Chapter 1

Interesting. Is she my mouse or am I her crazy man?

The foot path, once in, was single file ... and single foot prints ... step ... grass ... step ... grass.

It is said that indigenous warriors regulate their pace to prevent others from knowing their numbers. Each warrior steps in the print of the one gone before.

Here was proof.

What was difficult to understand was the tiny trail between the steps.

I pondered.

“Get out of the way.”

“What?”

“Step off the path.”

The path below my feet started to rumble and shudder.

“NOW!”

I stepped aside.

A whole train of painted warriors ran by, each warrior stepped in the footprint of the warrior before.

“Look down.”

A warrior mouse ran between the steps. Every warrior had a mouse.

“Get in line.”

The last warrior ran by,

“Get in line.”

My feet took off. I didn’t Want to go ... but they did.

When I was used to the pace and tempo, my mouse jumped out of my pocket, ran down my leg and ran in the mouse path.

‘If he can do it ... so can I.’

Step step step step.

We ran through a stream ... over the water ... no bridge ... no splash. I almost fell. Step step step step...

It became mindless... ‘I can do that.’

I went away from myself.

I began to notice the rhythm of the buttocks before me.

‘Them’s some mighty fine cheeks,’ I thought. I thought that for an hour.

Then I realized that the loincloth was tucked into the belt ... and it didn’t tuck under and go to the fore.

‘That’s not a loincloth ... and that ... that’s a pussy!’

“Shit!”

And every runner stopped ... stepped off the path...

and took a dump.

Me too.

The fine butt warrion had some fine breasts.

Every warrior stripped a moss, wiped, covered the leavings with the moss, stepped to the path and off we went.

I had things to think about ... and I’ll get around to it when the third leg gets normal.