She rounded that last hill in the marathon of her life. Her fanny pack bounced in rhythm with her sagging breasts. Her curly white hair poked out in all directions, gasping for a breath of fresh air from under that sweat stained cap. Her paper number was pinned haphazardly to a race shirt, as if it, like her, were hanging on to the last thread for dear life.
There it was: mile marker 24 of the 26 mile marathon. It was all downhill from here to the gates of the finish line. She looked up at that sign, just like the 23 before it: pumping her wrinkled fist and singing off key:
"Aaand another one down and another one gone. Another one bites the dust..."
She celebrated each marker as another milestone passed. Death was her bitch. And this was her victory lap.
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