Sir Darren killed the dragon like that, lickety-split.

“Hooray for Sir Darren!” all the townspeople shouted, from behind the hill.

“Ha ha, verrily,” laughed Sir Darren, wiping the steaming acid dragon’s blood off of his shiny sword. “All in a day’s work.”

“Sir Darren, I think I love you,” cooed three of the most nubile of the town women.

“Sorry, ladies,” said Sir Darren. “No time for love today. Forsooth, a fell dragon besmirches the fair valley of the Rhone, and I must do fearsome battle, or no noble knight be.”

“Swoon!” swooned the nubile ladies.

Sir Darren replaced his sword in his holster and threw his surcoat over his shoulder so it wouldn’t blow in his face. “Avaunt!” he cried, and flew up into the sky with a great wooshing noise.

“He’s a great knight,” said Miniscule Moe, the blind and near-crippled town ragamuffin with a heart of gold.

“He’s a SUPER knight,” retorted his best friend in the world, Hagridden Hob, quack and theatrical type.