Trains, trains and duckpondmobiles.

Outside, a metal horse sped past. Smoke billowing from its nostrils, the train sped across my backyard, surmounting a bridge over my duckpond. It was certainly a rather romantic train; an old-fashioned steam affair, with beautiful hand-painted red carriages. However, setting aside the beauty, the train was something of a nuisance.
 It all started two days ago. A moustached, gross man in a tight black suit arrived in my house. "Your ranch kid? How much for it?" He demanded. "Ain't got no ranch." I replied, leaning back on my fencepost, tipping my hat back rakishly, lighting up a smoke. I probably shouldn't have encouraged the man, but it seemed harmless at the time. The day after I refused the man's offer, two heavy-set men with high waistlines and large braces arrived to muscle me. They shoved me around for a while, then besieged me in my house while a team of workmen built the train-line from a hastily-constructed station across the road, to the highway behind my house. Actually, the rail line lead to the side of the motorway, then stopped. Trains kept flying onto the road, sending cars spinning and vans cartwheeling into the sunset.
 As for me, I've settled into this brave new world. Every day, I meet exciting new people from exciting locations. Actually, most of them are Mr. Jenkins from across the road.
 He never gets anywhere, but I think he likes the trip out. It's been lonely for him since his wife was torn down to build the new airport that stretches from their house to my garage.