At this point, you’re probably considering escape—and it’s true, even a reasonably swift child could outpace me—but you will never outrun the dozen flaxen hounds you see before you.
You can run to the very end of the Earth, never pausing for a breath or a snack.
And they will be there.
Some have called me a “tyrant,” a “madman,” a “weirdly intense amateur dog breeder.” I may be all of those things and worse, but I’m also a sporting man, which is why I’m giving you a ten-minute head start.
This, however, is merely a sadistic courtesy.
Because—let’s be real—you will never escape my many straw-haired hounds.