When I was five year old, someone who looked like Sam Walton shot my dog.
I don't know if it were Sam Walton. I can't be absolutely certain (because my lawyer told me that maybe my memory isn't rightly what it used to be, so just pretend like it weren't Sam Walton or make it seem like you're not certain, said he)
That was a long time ago. The man who looked like Sam Walton (but probably weren't him at all because he never really identified himself nor showed me none ID) told me he needed money from the dog pelt to help build a new department store chain that would sweep the globe and show us what it meant to be proud hicks.
He shot all the dogs on the block (BANG, BANG, BANG, up and down the street, while the lawn sprinklers made a pretty sound), except the little puppies. He never shot the puppies. He skewered them with a zulu spear.
He told us it was for the good of America, so we didn't report him to the police.
