They were in the palm of his hand, hanging on his every word. Drummond roared at the assembled crowd and they quivered in fear. He coaxed and beguiled and they melted. Stood atop the stage, his wild grey hair blowing in the wind; the immortal touch of greatness upon his battered and worn forehead.
He bellowed and the crowd shook; the frayed cuffs of his trench coat dancing with his erratic movement. Dirty fingers stabbing the air on each word.
Sadly, the stray dogs couldn’t understand what he was saying and eventually trailed away in search of food.
From the Compendium of One Hundred Word Stories
Ha the ending sounded like Douglas Adams.
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