<center>THE REAL, GENUINE STORY OF

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON></center>

Many centuries ago, and I would never tell you this were it not true, there was, in a kingdom far away, the most mountainous of mountains. And high up on the southern side of this mountain was the caviest of caves. In the summer, it was cold and damp. In the winter, it was cold and damp. Caves are like that.

And in this cave there lived the handsomest, cleverest, playfulest, most gregarious, fiercest, helpfullest, bravest, greenest, wonderfullest little dragon in the world, along with 256 of his dear brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins and parents and all their good friends. They were quite happy in their cave in the mountain in the nameless faraway kingdom, even if it was the Dark Ages.

All night and all day, they played contentedly in the sun or snow, depending on the season, and at lunchtime they would eat the most wonderful of meals prepared in the somewhat cramped but efficient cave kitchen. They would have strawberry yoghurt, vanilla ice cream, potato chips, apples, chocolate chip cookies, raisins, cheese (mostly colby and swiss), apple cobbler, tureens full of mosquitoes (in season) and dragon-made omelets (quoted daily), which are comprised of eggs, milk, peanut butter and applesauce. Then the sleepy, stuffed little dragons would lay down to nap for, say, 100 years. As they rolled up on their little mats under the spreading stalactites, they would say, "Mama, will it still be the Dark Ages when we get up?" And their mamas would reply, "Probably." Dragons are not great on dialogue.

Down the mountain and across the river and around two bends in the unimproved road and through the Big Woods there lived a village of people. Not the best people, not the worst people, just peoplish people. There were those who came and went far too quickly, and with them went various and sundry things, from livestock and poultry, to vegetables and such. Whenever so much as a corncob was missing, who caught the blame? That's right, the dragon.

The villagers were so foolish, not only did they suspect the dragon of such wickedness, but they also failed to realize that there were 257 dragons up on the mountain. They thought there was only one, but that's medieval villagers for you.

Everybody knows dragons don't eat people, and although they do occasionally make a practice of letting stray animals move in with them, they certainly don't go into populated areas uninvited and simply take things. Besides, they had their own rather ample provender and were much too proud to be reduced to stealing without consent. Truthfully, the exception to that rubric is, when available, some of the younger dragons would purloin papergoods, which were terribly hard to obtain in those days, and then use them in the same way as one uses bubblegum. But dragons, in general, are a fairly ethical lot.

One day, when the disappearances had reached an all-time high, the townspeople got together and decided the dragon had to go. None among them was willing to do the job themselves, of course. So, failing to hire from in-house, they looked to the world at large. They made a sign that said:

Wanted: Dragonslayer.

Apply within. No experience

necessary. Will train. Liberal

benefits. Must provide own tools

and reliable transportation.

An Equal Opportunity Employer.

M/F/H/Va

and nailed it on the tavern door.

The next morning, it was gone.

So they made another sign, just like the first, except they left out the part about the liberal benefits. But in the morning, it was gone, too.

Since they were running out of paper by now, the third, smaller sign simply read, "Help Wanted". But by dawn, it, too, has disappeared.

Finally, in desperation, they just painted "HELP" on the door and had done with it.

One lovely autumn day, a pesky young man named George rode into the village. He saw the sign and inquired what it meant. The townspeople eagerly told him their problem and when they were finished, George just shrugged. "Shoot," he said, "anybody can kill a dumb old dragon. Shucks, even I can do that, and I can't do anything!"

So the villagers said, "Fine," and put him right back up on his horse and pointed it in the direction of the dragon's lair. George rode through the Big Woods, around two bends in the unimproved road, across the river and up the mountain where he found the cave.

He rang the bell, but it hadn't worked since Constantine was around, so he knocked on the door and said, "Dragon, can you come out and play?"

The 256 dragons inside perused George and his horse from the cracks in the wall, kept mum and pretended they weren't at home. But the 257th dragon just happened to be up on the roof of the cave, trying to fix a leak that dripped water on his chessboard. Except it wasn't raining today and he couldn't find the hole. But George found him, and said, "Hey, you, little dragon! My name is George. Can you come down and play?"

The little dragon thought George was pretty strange, but he said alright and came off the roof. They played tag and hopscotch and softball and touch football all day. When night came, George was very tired and chilly. So the dragon took him for a ride with his horse and breathed lots of fire so they would be warm. Then, George and his horse fell asleep. The little dragon was understandably very bored. He wanted to play all night, but neither George nor the horse would stir.

The next day, though, the three played and played all morning, but in the afternoon, when the little dragon was trying to show George how he was going to fix the hole in the roof, he slipped off the ladder and hurt his tail. Ouch!

Fortunately, it wasn't a bad hurt, so they continued to play games until night came. Once again, George and his horse rolled up in their blankets under a tree and went to sleep. The little dragon sat up all night and watched them. The longer he watched, the more bored he got, and the more bored he got, the sleepier he became.

In the morning, George was ready to play some more. But he found the little dragon laying by a forsythia bush with a note between his front paws. It read:

Dear George,

I got tired of waiting for

you to wake up. So I'm taking

a little nap. Wake me up in 100

years. Maybe it'll be the

Renaissance by then.

George got back on his horse and rode to the village, where he told the most preposterous lies! He claimed that he killed the dragon and that it had taken two whole days and that the dragon was huge and mean and they'd best not go up and look at him because he was so horribly ugly that you couldn't look straight at him.

Needless to say, the townspeople bought the entire bill of goods and were quite happy. They had a big party and ate and drank and played music and danced for three days and nights. George even married the mayor's daughter after a scandalously short courtship, but they lived happily ever after nonetheless. They even made him a saint, so he finally obtained a professional position.

Of course, things kept disappearing from the town, but not quite at such a fast rate, because they couldn't blame the dragon anymore.

And the dragons, if they haven't moved elsewhere, still live in their cozy cave in the mountains. And a good time was had by all.

<center>The end.</center)