#the sipper

he has kind of really small hands

Who, me? Well, where is here? Let's see... I reckon I'm much older than you are, kid. Yawp, reckon I'm much older than many of the stars up on that there flag. It's been a long, miserable life but heck, I ain't complainin'. But I'll tell you sumthin: you give your life to a lonely passion, you're gonna slip far away into it. I started soup racin' the local yokels back in aught-six. A prodigy, they'd say. He's got the gift, others murmured. Wasn't nothin' to it, I was thinkin'. I just sipped. Little tiny sips, zippin back and forth like a lizard on a hot rock, while the other stone-tongues tried eatin' the heat, taking huge gulps and praying for the best. I'd be lyin' if I told you I didn't win each and every single race for two years. But like I said, it gets to bein' a lonely climb to the top. Suddenly you're goin' town to town, searchin' new diners to stake your claim over, keepin' the young soupers in they's places, travelin', ramblin'. You start seein' the same faces, keep comin' back to the same diners and watch them morph over the years. Remodels, relocations, beautification projects, disaster. Everything grows, everything changes. Except the man in the mirror. The man with the fastest sip in the west. And he's not lookin' too good, and he doesn't feel no different. Aw heck though, who's got time for thinkin' like that? Can't dwell on the matter. There's another diner to get on to. Another slick young punk who thinks he can guzzle soup faster than I can. That's just my life. I'm the Sipper. Anyway, short answer is, no kid, I don't work here.