by Jackson Powerfight
Pure Johnson was the meanest son of a shit to ever set foot in Tamford’s Roadhouse. “Hey Pure!” the people said one day. “Why do you only ever set just the one foot in here? Why don’t you come all the way inside?”
“Because I hate you all so much!” Pure responded from out on the porch.
“Well then why don’t you leave altogether?” the people said, and Pure thrust his great booted foot a tiny bit further into the room. Nobody told Pure Johnson what to do.
Pure brooded for awhile, when he finally spoke it was with a deliberate pace and carefully chosen words. “Hey,” he said, “could somebody get me a beer or something? I’m powerful thirsty.”
“Sure, Pure, We’ll get you a beer. You just wait while we go get it.” Said the people. Then they just sate there and didn’t do anything.
Hours later, with not a peep from Pure, someone looked over and say his boot still poking through the door. “Hey Pure!” they shouted, “You ok out there?” No answer. The people got up to investigate, walking silently on tip-toe and peeking with stealth around the door. What they saw nearly made them shit their pants. “Why there’s nothing out here but an old boot!”
It was true. A single boot, battered and gray with the dust of the road stood empty at the threshold. The boot was picked up and passed around. “Well don’t that just beat all? There was never no such thing as Pure Johnson. He was just an old boot the whole time.” And as everybody stopped to think about this Tamford’s Roadhouse went quiet for a good long time.
Meanwhile, miles away, a lone man ran through windswept fields of corn. He laughed as he ran and leapt with wild abandon. From time to time the man would backflip like a karate master; his body spinning end over end; his legs swinging high over the tops of the corn. For a moment, for just the space of a breath, his feet hung silhouetted against a humid moon. The laughing man wore only one boot.