I gained speed, going faster and faster until everything was as blurry as Amy Winehouse is dead and a drug addict. When I finally slowed, my surroundings had given way to a bleak hellscape. Looking down, I realized that I was now riding a broken and sagging mare, and that my first-person P.O.V., at least for the moment, had returned.
"Oy," I said, pulling back on the reins and bringing the poor creature to a stop next to a gray stream. As it bent to drink, another horse approached and watered next to mine. It bore a rider, as slumped and weary-looking as the hero of the eponymous Shane, which is probably the best western in the "glorified crime" subgenre, and really laid the groundwork for the darker stuff like Unforgiven.
Perhaps sensing my deep knowledge of film and music, the rider looked up, sun catching her big, wet eyes. She was beautiful, the kind of indie kitten that looked just down-to-earth enough to take home for Passover, but just fragile enough to need the comforting touch of an older gentleman on cold post-apocalyptic nights.
"You may," I said, and she seemed to regain her strength, as had my horse after all of that yummy gray stream-water. She got off her horse and onto mine, settling in behind me with her arms around my waist and her underboob in full effect.
"My name's Adze," she said, "like the medieval planing tool?"
"I'm aware of the Adze" I said dryly.