THE WICKED DRAGON
                                 by Rick Moya

                                 (Spring 1995)




     Steve Gelina was falling.  He didn't know why.  Well, he knew why--he
had just taken a hit in lacrosse practice.  But that didn't explain why he
had been falling for so long.  It also didn't provide any insight into why
the outdoor field had suddenly faded to black.  So now he had a sore
shoulder and was falling into infinite unforgiving blackness to boot. 
Perfect way to ruin your day.
     Suddenly, a pinpoint of light hit his eye.  It gradually grew bigger
until Steve could see around him.  He looked and saw that he was falling
down towards a forest.  Directly below him, a flat blue lake was rushing up
to meet him.
     [Great.  So when I die, it'll be of drowning and not of blood loss,]
Steve thought as he hit the water.  He plunged under, got a nice close-up
view of the lake bottom, then bobbed back up to the surface.
     Steve briefly wondered why he hadn't lost all his air on impact, or
why the impact hadn't even hurt, for that matter.  He shook it off and
began to swim for shore.
     From behind him, he heard a cry of "Man ahoy!" and looked to see a
small sailboat turn towards him.  He turned around and swam towards it.
     Strong arms pulled him out of the water, and he looked up to see a
large bearded man wearing a cloak.  "What are you doing so far into the
water, man?" he bellowed in an English accent.  "You might have died out
here!"
     "That's some right funny traps you got there," a thin blond man spoke
up from the stern of the boat.  He lifted a pipe to his mouth and inhaled
deeply.  "Lookit 'im.  'E's got a dress shirt made out of what you'd use
for pajamas."
     Steve removed his University of Massachusetts cap and dropped it on
the deck.  "Where the hell is this?"
     The blond man laughed.  "You got a right feisty one there, Matthew."
     The big man flushed.  "Such language will not be permitted on my boat,
sir.  You are on Gloucester Lake.  Surely you knew that before you decided
to have a bathe in it."
     "With clothes like that, who knows what 'e thought?" the blond one
said around his pipe.  "Who ever 'eard of a purple cap with a brim only on
one side?"
     "What year is it?" Steve asked, taking off his flannel shirt and
setting it beside the hat.
     The thin man hooted.  "Listen at 'im.  'E don't even know what year it
is."
     "Hey, man . . .."  Steve started to stand.
     "William," Matthew said sternly.  "I'm sure he was only joking."
     "'E sure don't look like it."  William pointed at the look of
bewilderment on Steve's face.
     Steve nodded.  "No . . . I'm pretty serious.  Can you please tell me?"
     "I suppose.  But how can any man forget the year that is only six
years after the heathens crucified our lord Jesus Christ?"
     "No way."  Steve stood.  "You mean it's the year six AD?"
     "Right-o, guv.  You win the 'onorary brass monkey."  William restuffed
his pipe.
     Steve picked up his shirt and walked to the bow of the boat.  "That's
wicked funky," he muttered.
     "I beg your pardon?"
     Steve turned, wringing the shirt out.  "Didn't you just see me fall
out of the sky?"
     "Aye.  We did."  Matthew nodded.  Then his jaw dropped.  "Of course! 
Then that means you're the Chosen One!  I must take you to the king
immediately!"  He ran to a wheel on the deck and turned it viciously.
     Steve leaned against the railing of the bow during the ride to the
castle, smoking a cigarette and looking around trying to figure out where
he was.  England was the obvious choice.  But how he had gotten there was
the question.
     Finally, he was placed in front of a throne.  A wizened old man
sitting there eyed him suspiciously.  Steve glanced around at the court and
saw all others on the floor kneeling.  Steve had enough sense to kneel
himself.
     The king relaxed slightly.  "Who have we here, brother Matthew?"
     Matthew stood.  "He is the Chosen One.  He fell from the sky in front
of my vessel."
     "Excuse me."  Steve stood.  "It's not exactly a vessel.  More like
just a plain old boat.  And what's all this crap about the Chosen One?"
     The court gasped at his words, but the king chuckled.  "I will tell
you.  What is your name, Chosen One?"
     Steve started to say, "I'm Steve," but decided that it wouldn't cut
it, especially not during medieval times.  Instead, he said, "Stephen of
Gelinashirehamptingfort . . . worth . . . ing . . .ton."
     "Well, Stephen of . . . G.  You have been chosen to slay the dragon
that has plagued our kingdom.  In return, you can either take the hand of
my daughter, Suzanna, or you can return home."
     "Either way, I have to do it, right?"
     "That is correct."
     Steve took a challenging step toward the throne.  "And if I don't?"
     "Then you die."  The king turned to the squire next to him.  "I was
hoping we wouldn't have to go through this again," he muttered.  Then he
turned back to Steve.  "You have a choice.  Please make it a beneficial
one."
     Steve thought briefly.  "What's your daughter look like?"
     The king snapped his fingers twice.  "Suzanna.  Come forward."  A
curtain parted, and behind it stood the ugliest girl Steve had ever seen. 
He jumped back in horror.
     "All right.  I . . .  I'll think about it."  Steve shook his head,
trying to get rid of the horrid vision that had been put in front of him. 
"So how exactly am I supposed to kill this dragon?"
     The king clapped his hands, and several servants wheeled a cart out. 
Armor, chain mail, and swords were all laid out.
     "Will this be sufficient, Stephen of G?" the king asked half-smugly.
     "Wicked bad, man.  That'll work."
     Steve put on the armor and followed one of the servants into the
hills.  When they had reached the foot of the tallest one, the servant
stopped.
     "This is as far as I take you sir," he said, already inching away. 
"Good luck."  He turned and ran down the hill.
     Steve smirked.  "Wuss," he muttered.  His thoughts turned solemn again
when he remembered his task.  He sat against a tree and took his pack of
Marlboros out of his pocket.  As he lit one, he muttered, "How exactly am I
supposed to find this dragon?  That little tidbit of information would have
been nice."
     He heard a faint wheezing sound and looked up.  A large bush in front
of him shook violently, and a dragon, apparently *the* dragon, came out from
behind it, sniffing vigorously.
     [Crud,] Steve thought.  [As if my day wasn't already bad enough.  I
never expected to actually find the thing.]  He tossed the cigarette to the
side and watched the dragon's head follow it.  The dragon started after it,
and Steve made his move.  As soon as he stood, though, the dragon turned
away from the cigarette and spewed fire his direction.
     Steve dove behind a boulder as the flame flew past him.  "That thing
would make a wicked lighter," he muttered.  Then he glanced down and saw an
oddly shaped branch.  It reminded Steve of a lacrosse stick, the way it
curved at the end into a circle.  On his school team, he played middie and
had set a city record the previous year for goals scored in one game. 
Suddenly, he had an idea.
     He grabbed the stick and, using his shoelaces, made a crude net across
the circle.  When he was done, he looked at his work critically.  It wasn't
exactly a pole, but it would get the job done.
     Scooping up a rock, he dropped it into the net and ran further from
the dragon and into the woods.  He turned to see the dragon lunging toward
him, mouth open.  Steve didn't even give it a chance to strike the flint
before he launched the rock directly down the dragon's throat.
     The dragon stopped short.  Clawing at its neck, it gave a few weak
coughs.  Then it fell to the ground, breathing raggedly.
     "Hey, big guy!  What's wrong, man?"  Steve sauntered up to it and
poked it with the shaft.  "Ooh, you ain't lookin' so hot.  Maybe I can
help."  He drew his sword and slew the dragon.  Well, maybe slew wasn't
exactly the word.  He poked it with the sword and blood started pouring
out.  Startled, he jumped and ran away.  Then he watched from a distance as
the dragon choked to death.
     Back at the castle, Steve stood in front of the king.  "Stephen of G,
you have quite an unusual way of slaying the dragon," the king said.  "But
it worked, and that's all we care about.  For your valiant efforts, I
knight thee.  Kneel, Stephen of G."
     Steve kneeled apprehensively and winced slightly as the king touched
him on the shoulders with the sword.
     "And arise, Sir Stephen of G."  The king sat down and clasped his
hands.  "And now you may choose.  Marry my daughter --"  The king gestured
at the creature next to him.  "-- or return to your home."
     "Well, you know, your Highness," said Steve, adjusting his cap, "as
much as I'd like to marry your daughter, I'd much rather return home."
     The king frowned.  "Very well.  But before you go, you must survive."
     Steve blinked in confusion.  "What?  But I killed your damn dragon. 
Let me go!"
     The king pulled a MAC-10 assault rifle from under his cloak.  "Prepare
to battle, Sir Stephen."
     Steve reached for his sword, but found a banana in the sheath. 
Someone handed him the lacrosse stick and said, "Gelina, are you all
right?"
     Steve realized that he was somehow lying on the ground.  "Huh?"  He
shook his head and blinked, and the king turned into one of his teammates
on the lacrosse team.  He looked up to see the rest of his teammates
standing next to him as well.
     "Man, I'm sorry.  I must have hit you a little too hard.  Let me help
you up."  He extended his hand and Steve took it.
     Steve looked around at the lacrosse field, then shook his head in
disbelief.  "Dude, next time, I think I'm gonna wear that helmet during
scrimmages."