(Or maybe it’s his toe?)
Hey, that dragon he slew with his magical spear, Askalon, was nothing compared to this, St. George thought. Really, he wasn’t a saint yet, but there wasn’t much else to distinguish him from all those other Georges out there. He was pretty sure there were a few other Georges of the Toothache, you know? Still, even though he’d killed that dragon, suffered through its bilious fire, its rending claws, and snatching teeth, he’d not yet had a sit down with some pope or other, which he thought was probably a requirement, if he remembered right. Still, there was something to be said for disambig–
OWOOWOWOWOWOWOowow! It was funny how the pain came in waves, a rolling tide of hurt. The last thing he wanted was to eat something, but he was so hungry. He was just so tired of the left side of his face hurting. You know what sounded great, and also terrible? Two pieces of bread with a whole lot of meat in the middle. Just the thought of it made his mouth water and daggers of pain (he knew what those felt like, for real) shoot through his head. Oh yeah, and just so you know, every time he groaned, dandelions sprouted up around him. You’d think saints wouldn’t have to deal with things like toothaches, and maybe St. John the Divine was beyond that or even St. Phocas, but here he was, feeling like his head was being ground down between two giant molars.
Anyway, St. George had a toothache, and where the HECK was St. Apollonia when you needed her!?!