They called him the tackling dummy. He was a Jesus fearing man, deliberate in his tone and soft with his voice. He could whip a pineapple and dance a jig like no one’s business.
But when it came to obsolete violin lessons, he was no match for the blue cow. That fucking cow was the master at tossing piles of used spittoon particles into cylindrical openings in walls meant for, well, you know what goes on the bathroom stalls at gay bars and gas stations.
What the blue cow didn’t have though was overgrowth. Overgrowth of the baby makers. The tackling dummy did, but he rarely used their powers, mostly out of fear being labeled a “freak,” implying that tackling dummy was a huge compliment. It wasn’t, and when the hired hands returned home every day, they led him to the basement of a house that had no basement and “punished” him with their ever increasing implements. Blood was the norm, as was screeching and belching. You can imagine.
This was the life of the tackling dummy. He lived it every day with a smile on his face. Happiness only comes to those who are ignorant of better possibilities.