Crooked

Everyone has buttons that no one should press on purpose, and for him it’s his legs. They weren’t long or slender or particularly useful, but they can walk and run, and that’s always been good enough for him unless someone else says so.

So when a gentleman mocks him for being born that way, he decides to retaliate, until blood flows from the gentleman’s neck and into the furrows they raced in.

There’s no words to describe the sight of a gentleman being raced to death, and so he heads home with his wife, content to think that no one would ever press any of his buttons ever again.

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