The Johnny Chronicles: Episode V- The Great Race

Johnny must overcome his most fearsome adversary yet...himself.

Johnny was, well…Johnny.

“Come on Johnny, you can do it!” came the shout of his wife, Martha.

Johnny had been engaging in a race. Not just any race. This was the race to end all races. And by race, I mean, races of people. Johnny had become a white supremacist. But he was also actually racing, and he wielded a confederate flag, which he waved proudly and high in the air as he ran.

It had been an intense race. First, he had to swim three miles. Then he had to ride his bike for 112 miles. Then he had to run an entire marathon! Johnny grunted as he ran, because it is a well known fact that people who exercise that much are manly. And grunting is manly.

The sun beat down on Johnny as he ran. The cruel sun. Droplets of sweat dotted his face, his nose hairs, and his zygomatic arch.

“You can do it Johnny! Keep going!” cried Martha from the side of the road amidst a mob of humans. They actually were the Mob. Many of them donned bowler hats and were wielding tommy guns.

Johnny just ran and ran. The goal was just a couple miles ahead. Just a little further.

Many people wondered how somebody as old and constantly drunk as Johnny would have the ability to compete in the most grueling race in the world. But somehow, he did. And somehow, he was able to eat more gruel than anybody.

“You got this Johnny!” yelled Martha, who, strangely enough, was still standing in the exact same spot she was at the beginning of this story.

Grunt. Grunt.

Just a little bit further to go.

But then, an unthinkable tragedy occurred. A tragedy no one could’ve seen coming.

In the middle of a road lay a rotting banana peel. Johnny, completely focused on the race, was absolutely oblivious to it. And it lay right in his path.

“Johnny, no!” cried Martha, who was still in the exact same spot.

His feet went out from under him, and then everything was slow motion as he hung in the air. And then it wasn’t slow motion anymore, and he fell to the ground.

A stunned silence came over the crowd. But then, a miracle happened. An absolutely inspiring miracle. One that brought hope and inspiration to millions.

One of the other athletes, having seen Johnny taken down by the banana peel, stopped in his tracks. He looked ahead at the goal, which lay just 40 yards away. He looked back at Johnny, who lay dead on the ground. Or unconscious or something. He looked ahead at the goal again. It was right there. Glory. His for the taking.

He looked back at Johnny, pondering whether to help him up.

He stood there for about five minutes, just looking back and forth. It was all right, because he and Johnny were about 20 minutes ahead of everyone else.

He looked at Johnny again. He stared into that face, that old wrinkly weathered face. It looked back up at him. “Please,” muttered Johnny weakly, who apparently wasn’t unconscious. “Help…me…”

He looked back at the goal. It was so close, he could smell it. He could also smell the victory pancakes, which awaited him just beyond the goal.

“Sorry man,” he said to Johnny, and he took off towards the goal, leaving Johnny helpless on the ground.

The crowd booed, as the man sprinted towards the finish. But this race wasn’t over yet.

Johnny, who still held the confederate flag in his hands, raised himself up off the ground. Everything was fuzzy. He grunted. Then he saw him. Running. The man who had broken the “Inspiring Running Scene With The Obligatory Helping Up Of The Fallen Opponent” rule. How dare he, thought Johnny. How dare he.

With the flag in his hand, Johnny took aim, careful aim, and launched the flag high into the air. The colors of the Confederacy sailed proudly through the air towards the finish line, where the man was now just yards away.

The flag began to dip towards the ground. Somebody began to sing The Bonnie Blue Flag in the crowd.

Almost there. He was just feet away. Glory was in his reach. And pancakes were just a little further than that.

Johnny smirked, and nodded his head. “Sucker,” he said.

The man stuck his hands out, the goal within inches. Suddenly, a confederate flag, seemingly out of nowhere, impaled him through the heart. “Ouch,” he said, with that much emotion. And he tumbled to the ground. His hand, still outstretched, lay merely two inches from the goal. And it came to pass that he died.

The crowd erupted in cheering, hat-throwing, people losing their hats and looking around for their hats, and various things of the sort. It was epic, beyond all epic proportions.

“Go forth, Johnny,” said the race commissioner, Stan Judkins, as he motioned towards the finish line. “Claim your destiny.”

“I will!” said Johnny, and he stood up and ran to the finish.

A mob of people mobbingly mobbed him at the finish line. They picked him up and held him high in the air. He was the champion. He pumped his fists in the air. Then, amidst the crowd, he saw his wife, Martha. She was shedding tears. Tears of joy. She shook her head, but you know, that kind of head-shaking where somebody might say, “You little rascal, you.” Not the disappointed head-shaking.

“You little rascal, you,” she said. They laughed. Everyone laughed in unison.

“Hey, where are those pancakes?” asked Johnny. “I’m hungry!” And everyone laughed again, including those in the live studio audience.