All the other kids with the pumped-up kicks
Barry didn’t believe in shoes. He called them “foot prisons” and swore his toes were born to be free. This philosophy worked fine until he stepped on a rusty nail outside his apartment.
"Just a scratch," he shrugged, hobbling to his job at the sandwich shop. Over the next week, his foot swelled like a balloon animal crafted by someone with anger issues. The smell? Let’s just say customers stopped asking for extra pickles.
By the time Barry admitted he had a problem, the doctor greeted him with a grim chuckle. “You’ve got two choices: wear shoes from now on or… well, you won’t need them where you’re going.”
They amputated Barry’s foot, which he kept in a jar as a warning. He also started wearing shoes—on one foot. The other? “Free as nature intended,” he’d say, as it froze in the snow.
