there, his posture relaxed, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. He
looked entirely out of place, a relic of a bygone era facing down a
modern gladiator.
"Three minutes, old man," Jake taunted, rolling his neck until the
joints popped. "If you make it to sixty seconds, I'll be impressed."
"Before we begin," Arthur said, his voice carrying surprisingly
well in the quiet lot. "I need to make an adjustment."
Jake stopped bouncing, a mocking grin on his face. "What, need
to stretch your back? Go ahead, take your time."
Arthur didn't reply. Instead, he slowly bent down. The crowd
watched in bewilderment as the old farmer began to untie his
heavy, mud-caked boots. He worked meticulously, his gnarled
fingers working the thick leather laces with slow precision.
"What are you doing?" Jake demanded, his mocking tone
replaced by genuine confusion. "Surrendering? Taking your shoes
off to run faster?"
Arthur finished the left boot, pulled it off, and set it neatly on the
ground. He then began on the right. When he was finished, he stood
up. He was now standing in the dirt in just a pair of thick, gray wool
socks.
The crowd was utterly silent. Jake scoffed. "You've lost your
mind, old man."
Arthur looked up. The mild, weary expression that usually
graced his face was gone. His posture straightened, dropping the
hunch from his shoulders. His gray eyes hardened into chips of flint.
The transformation was subtle but profound. He no longer looked