D’Angelo the Dragon sat in his cave, blowing air at his flaccid penis. D’Angelo is a black dragon, dark scaled and tough. He never knew his father. But that is common, you see, as dragons are solitary creatures. Once a dragon egg hatches, it is soon after left to its own devices.
Female dragons far outnumber their male counterparts. It is a male dragon’s responsibility to fly from kingdom to kingdom, cave to cave, to impregnate female dragons. 71% of all dragon attacks are committed by sexually frustrated male dragons, displacing their contemptuous lust, their stifling rage, on unsuspecting peasants. If a male dragon doesn’t fuck fuck fuck, the kingdoms, the villages, they burn burn burn.
D’Angelo’s father fucked D’Angelo’s mother years ago. Unlike most dragons, D’Angelo grew up with attachment issues, and mounting resentments over his abandonment as a child dragon. He harbored these crippling issues, isolated in his cave, rarely emerging for lonely flyovers of the kingdoms and villages, the suburbs and slums. He never attacked the people and structures below. Too broken inside, his ability to breathe fire, to scorch and desecrate, never fully developed. But his prejudices did. So often sheltered in his cave, D’Angelo’s malnourished mind filled with hate.
D’Angelo was a minority among dragons, and hated the red dragon majority. He hated white people, he hated their gluttony, their entitlement. He hated their fear of him and all black dragons, never considering the inherent menace a dragon, any dragon is to all humanity. D’Angelo had a mild tolerance for Koreans.
Like all prejudices, D’Angelo’s were predicated on ignorance, a lack of significant exposure to the outside world, to other dragons, humans, and species of all sorts. The more he hid from the world, from reality, the more racist D’Angelo became. Unaware of his own toxic role in his close-minded thinking patterns, D’Angelo’s ability to breathe fire, the source of a male dragon’s virility, withered away.
Dragons, like people, were born to move, move, move. To explore. To learn. To love. To try. But D’Angelo shut himself off from all the good in the world. Happy, virile dragons destroy lives, orphan children, eradicate infrastructure, control the human population. Any man, woman, or child that does not believe in a God, pagan or otherwise, still believes in dragons, in the cold indifference of their sudden destruction. To live under fear is to be productive, to develop oneself and to cherish every waking moment, lest the dragons come and burn burn burn their fragile lives away. D’Angelo’s impotent prejudices damage the ecosystem, the fear-based faith of humanity. You take faith and fear away and a man is no better than a dragon, is lawless, vicious, without conscience.
The world will turn in on itself, cause its own destruction, develop nuclear arsenals, engage in casual sex so empty, the soul becomes an opaque, obtrusive object, so easily discarded as the trash it may always have been. Racist, prejudiced, self-hating dragons, rotting away in their dark caves and lairs obliterate social norms and the collective good.
D’Angelo will never know his father, and must accept this, difficult as it may be. But more importantly, D’Angelo will never fulfill his potential to breed, to ruin, to unite the very people he despises unless he ventures out from his cave; not the cold place where he dwells, but the suffocating cave of his closed mind, his self hatred flipped, bent into racist zealotry. He will huff and puff, he will blow blow blow, but there shall be no fire until his mind opens. His impotent thoughts, how they have seized his fire, stifled the loins, the sexual rage needed to render humans helpless, to gather them together in a meek, huddled display of the vulnerability each man possesses when his insecurities shrink and he gives himself freely to his tribal yearnings. Belong, belong, belong together. No war, no murder, no withholding of feeling, of love, confusion, longing, when the dragons come. When the dragons soar. The dragons need to fuck, but it’s their furious search that bolsters humanity, that gives us peace when the embers of the cities and towns cool. The peace never lasts, but so long as there are dragons and their screaming lust it will return, time and time again.
D’Angelo the Dragon still sits, squats in a corner of his cave. Isolation. He stokes no human warmth through immolation. The only treasure he guards with bubbling panic is his prejudice, a stack of lies he tells himself as he puffs dry air at his non-responsive member, night after night, scales peeling off from atrophy.