I wasn’t quite sure why they were hunting him down. He only looked to be about twenty pounds overweight, and he ran pretty well for a fat man. Still, they had jobs to do, I suppose. After about sixty yards or so, the guy was sucking air. You could see the fight go out of him. Still, they approached him cautiously. The four-man team boxed him in neatly, electric cattle prods extended. You could see they were real pros. They only had to zap him two or three times while they herded him toward the truck.
“Good luck, buddy,” I shouted as they drove away. I gave him the thumbs-up sign. He didn’t return it. He looked dejected.
I really hoped the guy made it. There was nothing to worry about. I was sure the Feds would give him every opportunity to lose the weight before they did anything drastic.
Copyright © 2004 by Charles Richard Laing