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The last dragon king left a daughter who winged her way here over water. So, for sport, so we thought, we bought guns and we sought her. We hunted and hounded and cornered and caught her. A lumbering, cumbersome, fiery old snorter, she turned out far tougher than we had first thought her. We gave her no quarter, but faced her and fought her, lost count of the means we were forced to resort to yet, to cut a quite cruel account shorter, we blew her to bits with a bomb from a mortar. But, of course, they brought in a sort of reporter, a devious story distorter, who wrote of a glorious slaughter.
