"Real men ride dragons."

“Okay, lemme get this straight.”

“Yeah, go ahead.  Ask away.”

“We’re talking about dragons, right?  The same dragons?  Not, like, goats?  Or a horse that you’ve just decided to name “Dragon”?”

“No, I’m talking about dragons!  You had it right.”

“The big scaly things.  Lots of spikes, mouth full of teeth the size of my forearm, spits out fire, have a propensity for roasting knights and would-be slayers alive in their armor?  Sometimes carry off whole cattle to devour in their lairs?”

“Yeah, man, dragons.”

“And you want to ride one of those.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Are you insane?”

“No!  Come on, just think of how awesome that would be!  Soaring up through the clouds, flying, on the back of a massive dragon!”

“Until that massive dragon gets hungry and decides that you’ll make a nice snack!  Or it gets tired of you wanting to steer it or control it and it decides to drop you – a thousand feet in the air!”

“See, that’s the difference between us.  I’m an optimist.  I think things will work.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a realist!  And I say that you’re throwing your life away.”

“Oh, wait.  I see what your problem is.”

“What?”

“You’re chicken.

“What??  I’m not chicken!  Not wanting to die doesn’t make me a chicken!”

“You’re just too scared to ride a dragon.  A real man would man up and do it!”

“No, a real man would wait until the thing’s asleep, sneak up on it, and stick a sword through its throat!  That’s what real men do!”

“Nah, didn’t you hear?  Lady Jacobene killed a dragon last week.  In single combat, no less.  We gotta do something more extreme, something more manly.”

“Dude, I give up.  You’re insane.”

“Just you wait.  When I’m riding a dragon, I’ll be sure to dive-bomb your cottage first.  Real men ride dragons.”

“Idiot.”

“Fraidy-cat.”

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