Popper Bob kilt mor people than all the poxes togethr. A hard an’ angry man as ther ever wuz, havin pride n’ fire. An’ thick, fat fists like slegehamers. They done swung like it too.

I visitd him only once at th’ county jail. Only once in his lifetime sennance.

An’ time did no fixin of Popper Bob.

Forty yars an’ Popper Bob wuz still crazy.

“Well, Popper,” I said to him. “Are ya a new man now?”

He shiftd a bit acros’d th’ floor, keepin his feet in a patch a’ light shinin down from th’ cell winder. Minuts passed an’ he mov’d a lil mor.

“What’s he doin?”

“Chasing time.” Th’ officer said. “He follows that patch of light every day, from the time it appears on the east side of the room, treks a path across his cell, and disappears into the west wall.”

“Every day?” I echo’d. “Well Popper Bob, ar you chasin’ time or is time chasin’ you?”

My only answer wuz a string a’ curs words I’ll need a whole yar to clean from my ears.