Paths of the Damned

As promised, my moustache stopped by for a visit tonight.  He was weary from travel and thirsty as hell.  I poured him a double bourbon to cut the dust and we set straight to catching up.  He told me of the paths he's trod and the towns he's seen.  Seems like there was a lady or two along the way and a couple of hard knocks, too.  I could hardly blame him for nodding off for an hour, just long enough for me to whip up some biscuits and gravy--his favorite.  Well, we ate and talked and even chomped on a cigar for the better part of the night, and then, all of a sudden, it was time for him to go.  My moustache never lingers long in one place.  I asked if maybe he'd like to spend a couple days, get to know the McBonerito, but he just handed me his flask to fill and shook his head.  'Not my style,' he said, and, with a tip of the hat and a wink, he was gone.

Friends, as you travel the highways and byways, remember me to my moustache.  He'll be the lonesome drifter you see, collar turned against the rain, wandering the endless roads to nowhere.

nwb