You can go to Thailand. They will find you. You can try to swim away. They will take to the water like the land seals they are.
You can run to the very end of the Earth, never pausing for a breath or a snack.
And they will be there.
Some have called me a “tyrant,” a “madman,” a “weirdly intense amateur dog breeder.” I may be all of those things and worse, but I’m also a sporting man, which is why I’m giving you a ten-minute head start.
This, however, is merely a sadistic courtesy.
Because—let’s be real—you will never escape my ravenous pack of straw-haired hounds.