For seven days and 34 nights you've been running -
fear washing over your feet with each panicked step you take.
Somewhere back there, you fear, Dale Evans is stalking you...
Tracking you like a dog...
But it's really Tom Mix on your trail.
Your Buick belches a cloud of rancid, oily smoke with each
stride
you take. Your Tucker is aflame. For they are the very shoes upon
which you march. Your gargantuan pace is eclipsed only by the
infinitesimal microscopy of the sedans caressing your toes. Big
shoe,
small car, big car, small feet. You decide to forgo clean socks.
Tom Mix strides patiently all this time.
You can feel the oil in your pan vaporizing. No Q-lube in
sight.
A fan belt garrotes your neck - the skin of a goat. An emblazoned
brass buckle for your belt, a valve gasket for a necklace,
a shoe box for a hat. The roller skates of the damned.
Tom Mix stoops to examine the tire tracks left by your sneakers.
Maybe next time you shouldn't mess with his secret decoder
ring.
Which you were not able to figure out anyway. Hammertoe aside,
you might have gotten away... but not today. And there will not
be
a 'next time.'
For today, Tom Mix indeed shall have his revenge.
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