So the guy must have been six foot seven. At least.
I mean, I'm no small fry, by any means. I'm not going to go professional in any of the major sports (football, hockey, baseball, basketball). Nor will I make it on the professional horse-racing circuit. But give me some powders and a personal trainer for a year and... well, I'll still not be a professional ballplayer. It was my dream, as a kid, but every passing year, as nineteen year olds get drafted and twenty nine year olds talk to reporters like wise old sages I am beginning to get the creeping sensation that I am not likely to get noticed by any major league scouts who just happen to be hanging out down at the playground, where I take my son for a game of catch, make him run routes, dropping pass after pass gently into his waiting arms like dew on roses... but what am I going on about? I'm tied up, in a chair, with a balaclava over my head, backwards (which was the intention, I believe), and a really strong smell of onions coming from somewhere to my... left. Though it's so pervasive that it could be my right, and it's the smell's bouncing off the wall that unleashes the true potency of the onion stink on its way back from the wall to my left. I'm unsure as to the physics of onion smells and how they travel to really be able to tell. I just like to think I can orient myself in a room with a blindfold on based on the sense of smell. Which I can't. Comfort from anywhere you can get it, I say.
So I suppose that was what got me thinking about an escape plan...
To be continued?
I know Freddie, in that case, is spelled with an 'ie', and not a 'y'.
Call it poetic license and be done with it.
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