Twisted tales.
to be me, you know,” he'd confide to the pigeons cooing expectantly at his feet. “A regular Mercury. A gazelle. A… a wind-up toy wound a little bit too tight, maybe, but a champion nonetheless!”
He was a celebrated sprinter. Ribbons and medals (entirely gold, of course) adorned the walls of his mental trophy room. He'd relive races with breathtaking detail, describing opponents vanquished with the flourish of a seasoned storyteller. “Young buck from Poughkeepsie, thought he had a chance! Pah! Left him eating my dust. More like eating air, I tell ya!”
One blustery morning, a particularly ambitious young woman, headphones blasting, sprinted past, her face a mask of determined exertion. Andy watched, a flicker of something akin to… regret?… crossing his features.
“She's got the fire,” he muttered, grinding out his cigar. Then, a mischievous glint returned. He leaned forward, cupping his hands to his mouth.
“Dig deep, kid! Dig deep! Remember, it's all in the hips! And for heaven's sake, breathe! Breathe like you're trying to inflate a hot air balloon!”
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