilege of one's parents. 'Python' is my last name, not what I am. Besides, my name has brought me some real notoriety if not fortune. Can you say the same? Of course, there never was a flying circus. That was the purest of artist licence. Some people do take liberties, don'cha know?" And he turned one sardonic eye on the princess.
Swallowing hard, the Princess used a dainty fore finger to curl her lip disdainfully. "Common!" she sneered. "You're just a common dragon. No class at all." And the lip slipped back to its normal position of petulance.
Monty leaned against the wall which creaked alarmingly, and gave Ursula a long, pensive look. "So you say, so you say. Common, am I?" Then he said, "Well, when I think about it, my girl, I may not have much class - rather a luxury in my kind of work, hmm?, but I'm better than morally certain that you're not a princess, either." And he had a "and that's that!" look on his face.
The Princess thought briefly, seemed to remember something, and suddenly went a whiter shade of pale. Her stomach felt as if it wanted to do cartwheels across the floor. "Bu ... you ... the ... What do you mean, I'm not a princess?" she squeaked finally. "I am a princess!" She started coughing and spluttering. Gunther brought a tray with a glass of water which she promptly tipped into her lap without even appearing to notice.
"Just that," the Smaug lookalike said lightly, dusting a few loose scales off its chest to the floor where they struck a major chord. "You were never even a twinkle in your father's eye, m'dear. In the eyes of your mother and the castle groom, certainly, but not the King's. QED."
"Well," snarled Gretschen, smirking cattily. "That'll make for a stable monarchy when she gets the throne!" And she began giggling helplessly. Just then, the Thinkpad chimed to announce it had connected to DragonNet, and ...
