A Tequila Filled Night With The Kilted Dragon

Let me start by saying: I don’t remember everything. But what I do remember smells faintly of leather, smoke… and lime wedges.

It started innocently enough—shots of tequila lined up like tiny glass soldiers, the Kilted Dragon perched on a barstool like a Highland goddess of mischief, sipping hers with a smirk that could crack granite. One shot became five. She claimed tequila brings out her “playful side.” I would later discover this is Dragon-code for “prepare thyself, mortal.”

By 10pm, I was in a kilt (not mine), being dragged across a karaoke stage to perform “Like a Virgin” with a flogger as my mic. She heckled me from the crowd—lovingly, with venom. People cheered. One man wept. Someone ordered nachos. I was told I danced like a confused baby deer. She said that was “endearing.”

By midnight, we were on the rooftop, toasting the moon, arguing whether dragons would prefer Patron or mezcal. She insisted real dragons don't sip—they shoot.

At 2am, I awoke to find a temporary tattoo of a bagpipe on my thigh and the Kilted Dragon spooning me—fully clothed but snoring like a warrior queen. I’d never felt so safe. Or mildly terrified.

So what did I learn? Tequila is a truth serum. Dragons in kilts are real. And if you ever get the chance to spend an evening with the Kilted Dragon, take it. Just bring your sense of humour, a bottle of something strong, and a safe word in Gaelic.

You’ll thank me later. Probably from a hot bath.