Story

If it happened to be at the Chancellor Dick’s ______  in Wyoma, Utah, that’s where he’d be. Towering over 7 feet tall in the maroon carpeting, dangling tide mendallions on the middle of the day, beer brimming, you could almost here his sound in words, a steady stumble of reel to reel as the men came in and out of theater, the threat of porn washing off their backs and this was only day 2 of the American foot race and already he could feel the stereotypes whistling away to the wind, the winner this year would be amputated, driven by revenge, and ultimately fraile, walking into last place with a smile on his back, knowing that the world’s problems would be solved by place and time and not the actions of men somewhere off in the woods screaming. Simplicity was not brutality anymore, it was a means of churning intelligence to the collective will of the small and simple, and his foot prints left simple statement of elegance in the wake of something so complicated, it could only be understood in simple black or white and maybe a dash of yella.

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