So you want to be the fastest one around do ya?
Yessir, and I want to turn S’quatch’s road bike into a sour pickle.
You know what that’s gonna cost you right?
I was thinking I could maybe swap you my neighbor’s goat hoof shot glass and a pint of aguadiente for it?
No sir, that right there whatchu want is gonna cost you your soul.
The whole thing?
The whole thing.
I got a lot of soul, maybe you only can use a little part of it, and I could like, keep most of it for myself?
It don’t work like ‘dat.
Well, then can you turn Powder’s Ellsworth into a Captain and Tennile record?
It don’t matter, just pick one.
I can do that.
Then we may have ourselves a deal…
I’m off to the Mississipi Delta today so don’t be looking for a new post tomorrow. I’m off to find the crossroads and see how I can make out. I figure with all the destruction over there the Devil is doing a brisk business and I may get away with a “No Soul Down-No Soul Payment until 2006!” kind of deal.
If you were going to the crossroads, to make yourself a deal (Not that the sweet rubes of the BRC would do such a thing) what would you be looking for? Would you trade your soul outright, or are you wily enough to trick him?
For that matter what did happen to Robert Johnson out there on that dark and lonely night?
Juancho-in A minor
See you Monday, when I’m fast as lightnin’.
TRIBUTE TO MY NEW GUN
Sweet Smack in the drops
Cocaine on the hoods
It’s a fury of promise
It’s my take of the goods
Spotted a spectral image of Sasquatch streaking through the neighorhood last night. Li’l Hitops and I were at the park with our mutt. The creature was so indistinct, so quiet, and so fast that he must have just returned from the crossroads. Echo of the Sixth Sense: had the devil already collected, with the debtor the last to know? Called out a few times to the image but no response. Maybe he was in another dimension, insensate to earthly sound. If indeed it was Sasquatch, or his shade. Bareheaded, which is Sas’ MO.
Freaky. I’ll have to start walking my dog earlier in the evening.
It’s hard to hear when the wind is roaring in your ears.
HT, I suggest you travel armed. Sounds like a sweet trophy kill.
‘quatch- nice poem. Even if it’s about that stupid thing.
Blazed out a 50 miler today in the hot sun, and discovered a sad fact. A beat-down is a beat-down, whether by fat tire or skinny.
Oh, but I’ve discovered a sweet new piece of singletrack! It’s wide and it’s packed REAL tight, and it leaves from my front yard.
Juancho, I can’t wait to show you.
On a sadder note, I leaned the silver beauty against the Natural Bridge War monument this morning, and it slid clitter clatter down the marble base. That gleaming top tube looks like a squirrel mistook it for an ear of corn. Oh well. Now I can stop polishing the damn thing and just ride it Squatch style.
Honest to goodness, you people speak in code and I, for one, am left out. But, I suppose that’s the point. Anyway, have at ’em.
libbyllama, just join in with your own code, experimental fiction style. It won’t matter. We scratch our heads by habit, glean our meaning and respond in kind. Interpretation rarely matches intent under the big top.
It’s mainly a grand opportunity to avoid work.