The Bad Guy Rides Into Town
This is the story of a very small man.
He was a bad man. Guy, in fact,
Whether he was bad because he was small or he was simply a short guy who happened to also be bad, that's irrelevant.
What matters here is that he rode into town, all five feet, five inches of him. He argued often, that five foot five wasn't all that short, and that he knew plenty of people shorter than that. But that sort of thing never holds water with people taller than the person doing the claiming. You put up with the shrimpy little buggers because, well, they're short, and what else are you going to do? Are you going to point out that you don't actually know all that many people shorter than that, and those that you know who are you think are incredibly, crazily short? And risk having an irate, offended short guy on your hands? No. Probably not.
He rode into town on a Harley. Which might not be what you'd picture when someone said "Harley" to you, out of the blue. Me? I'd picture a big honking motorcycle with a guy wearing a black leather bandana on his head and sunglasses and a couple days stubble. The guy would probably be big, as well, so I'd have to adjust that initial mental picture to fit in this little bad guy in place of a big burly kind of guy.
But with this particular case, if you were like me, you'd have to adjust your mental picture even more, if you can believe it. Fiddle with the old mental tuner a bit. So picture this: a little guy, mean-lookin' scowl on his face, a little bit of stubble, but not too much, which might, come to think of it, be a reason why he's so mean-lookin'. The little guy is looking around as he rides into town, and if you look closely you would swear he was making vroom vroom noises. But you don't want to look too closely, because he keeps swiveling his head around like some midget mobile security camera, and you're afraid if he catches your eye he's just desperate to start some trouble, on the slightest pretense. And, get this, he's riding a hobby horse. With the word "HARLEY" scrawled in black erasable marker on either side of the hobby horse (this you confirmed later with someone on the opposite side of the street). It's a new-ish looking pale green hobby horse with dark green polka dots and straw-colored mop hair draped down one side of the horse.
So that's what rode into town that fateful Saturday evening, a night meant for fever, but that night destined for trouble.
To be continued.... ?
Summary
disclaimer:
Well, we're back from our eventful trip to see the infamous Clare girls in bikinis. We saw sun, clouds, hail, and lots of cows. And a really, shockingly loud donkey.
And now we're back, safe and sound, back to you. Dear, sweet, luscious Reader. Constant Reader. Well, as Constant as you get on the web, at any rate.
And that's no mean feat, let me tell you, getting back in one piece. American Airlines alone nearly killed us, and not in the fun way Clare girls in bikinis tried to kill us (for the Clare girls picture something like Abbott & Costello Go to Mars (but end up on Venus, really)). So with all that we made it back, safely with our shiny piece of tinfoil and everything. And a few new albums from some nice younger folk who were only trying to make us hipper than we really are. Bless.
And now, with that, we're off straight into what could be a lovely little saga. Or it could end here. Who knows? Not us. Enjoy the week.
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