He had grown up with tales of Dick Turpin and knew that one day he’d be a highwayman. He scrimped and saved his pocket money, did odd jobs for the neighbours, and finally had put enough aside for a horse and two flintlock pistols. Admiring himself in the mirror, he knew he cut a fine figure, dressed in black leather.
That night, he rode out to a quiet intersection a few miles from town.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“Stand and deliver!” he roared, raising his pistols.
The eighteen wheeler didn’t even see him until it was too late.