The fall to the canyon floor always gave him pause. He’d been chasing that damn bird for so long he had forgotten why. He suspected it started out of a need to eat something, and morphed into a pride thing. He’d since take up a night shift a bakery to have money for Ichiban noodles, and Sriracha. Years this was going on. When they met for their weekly poker games at Foghorn Leghorns he never thought to ask if they were even friends. The bird had even loaned him money when Wile E. was out, but was positive he had the holy grail of hands. Multiple times. They’d even gone to the water park up in Albuquerque, picked up chicks, and even shared one from time to time. But, when that semi-truck came out of what he was sure was a painting of a tunnel, and ran him over, while the bird meep-meeped he found himself questioning whether the Road Runner (you know, he never did get his real name) was in this for sadistic reasons, or because he, too, was just filling time until the weekend. Ralph and Sam, over in the mountains would punch a clock before they fought over sheep until the work whistle blew, and then they would be friends again. Hell, Ralph was Godfather to Sam’s two little girls. Looking up at the failed catapult, he caught a glimpse of the frayed rope that the bird must of tampered with- Jesus he was fast. The shadow of the giant boulder completely blocked him from the sun, now. He reached a finger to touch it knowing it would soon hit him against the earth so hard that he would sink three feet. Why does he not die? He always wondered that. Was he in purgatory? Was he reliving the same day over and over again? He couldn't tell if he had done all this before. Yet, tonight he would hobble home on his crutch and surf the net; put the next contraption into the Acme shopping cart and it would be on the front stoop when he awoke. And so it goes. And so it goes. Forever tied to that damn bird.