The valiant knight-errant watched sadly from afar. In this urban forest of gray and drab, he had found no fellow chevalier. Instead, he espied his foes.
“I am Sir Gwillym, born of the Red Dragon,” he had earlier proclaimed, clad in stunning aluminum armor. His fair-skinned brethren treated him with contempt, taunting relentlessly and calling him by epithets he was ashamed to repeat. “The Black Knight!” one mocked. His heart sank: he did not wish to be the black Galahad, but simply to be Galahad.
After such heartbreak, he dared not face them again. Discarding foil armor and cardboard sword, William slunk back to his bedroom overlooking a 4th Street discotheque, concealing his glistening cheeks and red eyes.
“I am a knight!” the lad sobbed into his pillow. “Born of the Red Dragon!” And he knew his heart need be of a dragon, for what mere mortal could walk unscathed through the fiery scorn of such a society?