Down the street stood a pretty lady, and Danny began stumbling towards her. He stank from not showering, was hairy from not shaving, and his clothes had holes like Swiss. He was a tramp, and he was drunk.
But deep in his noggin, there hunkered a story his father used to tell. It was something ’bout a prey-less hunter who climbed one last hill and shot the biggest damn buck he ever saw.
So he kept going until they were four inches apart. He stared that lady in the eyes. And she stared back from the poster she was printed on.