(St.) George Is Cross


George is Cross

I really fucking hate dragons. I hate everything about them. Their slitty eyes, always shiftily darting about, eyeing our women and our treasures. Their revolting skin, sallow and leathery, all cracked and broken, it looks diseased it does. I hate their customs and the way they do things. Like, where we move about by horse-back, noble like, they fly for fuck sake. I wouldn’t mind so much, if they didn’t come over here and start making out like we’re inferior some how just because we can’t fly. Or how about how they can’t even speak our fucking language, and yet we’re supposed to tolerate them? How are we supposed to do that when we can’t be sure they’re not insulting us every other sentence that comes out of their drooling fanged snouts? It makes me sick it does. Bleeding heart liberals, making excuses for these animals. That’s what they are you know. Animals. No better than dogs. In fact, they’re worse than dogs. At least a dog knows who its master is. Try telling a dragon to heel. I’ll tell you what, you’d better like barbecue pork, because that’s what you’ll be. Still raw on the inside too I’ll bet, fucking weird ways of cooking those dragons have got.

You know don’t you, that dragons actually believe in a dragon god? How fucking ridiculous is that? It makes me laugh it does. A fucking dragon in charge! That’s what they want. To worm their way in. To usurp us from the inside, to gut our proud nation like a pig. Send us squealing or else be toasted. I’ve had enough. I say it’s time to make a stand against the dragons before they destroy our nation and turn us all into pork chops or worse. Those calloused, spineless, no good, stinking mother fuckers need to be taught a lesson.

The blood of the dragon jutted forth like a small frothy strawberry mousse fountain from the incision George had masterfully created with his sword between two of the bulky leathery scales protecting its long, serpentine neck. Its slitty eyes were pained and shocked at the turn of events, small puffs of smoke puttered from its nostrils on each exhalation, the next becoming more laboured than the last. The great beast’s wings, each the size of a family sized car, lay useless and flaccid spread across the floor by its side.

It had been a fierce battle, and more than once had George felt the searing heat of a molten jet of fire hammer into his upturned shield, blistering his armour and cauterising his skin, just barely managing to withstand the blast. But he held firm under the pressure, and finally, as the dragon made yet another pass, hurtling a wad of fire at the brave knight, he waited until the last second before launching upwards with his sword, finding a groove between two plates and, with a bellow befitting such a heroic action, drew the blade across the tender flesh therein, opening the dragon’s throat, sending thick spurts of deep dark blood out like a monochromatic rainbow across the sky. The dragon roared and gurgled, some nonsensical babble no doubt, and came crashing down. Its powerful wings beating until the last, attempting to drag its body up from the ground so it looked more like a spastic fly than a graceful sleek flying beast, kicking a whirlwind of dust up in the process, obscuring the demon from view. When the dust finally settled the dragon lay huffing and wheezing on the floor, its monstrous heart pumping the last of its blood out of the wound in its neck. Our George had done the nation a great deed. A legendary act that would be told for countless generations, and in passing, it would not be his extreme xenophobia or indeed, his inconsolable racism, that was ear marked as note worthy, but rather, his unimaginable bravery as he stood against the tide of darkness that threatened to drown out the very Sun from the sky, that threatened to cast our nation upon a cruel fire, stoked by the corpses of our fathers and mothers, only to be extinguished by the blood of our brothers and sisters.

Our hero was not done however, thought this part of the tale be loathed to be told. This fell beast had caused George a great upset and his revenge had not nearly been exacted. For in the deepest recesses of George’s memory, well blanketed by obsidian walls and iron locks, separated from its excitation by Freudian unconscious mechanisms, there lurked a terrible memory, one so ghastly that he dared not ever cast light on it again, instead finding an outlet for it in… less well known or perhaps, tolerable, practices than slaying and championing causes.

The memory involved George as a young boy, perhaps no older than five winters spent in his family’s castle, certainly, he was without a single dark hair on his body. He had caught wind that his mother, the beautiful and illustrious woman of whom he had not seen nor heard for nigh on six months – her having been called away to some distant part of the land in an effort to appease a lord who grew displeased with her husband, George’s father, and his manner of leadership of the council upon which they both sat – was returned home and was in fact this very moment in her bedchamber, no doubt unpacking after her long journey. George had forsaken supper, a delicious barbecue out in the lucid summer’s eve, and instead sought to surprise his mother still in her room with a visit and a hug and a kiss. What better welcome than her only son smothering her with affection? He slung open the great oak door to his mother’s room, blissfully unaware that the deep panting sounds he heard were actually emanating from within, and, spying a lump beneath his mother’s bed sheets, proceeded to leap onto the bed, assuming it to be his mother, weary from her travels and resting of course. He planted his lips on what could only be his mother. Acute shock at her tough skin repelled him backwards, his mind horrified at the sickness that his mother must have caught when away. She had put on weight too, perhaps a symptom of whatever illness she was burdened with. His mother turned to look at him. Her eyes, two thin yellow slits. Her nose, elongated like a crocodile’s and puffing rings of smoke. Her wings, majestic, even as they were folded against her back. She turned fully. Her barrel chest armoured by two sheets of leather. Her penis, sizeable and rock like, prolific veins running the length of it, and capped by a fist sized helmet. Behind, a pink puppet lay sprawled and limp as if the hand operating it had finished its performance for the night. George withdrew from the room at a speed even greater than he had entered with. His mother was still on holiday, or at a business trip. He entered the wrong room. He never even left the barbecue. The penis was a hot dog, the object he thought was his puppet-mother was really a succulent pork chop roasting on an open fire. The smoke rings rising from the flames licking at its juicy flesh were floating off into the beautiful red soaked summer evening sky, and not rolling over the swollen labia of his mother, spread eagled and huffing and puffing in some garbled language, occasionally managing a coherent exclamation that sounded suspiciously like more, I want more, between base guttural noises of ecstasy.

George sidled up besides the resting body of the dragon, glancing nervously around as he did so. He prodded it with his foot, yeah, it was definitely dead. Now for the fun part. His armoured pants slid down, his armoured vest discarded, the dragon’s thick muscular tail lifted so as to expose its most intimate parts, his flagpole proudly erected. In the name of all that is holy and right in the world, George set to work on the dead lizard with his flesh sword, ultimately climaxing and spraying a white sheet of mucus like sauce over its now still back, before cutting his call-sign into it with his actual sword, two perpendicular deep set thick red lines crossing over in the middle. Another notch for the proverbial bedpost.



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