Yogi’s Last Ride
by Alexander Salas
Yogi heard the ringing. The bell lap. I’m so close to the end. He dreaded meeting Death on a bicycle.
“Me riding a bike…” Yogi despised being a circus performer. “Me… riding a bike…that’s what people find entertaining? Don’t they know who I am? Well… no more…no way…I’ll shake the Grim Reaper’s hand on a motorcycle…yeah…a motorcycle.”
Yogi still considered himself an actor. At the height of his popularity, drugs, women and loneliness stalked him like prey. Eventually, his audience evaporated. And along with his fans, Yogi’s money began disappearing. Ringling was a last resort.
Yogi tossed the bike in the dumpster.
Like any good-old cowboy, Yogi rode off into the sunset. And unlike any good-old cowboy, he rode on five-hundred horses.
Sunlight’s last glimmer reflected on the windshield. Rushing wind greeted him like a long lost friend. His once dormant genitals sprung back to life. Freedom overwhelmed Yogi. This is better than a picnic basket.