He was swimming in a sea of despair, awash with no water wings. Day after day, the same chorus. The sky is falling. The end times. No eggs. How can you have your pudding if you don’t eat your eggs? He was face to face with the wall.

The world was imploding in real time, available later on YouTube, of course. It was all that bastard’s fault, the one guy who could have fixed things but put himself above it all.

that man, of course, being Alberto Salazar.

Mister Pants’ race was killed, another victim in the global game of chicken. Which reminded him he had no eggs. He was furious because there were no refunds, even though he had gotten in for free because he was a club member. But still. Also, he had no eggs. He might have mentioned that already.

What can you do? He bought out the rest of the body glide at the store, sipped his rationed diet coke, and went to the bird park.

And then.

The world still existed just as he remembered it. A man fed popcorn to the ducks in front of the don’t feed popcorn to the ducks sign. The herons courted. A couple put down their bikes and sat on the bench, watching the world as it continued to rotate on its axis.

He ran the ed loop. The day was warm, the trail was soft, the run was glorious. The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed. suddenly he wanted pie. Life was good, even if only for the 45 minutes Uncle Hal allowed.

Ernie Pook would arrive soon. And then, things would change. Mister Pants could wait.

He bought up the rest of the Clif bars on the way home and hunkered down. It never always gets worse, the old saying goes. He was on the road to find out.

He and Uncle Hal propped their feet up and waited for Ernie. Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end. Maybe it wasn’t closing time just yet. He resumed swimming in despair, hoping it would count as cross-training. He looked forward to eggs. Mojojojo.

Damn salazar.