Well, he'd taken care of that problem. All right, so there were still those wretched dwarves on his back doorstep, but a few strafing runs would settle them. Later, of course. He knew better than to fly on a full belly. Cold air descending, heat rising, a few bloody air pockets and there you were: a perfect invitation for stomach-cramp.

The dragon, his hide glittering and gold encrusted, his belly soft and bulging, leaned back against a particularly prized throne (whose kingly owner had proven quite the proper dinner) and picked at a back molar with a black scimitar of a claw.

Grotty little creature, indeed. Who'd have thought anything would have fur on its head and its feet? Imagine. Well, that's what he deserved for scarfing down something that he couldn't see—not to mention something he'd never smelled before.

And blast it all if the fur wasn't still stuck in his teeth. The dragon grumbled as he picked. Disgusting.

Speaking of disgusting, he could still hear those dwarves whinging and carrying on outside. Something about dildos and buggers, the last of which he'd tried long ago with Old Ancalagon and the first of which he'd once heard a maiden sighing about—just before he'd burned down her hut and eaten her. He'd not visited that village again—he'd had this odd buzzing sensation in his gut for several days.

And speaking of sensations in his gut…

Oh, fine. Slowly but surely, he seemed to be acquiring a fine attack of gas. In the open air, not a problem. But in a cave of this size, if he happened to sneeze…

Well, there were some disadvantages to breathing fire, that was true.

Blast it anyway. Smothering a burp, he started working away at a particularly recalcitrant bit of fur stuck between his incisors. Worse than rabbit fur; it was sticking to everything. Grotty little hairy little creature. It had given him a headache because it wouldn't shut up, and now it was giving him a belly ache.

He rolled over. Perhaps if he lay on his belly—just so—and tried to nap a bit…

Minutes ticked by. It didn't help. Instead a burning sensation began, right in the middle of his belly, as if he'd blown a bit of a fire on a rock to warm his toes and had inadvertently inhaled the backdraft.

That had happened once before, and it had stung for days.

Perhaps he needed a few of those whingy dwarves to settle the meal.

Double blast. Grotty little furry little invisible wretched creature. First the fur and then gas and now he was developing acid indigestion.

The dragon flopped over, gave a sigh which singed the far cavern wall, and decided he'd best visit the privy.

If only the blasted bloody privy wasn't so far from the blasted bloody cave mouth.

Another burp. Another rumble from his outraged intestines. And yes, this evening he was giving "silent but deadly" an entirely new meaning.

Grotty little furry little gabby little invisible wretched creature.

With a lurch to his feet that sent jewels winking and gold tinkling—and one favourite mug carapaced with cabouchons; blast it, one would think after a gazillion years he'd remember to watch where he flung his tail!—he lumbered to his front entrance, spread his wings and dropped into the chasm beyond.

The air was sluggish against his hide; it took a few more beats of his massive wings to achieve a respectful distance. His stomach gave an angry growl and he growled back, fixing his eye upon the massive volcano that was just that much too far considering how he felt. But it wasn't as if he was one of those stupid, pale and puny two-leggeds, taking a leak when- and wherever they felt like it, with no regard to environmental consequences. They'd trash the entire world, given their druthers; it was a good thing he was about to trim their numbers. Unfortunately, they bred like bloody rabbits.

Speaking of rabbitlike creatures… He gave another massive burp, this one accompanied by a small tongue of flame that, had he not given a masterly last minute swerve, would have singed his muscle.

Blast that rotty little furry little gabby little invisible rabbit of a wretched creature! Those dwarves on his back doorstep were going to pay for this one—they'd brought it, after all.

He made it over the steaming vent of the primary peak—barely—and swooped into the volcanic fume just in time.

Afterward, he clung to the rock woozily—"worshipping the lava goddess", Ancalagon had once said after they'd razed one too many towns on an adolescent bender—and contemplated the lava beneath him. He already felt much better, getting rid of that nasty morsel. Bye-bye, furry-grotty-gabby-invisible-thieving-rabbit-thing. Serve you right.

Suddenly, something popped from the roiling, molten rock. Winked at him. Glimmered in the siren-song no dragon ever whelped could resist:

Oooo, it said, shiny.

He shoved sideways from his supportive rock, planted his forefeet on the edge and leaned down for a closer look. The whatever-it-was once more winked seductively at him, rolled atop the lava with a gold that rivalled even the fiery mass about it.

Gold and shiny was even better. And this bit was particularly interesting; he angled his great head, focused one eye upon the pretty thing floating upon the lava. And more shiny!—it was a ring, and there was writing glowing upon the flat surface, one rivalling the inferno about it.

Well, he certainly wasn't one of those prissy sorts of dragons that would let go of something fancy just because it had fallen into the loo. He spread his wings, dropped from the rock ledge and hung there for moments, gathering air beneath his pinions, then skilfully lowered himself further into the canyon. His eyes glittered with the lovely, lovely heat, with the reflections of that shiny, shiny ring that he had only to reach out and snag with one claw.

But just as he did, the ring gave a wobble and started to melt, gold runnelling into the orange lava. As it did so, it turned into a silvery mass that looked altogether like tin.

The dragon gave a disgusted snort. He should have known, when the thing floated, that it was nothing more than some cheap trinket. Probably manufactured by those weird chaps who painted themselves blue and rode in baskets atop those tasty grey beasts with the rather long noses.

Well, what would a smelly little grotty little furry little invisible wretched creature have on it but some cheap piece of tin, anyway? Who knows what else the wretched thing had in its pockets?

Bah. That settled it. No more invisible snacks.

About him the earth gave a huge heave and shake. He sighed heavily. Didn't this just figure? Another bloody earthquake. Well, that was the perfect time to make an exit. Earthquakes were annoying.

Smaug yawed right, then left, then with a huge beat of his glistening wings lifted up from the canyon and headed for home.

And on the snake-like edge of Mordor, atop the forbidding, ebon crag of Barad-dur, there was no more to be heard save a pop, a hiss, and an invocation, cut off mid-voice: