I didn’t get far. The road shook itself and turned into a dirt track, twisting and bilious. I bounced past dead fences and forests of weeds, not knowing where or who I was. It was impossible not to stop at the ramshackle farmhouse to ask directions.

The family greeted me like an unwelcome guest, showing disdain and a complete lack of deportment. Were these creatures the lost redneck tribe? I was quickly adopted as their pet, pushing the absurd narrative ahead like a recalcitrant sheep. I stayed with them for two paragraphs.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, their cousin dropped in to go pig shooting. I was concerned that I might be the quarry but that would have ended the story then and there, so I relaxed. Then I discovered that I was to be the quarry. That meant that there was only a paragraph to go.

I fled screaming into the painful night, with his mongrel dog baying for my blood. I really had a tale to tell but no one was listening. All I could do was to head for the hills and hope for the best. The best was yet to come.