Like a lone gladiator, he plods on determinedly, his brow furrowed with the effort of concentration, glistening sweat seeping out of every pore, his mind urging his body forward.
He is transformed, as one might expect of a banshee on the day of the dead, into a mental incarnation of fortified armor. He is a tank of a fellow, ready and willing to go bare-head against metal; to jostle for his position in the game of “traffic chicken” as played by the cars of the metropolis most of which bare battle scars of dents and yellow scratches.
Puny flesh pitted against vehicles of steel and the elements.
An existence where brains count only in their absence; where brawn rules whether it be by virtue of spiritual fortification, medicinal inebriation or recreational intoxication.
He is a vehicle and will have his right of way!
