I have never made a secret of my interest in model trains (although perhaps I should after this). Some friends and I were at a train show recently, and got to chatting as rail buffs do. The idea of railroad pornography came up, and as the club's resident Bohemian artist, I took a certain amount of ribbing about the subject. Herewith do I slap down my detractors, all in good fun, of course.
He was a mighty locomotive - big, black, and angry - and he waited with growing impatience as the local engines (switchers, the entire lot of them) frantically coupled and uncoupled with the endless string of cars. They were nothing: wannabees and pretenders who could never be enough for the challenge and knew it when they looked mournfully on his vast iron length. He was the Master, the Titan, the giant who ruled the right-of-way with flashing rods and throbbing pistons, and a roaring whistle that told the world "Look Out! I'm coming!" They served only to prepare his day's train - today's conquests - for the journey he alone could take them on.
Finally the weaklings scuttled to safety as he took his rightful place and rammed into the first car. There was a collective moan down his train as the air brakes released, and with a bellow of eager defiance, he heaved. They came - reluctantly at first, one at a time as he drew them on - until the entire lot were rolling along at his bidding, rocking rhythmically as he pulled them faster and faster. There was an evil glow in his headlight as he drove them ever harder. His exhaust was hot and reeking, his mighty pistons thrashing, the ground shaking as the cars rocked alarmingly. His deep bass whistle thundered out his presence as he rampaged through the virgin wilderness until at last, with a triumphant roar, he parted the tangled undergrowth and plunged headlong into the gaping entrance of the tunnel!
***** For Warren and The Other Bob